Goddamn Moochers

Frank was sifting through extra audio files, extracting the clean ones and putting them in a different folder on his computer than the recordings they decided to scrap. Well, they never scrapped anything just in case there was a mistake, so he basically put all the usable tracks on one file and the extras on another. As the owner of Skeleton Crew Records, he had to fund and manage his business. The label is his, and ultimately he wants to know what he's putting out. The band he just finished recording was gone for a few hours now. It was nearing 1 A.M. and he heard rummaging in the back.

The layout of the building had a small lobby in the front, the actual recording studio in the middle, two storage rooms, and two offices (which were at the clear back at the end of the building) of which he turned one into a "bedroom" for nights like this, where he was here until 3 A.M. doing the job he should've hired someone else to do.

While the business district he is in wasn't a complete shithole, it wasn't exactly high class either. It's New Jersey, of course there were sketchy people.

And Frank knew damn well about the people who dwelled behind his studio. Ever since he relocated from the last shithole to this just over a year ago, he has been fighting the drug dealers out back. After months of scolding, he finally threatened to get the police involved. They were only teenagers- the dealers were. However, their clients were usually adults who were already too fucked up from their chosen poison.

Not his problem.

It had been months without an incident, and Frank was fucking tired. He just knew they would try and come back- he knew it, the goddamn moochers can't stay away from his dumpster. He wasn't in the mood to be fucked with tonight. With his most intimidating stance he could muster, he slammed the iron door open that led to the alleyway.

"I fucking hear you. I told you fucking druggies if you ever come back, I'm calling the cops-"

A loud clatter came from the other side of the dumpster and a hoarse cry.

"Hello?" Frank called. No response. He walked further out, deciding it was safe since he didn't hear or see anyone run. He looked at the other side of the dumpster and saw a boy with fire-red hair wrapped up in a ratty blanket, shivering.

"Hey- are you okay?" Again, no response. He slowly reached down to gently wake the boy who was now shielding himself from Frank. "Are you on drugs?"

That elicited an immediate, "N-No! I have nowhere to go, please don't call the cops I just want to sleep." He heaved out a dry sob, looking pathetically at his shoes.

Frank felt the guilt and empathy sink low into his gut. He couldn't leave him, it was fucking cold and mid-November.

"I'm not going to hurt you- I thought you were someone else, I'm sorry. Can you please come in? I couldn't live with myself if I left you out here." Frank gently held his hand out and the boy looked at it skeptically, debating if he should take it. Frank smiled kindly, hoping the boy could make out his face well enough to know his intentions weren't to harm him. "I- I'm Frank. I own this building and I really just want to help you."

"Why would you do that?"

"Kid, you look like you're 17-"

"I'm 24, you asshole."

Frank sighed, "Please just let me make you coffee or something- Please."

The boy's hard exterior dissolved, taking his hand with great trepidation. His hands were so cold Frank nearly gasped. He kept ahold of his hand, leading him through the studio and to the lobby.

After making coffee, Frank decided to speak first, "What's your name?"

The boy sipped his coffee, looking up at Frank with big, innocent eyes.