IndieSouth

David Lewiston was leaning against the granite-topped, fully stocked mahogany bar separating Layne Collier’s expansive living room from his equally large kitchen. David was looking out the picture window next to Layne’s kitchen table at the scattered lobster boats docked at the Old Port of Portland, Maine, half listening to his mother talk to him on his cell phone.

The reason for his distraction was Nadine Adams’ hand, slowly tracing its way down the center of his back, and then around his waist to his crotch. He turned to her, trying not to laugh and motioned for her to go sit down on the couch.

His ears catch that familiar sound of razor on glass - the thin, sharp tick-tick-tick of Layne cutting a small mound of cocaine into lines on his coffee table - and doesn’t hear what his mother just asked him.

“David?” his mother asked again.

“Yes?” he answered.

“I asked you how your job hunt was going.”

“Yeah. I’m trying, ma, but its hard. Camera jobs just don’t come up too often. Most cameramen don’t leave unless they get a job at a TV station in a higher market, or they get laid off. I really need to look in another city, but I don’t have the money to move right now. I can barely pay rent.”

That wasn’t exactly true. David hadn’t been laid off; he’d just stopped going to work. Also, it wasn’t that he could barely pay his rent, that ship had sailed two months ago. He was short last month, and had no way of making it this month. He was hoping Layne could spot him some cash.

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