GTA FEST

Dreams of Los Venturas

Dewdrops slid off of leaf edges and sunk into the humid dirt. It was vaguely squishy, thanks to a night of Los Santos rain, and embossed with footprints. By the nighttime, the thirsty sun will have sucked every ounce of moisture from the scenery. But at 8AM, the air was fresh and cold.

Phoebe’s skin prickled at the sensation and Patches tugged at the leash looped around her arm. The dog heaved excited breaths, legs pumping quickly, and a thin string of drool dripping from his open mouth. It was disgusting but, you know, in an endearing way.

“Almost there,” she assured him. But he couldn’t parse it – all he knew is that he saw the dog park over the small bump in the hill. The urge to wrench free and dart toward the wet grass was obvious from his wide eyes.

The second they hit the park, Phoebe slid the leash from his neck and he flew away in a blur. Haunches pumping and tongue drooping, she watched him go up and down, and around in circles. Her lips couldn’t help but twitch, teeth poking out in a small smile. Her phone buzzed just when Patches was on his fourth lap of the field.

The text history beamed back at her, the light of the sunrise refracting off of the screen.

P: I’ll see you this morning?

F: Yeah.

P: And you won’t sleep in?

F: Come on, that was one time.

F: Might be late, though.

P: Oh yeah? Why?

F: Chop ain’t a morning person.

She snorted, stuck her phone back into her pocket, and picked up the slimy tennis ball that had been dropped at her feet. Patches’ face looked at his owner expectantly, poised to grab it if she didn’t comply. Only when she reeled back and tossed it did she see Franklin emerging from the sidewalk. Chop, leashless and mostly well-behaved, came forward to dart after it.

“Aw, come back – Chop!” His voice faltered halfway, kissing his teeth and shaking his head, resigning.

“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t a morning person,” she quipped once Franklin was in earshot.

He just shook his head, taking a seat on the nearby bench. The way his face rippled suggested it was still damp, but he didn’t say anything. In some strange form of solidarity, Phoebe sat right beside him.

The exhaustion nestling over him was palpable. It had only been a few days since his last job wrapped up – thinking of the logistics (and how exactly he got the fuck away with it) made her brain ache. Franklin was quiet, too, picking at callouses on his fingers that he had gotten from gripping the steering wheel too hard. Any adrenaline that might’ve prompted bragging had fizzled out. Concern nagged at the back of her throat. She almost felt bad for her initial teasing.

“You good?”

Chop had snatched the ball from Patches and eagerly returned to plop the wet mass in Franklin’s lap.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling his arm back and propelling the ball into the distance. The dogs snapped their jaws excitedly as they went. Franklin paused for a minute as if considering what exactly he should say. Then, simply shook his head. “Those old guys. Crazy motherfuckers. We had a few close calls – real close calls.”

Bones sinking into the park bench, she stared off into the distance, nodding vaguely. It was the nature of the business – Franklin’s business, particularly – but it was still squirmworthy to talk about. The fact that he may have made a wrong step on a job, or misstepped around his partners, and their communication would suddenly go cold… Phoebe’s skin bristled and she tugged the hoodie taut across her shoulders.

“You’re good now, though, right? Laying low?”

“Yeah. I mean shit, they’re professionals, I guess. When you’re out, you’re out, but…”

His words hung in the air as Patches padded forward with a toy he had seemingly dug out of the bushes. Wet eyes staring at Franklin, the pair couldn’t help but let out a tight laugh. His fingers wrapped tightly around the wet bundle of hard fabric, shoulders tensing in preparation to play tug-of-war. Patches’ teeth sunk in and his jaw jolted back in short bursts. Franklin’s wrists jerked forward but he kept his grip steady.

“You’re more stubborn than the guys I work with,” he couldn’t help but grin as the dog let out a low, half-serious growl. After a dozen more hard pulls on the toy, Franklin shrugged and dropped it, the sudden loss of pressure almost causing Patches to roll backwards into the grass. Tail wagging, he disappeared toward Chop, no doubt in order to brag.

“Damn. Guess you got good at pandering to egos, too,” Phoebe’s teeth flashed at the sight.

“You got no idea. Probably the hardest part of the job.”

With the sun finally risen over the treetops, Franklin stood to stretch under the rays. A film of moisture over his skin glistened against the orange beams and she stared. There were shallow pits under his eyes tinted with flecks of purple and yellow, indicating either light bruising or simple exhaustion. Yet the curves of his cheeks still crinkled and the whites of his eyes were bright. She swallowed the remainder of the coffee taste lingering at the back of her throat.

“We should move,” Phoebe’s voice croaked a little. She cleared her throat. “We stick around any longer and those Vinewood Hills soccer moms are gonna start showing up. Patches don't like those little chihuahua things all of them drag around.”

“They’re pomeranians, man. More fur.”

Despite the correction, Franklin gave out a high whistle that made Chop prick up his ears. The dogs paused briefly, looking at one another, before begrudgingly following alongside their respective owners. Phoebe dipped her knees to brush her fingertips against the short pile fur, feeling his warm skin. His tongue lolled to the side and his expression was one of tired joy. The stolen toy was still wedged between his teeth when they left the dog park and exited onto the sidewalk.

Franklin’s eyes spun over the lines of cars parked neatly outside of million-dollar homes; some red and flashy, others more humble in appearance yet equally as expensive. He tossed an incredulous glance at Phoebe when the pair passed a bright green Stallion with an equally hideous green flame decal stretching on its topside. He muttered something about “more money than style” as they crossed the road.

“You’re starting to sound geriatric yourself.”

Franklin shot her a look that made her grin, and she slipped a leash onto Patches as the crowds of people became thicker. The pair instinctively grew closer and closer, forced together by the throngs of commuters, arms just lightly touching.

There was the thick smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from propped-open food trucks, and hot bread from the insides of overly-pretentious bakeries that Phoebe only ever looked in the window of. She noticed Franklin’s phone chime under the buzz of people and how he reached over with a steely look to turn it off. His arm strained against the taut leash, muscles tensing. Patches looped back and sniffed his arm, almost concerned.

“Pier?” Phoebe asked instinctively.

There was a flicker of relief across his features and his shoulders flattened. He gave a soundless and thankful nod.

Despite it being early morning, crowds of opportunistic Los Santos grifters circled the beach like vultures. Peeling off clothes to perch on sunny beaches or opening beers while slumped grinning on steel benches. A few craned their heads around as Franklin and Phoebe passed, with the dogs attempting to bound toward the mounds of sand in the distance. The sour odour of old alcohol puddles was masked only by the food trucks cooking steadfast on the edge of the pier. Chop eyed one of them wantingly, drooling without shame.

“We need a vacation,” she half-joked as the pair expertly maneuvered around blood smears on the pavement.

“Seriously?” A dry laugh. “We in the number one vacation spot in the country, and you wanna get out of it?”

“Feels less… vacation-y the longer you stay in it.”

“I mean…” His shoulders rolled back into a shrug. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Alright, so where would you go?”

“What?” Franklin was laughing now, his teeth glinting on the sunbeams.

“Just pick a place.”

They were gliding over the hardwood of the pier now, with each dog needing to be periodically wrangled away from discarded ice cream. Phoebe slipped a treat from her pocket and into Chop’s mouth, somehow avoiding the slobber on his gums.

“I… Oh shit, I don’t know!”

“Come on! Really? Really?”

“I ain’t exactly a tourist. I’ve lived in this place my whole life. Never put much thought into leaving the place. You feel me?”

“Well, shit. Nobody can say you’re disloyal.”

“Hey, you’re damn right about that.”

His face had split into a genuine smile then, side-eyeing Phoebe with a level of suggestion as the pair found a desolate spot on the pier. Their leashes tangled together for a moment as they sat and squinted out at the wide expanse of ocean. Patches huffed when he lay down, belly rising, content to stare out at the tiny dots on the horizon. The pair didn’t speak but their bodies melted in the Los Santos heat, contended.

“Let’s just say you’ll go to Las Venturas and call it there,” Phoebe said after moments of silence.

“Venturas?”

“Yeah, Venturas. What, you’re not happy with that pick? Come on. It’s got drinking, gambling, girls… That’s pretty much whatever anyone is asking for in a vacation spot.”

“Nah,” Franklin said. He shook his head and looked at her squarely. “I don’t need all that.”

Taken aback, she chewed the inside of her cheek. The morning sun had risen completely and slashed orange fragments in the water, giving way to jet skis and fishing boats. The harsh smell of salt clung to her hair. Chop had stubbornly slid his head into her lap and smushed his cheeks down to beg for another treat. Feeling an unfounded sense of nervousness, her fingers scratched behind his ears. Franklin’s hand flitted over hers before resting firmly on top. Chop didn’t seem to mind the excess pressure.

“Los Santos can be a real shitty place,” his voice dipped into a low register, barely coherent to anyone not dangerously close. “But it’s got everything I need. Always has. Always will.”

His fingers curled slightly under hers.

“Smooth.”

They couldn’t help but laugh, her chest tightening but Franklin refusing to pull away. Chop’s eyes had shut completely, and he seemed overly comfortable, his cheeks round and happy. Patches had already fallen asleep on the planks of the pier.

Franklin nodded slowly.