32 | apathy

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DECEMBER 31, 2013 / TIMES SQUARE

If anyone in the crowd had herpes, or some other venereal disease, Asher was sure his proximity to them would have meant he now had it, too. Kerrish probably was giving away a few of his.

The trio was trying to make haste through the masses of Times Square; they were three carbon atoms in a diamond crystal, and moving from their current position would be a defiance of the rules of chemistry. They did, though.

Kerrish was a force of nature of his own, having demands that would bend space and time to be met.

"Out of my way," he told an old lady, not really looking at who he as talking to.

Asher picked up the walking stick she had dropped, placed it back in her hands and whispered to both her and her appalled daughter, "I'm very sorry about him. Happy New Year."

Kerrish kept ploughing through the crowd, tense with anticipation and hope, moving them aside like a chainsaw slashing bamboo. Ryanel sniffled, keeping closely beside Asher. Their noses were red with the cold, and even under the protection of woollen beanies, so were their ears. Kerrish's skin was never anything but smooth bronze, though he claimed he was paler in winter. He wore no coverings for his hands and head, letting his wavy hair dance with the wind.

"Can't you just deal with our position?" Asher asked him, staring at the streak of brown skin, the nape of his neck, that peeked out between his hair and jacket collar.

It didn't seem as if Kerrish had heard him, until, "Nope. I have standards."

"And erectile dysfunction," Ryanel was never one to miss an opening for an insult. Between the cheeky Asian and the fiery Hispanic, that was one of few shared traits.

Asher gave a weak chuckle; he was not feeling particularly festive. Christmas was not a sour affair, but nor did Asher feel any sort of warmth from having Christmas dinner with Vasily, and his cousin, Aria — who'd brought her family to visit. Having her around made the snow blankets seem not so heavy and cold, but the event of it actually being Christmas did nothing. It was the recent apathy he seemed to have for everything that made him question if that was what adulthood felt like; a blurred expanse of grey feelings where sadness couldn't be distinguished from peace. 

If it was, Asher wanted to stay seventeen.

Finally, Kerrish and elbowed and pardoned and flirted his way to the walkway, roped off halfway for the television crews and VIP area. His scoping gaze — sharpened to a point from years of checking out girls — landed on a security guard. Kerrish smirked, scarily reminding Asher of a leopard on the hunt. He slinked out of the crowd smoothly; the leopard leaving the grass. Asher and Ryanel were left to tear their scarves from the people they'd been caught between.

Kerrish was only an inch shorter than the hulking guard, but very skinny compared to the tattooed man. And by default, that meant Ryanel and Asher were even skinnier in contrast. Asher had been going to the gym for six months (more on Travis and Peyton's request than his own) but managed to stay more lean than muscular.

"My good man," Kerrish began, sounding like a man advertising an unwanted product. "How are you tonight?"

The guard, equipped with a baton and taser at his side, did not look like someone to mess with. And here was Kerrish Soto — playboy extraordinaire, and messer of minds. Upon not getting a reply, he dropped the friendly demeanour and leaned even more into the guard's personal space, as if telling a scandalous secret.

"You see this guy?" Kerrish swung a long arm around Asher's neck, pulling him into his side until all he could smell was cologne. "He's a celebrity. Which means, you have to let him into the VIP section."

Finally, the guard spoke in a voice as masculine as his biceps. 

"You see this guy?" he mimicked, patting the taser hooked to his belt. "He's gonna be buried in your neck if you don't get outta here."

Kerrish took his arm back, Asher stumbled away, gulping in air so cold it stung his throat. His tanned hands went protectively to his neck for a moment. Asher would have thought he was giving up, if not for that demented gleam in his eyes that said to get out of his way or be taken down with him.

Quickly, Kerrish fished out his phone, Googled Asher Delrov, and pulled up the sports journalism website that had done a spread on Asher's win at Gomery for a "Rising Stars in Competitive Sport" piece.

"See?" he held the phone up to the guard's face.

His eyes scanned the article, and the picture gallery with dramatic-looking shots of his jump, trophy and camera-worthy smile. (The smile that was not worth much else, in Asher's opinion.)

"Don't care," he gruffly barked, though he looked at Asher with less hostility than before. "Not on the list, not a VIP."

Asher accepted the words with a nod, and turned to leave. Kerrish, the person whose wants always had to be fulfilled, grabbed hold of his elbow, and dragged him back to his side. Everyone in the crowd was rustling now, Asher could feel the static anticipation prickle his face.

Kerrish's face darkened, letting shadows cling to his eyes. "Listen, buddy—"

"Asher?" a familiar voice called.

Asher turned, to see Leon Lonzano, and his wife. She was a darling woman, who looked at everyone like they had no faults — specifically her husband. Asher hugged her in greeting, and shook hands with Leon.

"Hi," he puffed, watching his breath turn to clouds and evaporate under Kerrish's heated, curious gaze.

He only had to take a cursory glance at Mr. and Mrs. Lonzano to see that they were on the VIP list. She wore an evening gown that reminded him of wine, with a white fur wrap. Leon Lonzano matched the colour scheme; the two looked elegant and affluent (words that Asher would never use to describe Leon before tonight.) They looked like celebrities, and he realised the guard didn't even have to check whether Asher's name was on the list or not — anyone could tell by just looking at his worn ski jacket and snow boots.

"We're going up to watch the countdown," Leon addressed Asher. "Would you like to come with us?"

Asher looked at the guard. He fumbled around to check Leon's name, and then said, "We can add his name as your plus one. His friends can't come, though."

Asher was about to decline, saying he'd much rather spend the night with his friends, but Kerrish jumped in. "No, you go, Asher. Have fun."

"Dude," Asher protested, "You're the one who wanted to come here in the first place. Now you're sending me off on my own?"

Kerrish eagerly replied, "Yes. But, you'll get to mingle with celebs, man. Take the opportunity. And, if you can, get me some hot chick's number."

Asher could not see an opportunity for anything, other than being intimidated by the expensive tastes of people more known than him. But Leon and his wife were waiting expectantly, just past the fenced barrier that only very important people stepped past. He was honoured to be invited, and felt obligated to take the offer. 

The countdown at Times Square was an event he'd seen twice, but never from the VIP section. Asher hadn't planned of feeling so, but he was curious; the excitement was pulling him towards the more glamourous side of the event.

"Okay," he turned around to farewell his friends, to find them gone. He scanned the crowd, finding Kerrish's black pompadour retreating. Bastard. 

"Just wants to fuck a model," Asher whispered angrily.

"Asher," Leon called. "Ready?"

He spun around, hands wedged into his pockets, and walked over to his friends. The guard held the swinging barrier open for him, and wished the party a happy New Year. Kerrish could be yelled at after winter break. Tonight, he had some partying to do.

"Yep," he smiled. "All set."


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