No Way

Summary: Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decided to interfere. Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can’t stand each other—but when Ellen falls ill, he’s the only one who can help her. Author’s Note: I’m seriously hoping Ellen isn’t a MS…let me know if she’s heading in that direction. I love the loud music, the way the bass pounds in my ears, and the way I have every man in the place wrapped around my finger. And a girl’s gotta make a living—what better way to do it then dance the night away? After the show I wrapped up in my coat—not for cold, for cover—and found Mimi. “Hey, Cyn, y’ready?” Cynthia looked me up and down for a second. “Damn, girl—someone’s impatient.” “Hey, gimme a break. I haven’t used since…this morning,” I protested. She just shrugged, grabbing up her purse. “Let’s go.” Our dealer was a big rugged-looking man—shifty-eyed. But he had pure smack, and he had low prices. He and Cyn looked opposite ways, as per usual, as they made the exchange. Suddenly he looked nervous. “Hurry it up,” he muttered. I smirked. “You’re just as impatient for money as I am for smack,” I said. He narrowed his eyes. “There’s a nonuser coming, kid. I ain’t got all night.” Sure enough, a man was coming down the street—and damn, he was pretty good-looking. I mean, he looked a bit…nerdy, I guess, but still… I elbowed Cyn. “Look at that piece of eye-candy, huh?” She giggled. “Uh-huh, I see ‘im. Fuck, I’m outta here.” She shuddered, and I wondered idly when she’d last used. “Peace out, Cyn.” “Yeah—fuck off, Ells. Peace out my ass,” she grumbled, walking off. The dealer narrowed his eyes at me. “Buy quick or I’m gone, Babe.” I reached into my pocket for the money, but he was already moseying off. “Hey, get your ass back here,” I snarled. “Follow me, if you want it so bad.” “Don’t you want your precious money, bastard?” I retorted. “I mean, a motherfucker like you don’t stand a chance without a little bit of money to buy your own smack.” He rounded on me, yanking me off the street by my jacket lapels. “Listen, bitch-” “Put her down,” someone said firmly. I turned my head to see the man from earlier. “Leave your ass out of this,” snapped my dealer. “Put her down,” he repeated firmly. The dealer snorted and dropped me. I stood up, staring after him. “Guess I’ll have to move on, then,” I snarled. I then rounded on the man—I could feel shivers threatening to…fuck. He saw me shudder. “Look, Mister-” “Mark. The name’s Mark—Mark Cohen.” “Mark—you just lost me my fucking dealer! How the fuck am I supposed to find someone now? He’s gonna spread the word all around Alphabet City, and I didn’t fucking ask for it!” I screamed. I shoved him back. “You’re a fucking doogooder, Mark Cohen. Just keep your dick out of other people’s business.” I started off, tugging my coat around me. Maybe I could convince Cyn to loan me some…

“Alright, listen here-” I rounded on him. “No, you listen here. I don’t need your help, ok? I gotta go find my friend now.” “You know, I have two friends that used to be junkies too,” said Mark, following me. “Oh yeah? Well, good for them—they’re clean,” I sneered. “Look, I don’t have HIV, I don’t have AIDS…I’m fine. Why do you give a damn, anyway?” I stormed away, knowing somewhere inside my gut that Cyn was already gone. The next morning I woke up shivering like crazy, and it was all I could do to throw on some clothes and head over to the building where Cyn’s loft was. And on the way up the stairs I saw none other than Mark Cohen. I flipped him off without looking at him. “Cyn!” I screamed, banging on the door. “Open the goddamn door, Cynthia!” Cyn opened the door, looking haggard and sleepy. “Ells? It’s—too early.” She yawned. “Yeah, well fuck the time. I need some.” She blinked. “Oh—hot white trash got you in tuh-rouble, didn’t he?” I banged a fist on the wall. “Fuck yes, now give me some!” Cyn sighed and pulled the packet out of her back pocket. “Yeah, here. I’ll get more today. Want me to get some for you?” I hurriedly handed her my money, my hands shaking. “Yeah, fuck yeah—can I crash here for a bit? I don’t think I can get back home.” “Sure.” We went over to the sofa, and she passed me the needle I always had stashed at her house. Suddenly the sound of a guitar reached us. I jammed the needle in my arm, letting myself forget my troubles for a while. The guitar was damn soothing, and I woke up a few hours later. Cyn was passed out on the sofa, an empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to her. “Thanks, bitch,” I muttered, getting up to raid her liquor cabinet. But that guitar kept bugging me, so I slipped out onto the fire escape. I looked up, watching the dude with long dirty-blonde hair play for a while. He had short sleeves on, and I could see track marks on his arms. They were old though. So…this is one of Cohen’s friends. I slipped a leg over the railing, and then the other, sitting on the edge. “You’ll fall, you know.” I looked up to see the guitar player was grinning at me. I rolled my eyes. “Nah. I have good balance.” His gaze drifted to my exposed arms—I crossed them, glaring. “Watcha starin’ at, huh?” I snapped. “Your arms,” he said, heading down towards me. I almost ran back inside, but then decided I’d at least hear the motherfucker out. He stopped halfway down my stairs, watching me cautiously. “Look, if you’re gonna go all fucking protective on me-” But he interrupted me. “Look, I don’t know your name, your history… anything. All I know is those track marks are fresh as anything, and you’re killing yourself.” He shook his head. “I used to use. I remember people telling me every day ‘you’re gonna die, man. You’re a fucking idiot.’ He laughed humorlessly. “The thing is, you don’t believe it until you get AIDS.” I almost flinched. He had AIDS…shit. He met my eyes. “I tested negative fourteen times. And on the fifteenth time I tested positive. Worst day of my life,

save when my girlfriend killed herself because she couldn’t handle the thought of having HIV.” I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. Fucking emotions… “Why are you bothering with me? We don’t even know each other’s names.” “I’m Roger,” he said, walking up beside me. I looked at him. “I’m Ellen.” “Ellen Mercado?” I smirked. “Cat Scratch Club, yeah.” I swung a leg back over, facing him. “Look, Roger…what I do with my life isn’t your concern, ok?” Roger shook his head. “It is.” “Only because you made it!” I snapped. Fuck off, I wanted to say. Go fuck yourself and your fucking friend Mark Cohen. But I didn’t. He waited for me to add to that, but when I didn’t he said, “I know. I can’t save everyone, but…I can save you.” I grimaced. “Why me?” “Because you live two floors down from me,” Roger replied easily, taking his guitar in his hands and starting to play. “I know that song,” I said. Roger grinned. “Then sing it.” “No fucking way. I don’t sing…in front of people,” I protested. “Then pretend I’m not here.” “And the guitar’s playing itself?” I snickered. He shrugged. “Whatever works.” Sighing, I took a deep breath. “So long since you’ve gone. I can’t feel anymore. Time has passed, the seasons don’t last But she’s still with you.” The key changed, and I had to switch into a high tone. “Sometimes we don’t feel what others see us feeling. We just see what we want to. But in the end all that outlasts Is you.” Roger stopped playing, looking at me. I glared. “Yeah, I know my voice is shit.” “No—you have a great voice,” he said, shaking his head. I rolled my eyes. “Haha.” “No, I’m serious,” Roger protested. He held the guitar by the neck, and I winced. “Don’t you have a strap?” He shook his head. “No.” I groaned. “Smart. Very fucking smart.” “You ought to come up sometime—to the loft, I mean,” he said, shrugging. “We could work on songs. I’ve been wanting to work with a soprano for a while.” I glared at him. “Are you…hitting on me?” Roger looked mortified. “No! I have a girlfriend.” “So…you really only want me to come sing soprano?” “Yeah.” I smirked. “Soprano one or two?” Roger blinked. “What?” “One is higher, two is lower,” I explained patiently. “I’m aware that I’m a fucking music geek,” I said, smirking. He grinned. “Well…both, if you can.” “I can,” I said confidently. “If you aren’t lying about my voice not being shit.”

Roger started up the stairs. “Not lying,” he promised. “Come on up this evening, ok?” “Um…sure. How’s nine sound?” I said, hesitating a lot more than I meant to. I was really thinking of ways to piss Cohen off enough so he’d leave. Roger nodded. “Yeah, works for me. Seeya, Ellen.” I went back inside—Cyn was waking up, groaning. I shook her to wake her up more. “And good afternoon, Sleeping Ugly,” I snickered. She pushed me away, rubbing her eyes. “Fuck off, Ells,” she muttered. I smirked. “Well, at least I didn’t finish off a whole bottle of Absolut by myself.” Cyn glanced at the bottle and grinned. “Ha—I beat your record, Ells.” “Shut up—I woulda had more, but you tipped me over, bitch,” I grumbled. She snickered. “So…I heard you talking with that hot rocker from upstairs. Gonna fuck him?” I glared at her. “Cyn, he has a girlfriend. He just wants me to sing.” “Damn, girl. Gonna get a contract and leave me all by my lonesome?” Cyn laughed. I thumped her upside the head. “I’m going up to his place at nine, Cyn. I’ll probably be back down in an hour.” “And it only takes an hour to fuck someone real good,” she said lightly, grinning. “Fuck off.” I glanced at the clock—three seventeen. Cyn was already bringing out the needles again. As I held it above my arm I hesitated. “I tested negative fourteen times. And on the fifteenth time I tested positive,” Roger had said. Was that going to be me? Was I going to get AIDS or HIV and die? I glanced over at Cyn —the needle was already in her arm. I hesitated, then jabbed the needle in and released its contents—into the armrest. That night I was freaking out and trembling, but I somehow managed to control myself—the word AIDS kept floating around in my brain. I was going to take the fire escape, but then I decided against it. Stairs were more…civilized. I borrowed Cyn’s black ¾ sleeve sweater and hot pink skirt, but I wore my same ankle boots. I ran a brush through my red hair, tied it back in a ponytail, and then slipped out, leaving Cyn passed out drunk on the sofa for the second time. The door two floors up was a sliding door…but it made a good, loud knock. And Mark Cohen answered it. He stared at me for a second, looking confused. “Hey, Mark, is that Ellen?” said Roger, coming up to the door. He flashed me a grin. “Hey. You ready?” I brushed past Cohen, nodding. “Sure. Got anything in mind?” Roger shrugged. “Well…I have part of a song…but I don’t have my last verse or a melody. Are you good at that?” Smirking, I nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. Depends on how good the lyrics are.” “Do I sense a challenge?” laughed Roger, taking a seat on the sofa. I followed his lead, sitting down in the armchair. “Maybe,” I replied, grinning. “Let me see what you have.” He handed me a sheet of paper, and I started reading. “Damn,” I said, after I’d finished. “What…really bad?” I shook my head. “No…really good. You’ve got a talent for lyrics, I’ll give you that.” I grabbed up a pen from the table. “But you can’t get your grammar. I’ll be damned if I’ve seen anyone who has worse grammar.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well…I wrote it at four in the morning, give me a break.” “Yeah, whatever,” I snickered. I fixed the mistakes, and then set the paper down on the table and stared at it. I read the words over and over again, finding the rhythm and the flow. Eventually a melody started peeking through…it took it’s fucking time, but it came all the same. I played it through a few times in my head, just to make sure I had it. Sure, the ending wasn’t there, but we had a melody…as long as he liked it. It’d come out soprano two and alto one…who knew? I took a deep breath, and then sang it. While I was singing Cohen stuck his head in, listening—but I ignored him, only paying attention to the song. Slowly, I let the last note fade out…somehow a new verse had entered my head, and it’d just…come out. Fuck. I’d probably fucked up Roger’s song now…but then why was he scribbling something down on the paper as if his life depended on it? I tugged on my ponytail, trying to nonchalantly look at what he was writing… well, damn. It was the lyrics I’d sung. Who knew I could write lyrics? Cohen nodded. “Nice job,” he said, looking…pretty fucking impressed. I smirked. “You didn’t think I had any talent, did you, Cohen?” He seemed surprised when I called him Cohen. “Er—Mark. Call me Mark,” he muttered. I grinned evilly. “No, I think I’ll call you Cohen,” I replied. Roger looked between us. “Is there…something I should know about?” he asked, looking amused. “Fuck no,” I snickered. “You both seem to want to interfere in my life, but that’s about it.” Cohen rolled his eyes and headed back into the kitchen, and Roger just shook his head. “Ok, then,” he muttered. “Anyway—that really was great. I love the last verse, too.” He grinned. “You proved that I wasn’t stupid in asking you to come up here.” I laughed. “Haha. Your faith in me is amazing.” “Yeah, well…we can’t all be perfect, now can we?” he said, smirking. I just rolled my eyes. “Ah, fuck off.” I saw a strange look in his eyes when I said that, so I continued, “Anyway…you want to put a guitar part to the melody?” Roger nodded. “Sure.” But something had bothered him when I said ‘fuck off.’ What was wrong? I mean, I said it to Cyn all the time, and it never bothered her. So why did it get to Roger?