The three of them started for the food tent. Tate still couldn’t move. Chances were high he’d need CPR in the next few minutes.
“You coming, asshole?” Daryl shouted, walking backward next to the others.
Tate risked a final glance at the stage. It stood empty and quiet, and any onlookers had disappeared into the crowded fair.
He shuddered and blew out a breath. “Yeah. I’m fucking coming,” he said as he forced himself to jog after the group. Whatever had happened a few moments ago had been a damn fluke. Maybe he’d had a mini-stroke or needed some damn water.
Dehydration fucked people up, right?
Whatever. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he knew for certain he hadn’t been attracted to that dancer.
No way, no how.
They passed the next few hours laughing, eating, riding rides, and making general fools of themselves, not attempting to leave until they were stuffed and a little nauseated.
“I gotta take a leak before we walk home,” Tate said as they approached a restroom.
“Hurry,” Randy said. “I hate waiting.”
“What do you care? Didn’t you already get blown?”
Whitney, Daryl, and a few of their other friends snickered.
“I’m young,” Randy said with a shrug. “Time to go again.” He slung an arm around Whitney’s shoulders.
“Poor Whitney,” he muttered as he strode into the restroom.
Not more than a minute later, he emerged a few ounces lighter. Of course, his loser friends were nowhere to be seen.
“Jackoffs,” he muttered, starting for the fair’s exit. Whatever. It wasn’t as though he needed them to find his way home. As he reached the edge of the building that housed the bathrooms, jeering and a familiar laugh caught his attention.
“The fuck? Randy?” he called as he followed the sound around to the back of the building. His brother had a unique laugh, and Tate loved to bust his balls over it. When he really got going, his laugh sounded like a six-year-old girl, high-pitched and giggly.
“Dude,” Randy called, waving him over. “Look at this shit.”
He pointed, and Tate craned his neck to see past his friends. What he saw had his stomach twisting.
Two guys with dark hoodies and bandanas over their faces huddled over someone curled in the fetal position on the ground. They whaled on him, kicking, shouting homophobic slurs, and laughing. The sight made him sick. Tate could hold his own and had been in a crap load of fights in his fifteen years, mostly with his brother, but he didn’t enjoy it, and he’d never go after anyone for shits and giggles.
“What the fuck?” Tate said. “Why are you standing around watching this shit?”
Daryl jumped up and down, practically giddy. “It’s that guy. The sissy from the ballet.”
“What?” Tate whispered, blood turning to ice.
“They’re teaching him a fucking lesson,” Randy said.
“Damn straight,” Daryl agreed. “Bet he’ll think twice before prancing around on a stage in this town again. We do not need his kind spreading their fairy dust all around.”
Tate didn’t hear what else was said. His feet acted of their own accord, propelling him toward the fray. “Hey!” he shouted.
Randy caught his arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Tate whipped around while still walking. He jerked his arm from Randy’s hold. “They’re gonna kill him,” he shouted, gesturing toward the beating.
Scoffing, Daryl shook his head. “Who the fuck cares?”
Jesus. He spun back. “Get the fuck off him!” he screamed, charging forward.
