Nerve by Jeanne Ryan Page A

emo. It’s kinda punk, kind of angsty.”
    He keeps approaching, hands still in pockets, stopping a couple of feet in front of Ian. “You play like a punk, huh? Where’d you play tonight?”
    Ian swallows. “At a small venue. You probably never heard of it.”
    “I asked, where’d you play, Ian punk homo Jagger?”
    The guy moves a step closer to Ian so they’re only inches apart. Ian swallows. I keep the video going even though I think we’ve got what we needed. It’s like I can’t get enough. Tiffany and Ambrosia huddle behind their pimp, exchanging wide-eyed glances that make them seem years younger.
    The pimp says, “Seems like you were interested in spending time with my girls.” His voice has gotten lower.
    Ian smiles. “We were just chatting. They’re awfully pretty.”
    The pimp pulls one hand out of a pocket to rub his stubbly chin. “That they are. Tell you what, I’m fun to chat with too. Why don’t we walk a little, and chat?”
    “That sounds cool, but I should get going. My band mates are probably wondering what happened to me.”
    The pimp whispers, “I ain’t asking.”
    Ian glances at me with a helpless expression. The camera is slippery in my hands. I’m tempted to tuck it into my pocket before this guy takes it from me, but don’t want to lose this footage.
    “Stay here,” Ian says to me.
    For the first time the pimp flicks his eyes my way. “She with you? Cute. She can come too.” He nudges Ian’s elbow.
    I don’t know whether to follow or run the other way. He can’t chase us both at once, but he could send Tiffany and Ambrosia after me. I dart my head around looking for someone to call out to.
    At that moment, a cluster of twenty-somethings appear from around the corner. One of them points at us, and the rest pull out their phones.
    The Watchers have arrived.
    All around us, people shoot video of Ian and me.
    As the crowd approaches, the pimp’s forehead furrows. “What the hell?”
    Ian waves toward the Watchers. “Looks like I’ve been spotted by more fans. I should spend some time with them, you know?” He heads into the densest part of the swarm.
    I back into the group, recognizing a number of them from the bowling alley. Surprisingly, no one seems angry about us ditching them. And I don’t mind all their cameras in my face this time. We move down the street amidst cheering and questions.
    “You’ll see everything when NERVE broadcasts it,” Ian says to the crowd. He takes the phone from me, and, with a laugh, films our Watchers as they film us.
    The pimp and the girls stare after us with puzzledexpressions. Tiffany’s crying, like she missed out on something big.
    I feel like crying too, in relief. The good cheer of the Watchers envelops me like a shield. A big, rowdy, beautiful shield. With them, I am somebody. I am safe.

seven
     
    I jostle next to Ian. “Okay, now you can take a bus ride to Kentucky or Kansas or anywhere U.S.A. and go camping.”
    He laughs. “That was great what you did with those girls, even if it almost got us mugged. Lucky I’ve still got my phone.”
    The Watchers surround us, high-fiving Ian.
    He accepts their congrats. “I promise you guys the video will rock, thanks to my amazing partner! Now, you need to give her a little space so she can do what she needs. Otherwise, show’s over.”
    They seem disappointed, but agreeable, staying on their side of the street when we cross over and move to the next block, out of Tiffany and Ambrosia’s business territory, I hope. Now I have the lovely prospect of finding business of my own.
    Ian strolls to a place advertising “Live Ladies Lusting Lavishly.” Guess that even with a million porn sites on the Net, some guys still want that face-to-face, nasty cubicle experience. Which is good for us, since it provides a brightly lit patch of sidewalk that extends almost thirty feet.
    The line of guys eye me, but no one approaches, even when Ian waves them over. We decide that maybe they want