Page 112 of Shaken and Stirred

The assailants were big, and two-on-one odds were never good, but Randy and Daryl would have his back. They might not be eager to save a gay guy’s life, but they wouldn’t let Tate get his ass kicked.

“I said, get the fuck off him.” He reached one of the guys, grabbing the back of his sweaty shirt.

The guy stopped kicking the dancer and whirled on Tate. “What the fuck?” he shouted in a lethal growl

“Tate!” Randy hollered.

“Fuck this,” Daryl yelled. “I’m out of here.”

“Let’s go.”

Randy’s voice.

Guess Tate was on his own. He cocked his arm and rammed it into the attacker's face. Blood spurted beneath the bandana, but he didn’t go down. His buddy stopped kicking the dancer and spun toward Tate.

Shit, I’m so fucked.

He fought as hard as he could, but the dudes were huge, and before long, he was bruised and bloodied, but so were the attackers.

The dancer lay curled up on the ground, twitching every so often but unable to get up and run away.

Tate dodged a fist coming at his nose and kicked out, but his foot only met air. Another fist collided with his stomach, making him double over and nearly tossing his funnel cake.

“Hey! What the fuck is going on back here?” The new voice came from twenty or so feet away.

The fight stopped instantly, and all three of them faced the voice. A rent-a-cop rounded the corner of the building and jogged their way.

Without another word, the two attackers took off in opposite directions.

“Stop!” the guard shouted as he raced after one of them. He grabbed his radio. “I need an ambulance behind the bathrooms. Cops too!”

He had to get the hell out of there before he was arrested. An ambulance was coming. The dancer would be taken care of.

Go, go. Run.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he gave into the driving urge to peer back at the dancer on the ground. He’d managed to sit himself up. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, and his dark hair had twigs and dust throughout the strands. He cradled his arm against his chest and trembled. He seemed to be struggling to breathe.

“T-thank you,” he whispered.

Tate froze, unable to speak. Even battered, the guy captured his attention in a way no one had before. He wanted to rush forward, wrap his arms around the dancer, and promise no one would hurt him ever again. He wanted to chase after his brother and beat the shit out of him for watching and laughing.

He wanted to kiss the tears right off that devastated face.

No.

A siren sounded, closer than was comfortable. Red lights flashed, providing the electric jolt he needed. Help was on the way. Instead of responding, he fled.

He ran until his legs burned, and his lungs screamed at him to stop. He ran straight through the cornfields, ignoring the stinging cuts from the coarse leaves slicing his skin. He ignored the blood and bruises on his face and body.

He had no idea how much time or distance passed before he tripped and landed hard on all fours, panting like an exhausted dog.

Fuck.

He couldn’t be gay. He could not be gay.

I’m not gay.

He’d be next. The next guy on the ground protecting his vital organs as giant feet slammed into him again and again.

I’m not gay.

A flash of the dancer holding a beautiful pose flitted through his mind, and his heart skipped a damn beat.

Oh God.

I’m not gay.

He vomited all over fallen ears of corn.