Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [83]
“Hey,” shouted one of the hecklers. Jess looked over Frankie’s shoulder. It was the taller one, a rangy kid a few years older than Jess, with preppy crew-cut blond hair and small, mean eyes.
Frankie turned to face them, heedless of Jess’s clutching hands at his sides.
“There a problem, mate?” he drawled.
Shit, what is he doing?
“Come on, let’s just go inside,” Jess said urgently.
“Now, Bit, s’not nice to interrupt. This gentleman and I were havin’ ourselves a chat. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah,” the kid shot back, all belligerent. “We were just chatting about what a couple of queers are doing out in public where normal people have to look at them.”
His buddy snorted and slugged him in the arm, egging him on.
Frankie actually laughed. It chilled Jess’s blood; he was terrified that he knew what would happen next. He resumed tugging on the back of Frankie’s T-shirt, trying to edge him closer to the bar door. To Jess’s dismay, Frankie shrugged off his hands and sauntered closer to the frat boys, hands in pockets, the picture of insouciance.
“Well, my little hooligan friend, if you couldn’t tell what we were doing just now, you must be quite the late bloomer. You’re not half bad looking, though. Be happy to give you a pointer or two, if you’re feeling confused. I’m sure your boyfriend, there, would thank me.”
“You piece-of-shit faggot,” the tall one snarled, spit flying from his mouth.
That word. Jess shuddered, his mind throwing him back into the past for a disorienting second.
Crew Cut took a menacing step forward, but Frankie didn’t back down. Jess was frozen in horror. He couldn’t remember how to get his feet to move.
Until Crew Cut drew back his arm and took a swing at Frankie. Maybe Frankie’d been expecting more taunting and verbal sparring, maybe he’d thought the frat boy was too drunk to hit what he aimed at. Either way, Frankie wasn’t prepared for the blow, which took him hard on the chin and knocked him off balance. He staggered a few steps to the left into a pile of metal trash cans.
The cans clattered to the ground, making a huge racket, but Frankie kept his feet.
“You like that, you pansy ass?” Crew Cut taunted.
With that, Jess was up and moving.
Adrenaline surged through him like a searing tidal wave, pushing energy and tension into every limb. The guy who’d been standing there cheering on his homophobic friend made a grab for Frankie as he lunged for Crew Cut, and Frankie turned on his new opponent like a rabid dog. Crew Cut reached for Frankie, clearly intending to pin his arms to his sides, but he didn’t get the chance.
Jess let the anger and fear fuel him, putting his head down and barreling into the guy who had first hit Frankie. Jess’s forehead and shoulder hit him directly in the midsection with the full force of his body. Something sharp—belt buckle?—caught Jess right above the eyebrow, sending a flare of bright pain through his head.
Crew Cut went down. Jess stood over him, hands fisted tight, breath fast and shallow, and waited to see what he’d do.
The guy wheezed a little, the breath knocked out of him. He made one abortive gesture toward getting up, but collapsed back again with a grunt when Frankie slung the shorter frat boy around by one arm to land on Crew Cut’s chest.
“Didn’t expect a couple of fags to fight back, did you, boys?” Frankie snarled, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn’t wait to get back to brawling.
“Shit, Kyle, are you okay?” the shorter frat boy asked. He was stocky, the kind of bandy-legged, broad guy who often stood on the sidelines of college ball games just generally making Jess wish football uniforms were less tight.
Pudge got to his knees and helped Crew Cut, or Kyle, Jess supposed, to a sitting position.
“Come on, man, let’s go,