Better Red

by Tara Lain

  Red kept walking, without trying to look like he was hurrying too much. Weird. Did Mrs. Delphi see them cruising? Is that why she warned me?

  Nine blocks to home. He was a fast runner—even had a letter in track—but Phil had a car, three henchmen, and a whole hell of a lot of mean.

  Red kept walking, head up, shoulders back, but a bead of moisture dripped between those shoulders.

  Phil made kissing noises. “Look at that pretty little fag. Don’t you think he’s a fag, guys? I mean who could be that pretty except a fag. Shall we test?”

  Red snarled, “Fuck off, Phil.” But he walked faster.

  One of the guys behind Phil, probably Tooey, said, “Give it up, Phil. You could get in a lot of trouble.”

  Holy crap.

  With a livid screech, the car door swung open and Phil jumped out.

  Red turned to face him and backed up as Phil stalked forward. Red yelled, “They’re right. You hurt me and you’ll go to prison.”

  “Right.” Phil smiled, but it got nowhere near his eyes. “I’m sure you’re going to report me to my uncle the sheriff. Good luck with that. I’ll say you asked for it and everyone will believe me since the preacher’s warned us all about you.”

  Ask for what? Fuck!

  Red ran.

  “You fucker,” Phil screamed.

  Red glanced back. Phil jumped in his car and was moving in seconds.

  Red raced across the street and scrambled as far up the front lawns as he could get. He had to stay in front of the houses. The backyards were surrounded by high fences and most had dogs. He wasn’t sure he could jump them. Fuck! The old car screeched behind him.

  A crash and scrape meant Phil had run the car over the curb and was probably on the lawns.

  Red’s chest hurt, his legs were getting heavier and he still had three long blocks to go. Heat on his face was embarrassing. He was crying, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop.

  The car door screeched open and Phil yelled, “Get him!”

  Red was already gasping for breath as the slam of boots on grass got louder behind him.

  He stumbled and a hard hand grabbed his arm.

  Red didn’t wait. He started screaming, kicking, and flailing his one free arm.

  A couple lights went on in some of the houses.

  Red screamed again and Phil clamped a hand over his mouth, letting go of his arm.

  Red punched backward and hit something soft but not soft enough. He got an oof for his effort, but Phil didn’t release him and Red was running out of steam, no matter how desperate he felt.

  Phil’s callused palm scraped across Red’s mouth and his other hand started ripping at Red’s jeans. Red kicked backward and connected with Phil’s shin, but not with nearly enough force to do damage.

  Phil snarled, “Dammit! Grab him, Junior.”

  Shit! Junior Farley was as big as a barn. Bile rose in Red’s throat, and he twisted his body like a helicopter rotor, kicking and thrashing. His jacket ripped as Phil grabbed Red’s crotch and squeezed.

  Red ripped his head out of Phil’s grasp and screamed, “Let go, you fucker! Help! Help!”

  This time, Phil’s hand was delivered as a fist, but his awkward position meant he only managed to smash Red’s cheek from the side. Damn, it hurt. Then that paw was clamped over Red’s sore nose and mouth, closing off his air.

  “Mmmmft.” His eyes stung as Red tried to suck in air. No luck. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Spots danced in front of his eyes and his kicking legs lost their energy. Can’t…

  Suddenly a roar split the air and a black motorcycle pulled directly in front of them. The cycle fell to the ground as a person leaped from it and landed on Phil who released Red.

  Red tumbled backward, gasping, and landed hard on his ass but couldn’t pull his attention from the pounding arms and fists of his rescuer. The guy was smashing Phil in the face. He was wearing a helmet, so Red couldn’t see him clearly.

  The other three dudes moved closer, but the white knight looked up at them, light glittering off his visor. Then a yard light illuminated his face through the darkened plastic, showing cheekbones and sharp planes.

  “Mark.” Red barely realized he’d said the word out loud.

  Mark released Phil, who fell back onto the grass, and then stared at the other three. They all held up their hands and backed away.

  Phil whimpered, “I’ll have you arrested. I’ll tell—”

  Mark raised the visor and just stared at Phil, then spoke, soft and deadly. “You think you want to do that, Phil?”

  It was one of the few times Red had ever heard Mark’s voice. It was deep but soft.

  Phil never took his focus from Mark, but he shook his head frantically. “No. No. Didn’t mean it.”

  Mark looked sharply up at the others who were sneaking backward toward the car. One of them, big, blond Tooey, said, “We ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Phil was out of line. We tried to tell him.”

  Junior just scowled.

  Mark gave one sharp nod, turned, and walked to Red. He squatted down.

  Red’s heart beat so hard it might have been a drumline. He managed a nod.

  Mark Woods smiled.

  Chapter Two

  Holy crap. In over a year of Red’s obsession with big, quiet Mark, he’d pretty much never seen his teeth. What a waste. They were great—straight, if you didn’t count one front tooth slightly crossed over the other. And a dimple popped in his right cheek. Red wanted to touch it—if he could have raised his hand.

  Mark pulled his helmet off his head and slid it on Red. It took a little tugging and Red finally had to reach back and release the rubber band around his ponytail, which caused his mane to spill across his shoulders. Surprisingly, Mark gently rearranged the hair before he pulled the helmet down.

  Holy crap, the helmet was like drowning in a new way. Kind of claustrophobic, but also cozy and protective, the whole thing was mostly about the smell. A spicy scent like lemon and cinnamon reminiscent of Red’s favorite scones embraced his head, his nose, even his mouth. It was as if he could taste the smell. The smell of Mark.

  Even though his cheek hurt like fire, and his heart still raced, all kinds of embarrassing squirmy, protuberancy things started happening in his body, which made him inhale deeply to control them, which in turn made him suck in more Mark-scent and that started the whole thing all over.

  Mark said, “Can you stand up?”

  Red managed a nod.

  Mark stood, giving Red a bottom-up view of the sheer perfection of that big frame. He had to be at least six feet three or four because Red was almost six one and Mark towered over him. Mark probably outweighed Red by fifty or sixty pounds, but truthfully that was easy since Red was skinny. Still, Mark had distributed those pounds perfectly, all over his chest, shoulders, and arms, while his hips were narrow and legs long and lean. Probably from carrying all those car engines or something.

  Mark reached down to pull Red to his feet.

  With a tug, Red adjusted his ripped windbreaker to be sure any condemning parts were covered, and then he took a stealthy look over his shoulder toward Phil and his crew. They were huddled by the Civic, Phil holding his head and the others looking bored.

  Mark ignored them. He wrestled the bike to upright, swung a well-muscled leg across the saddle, kicked the engine to life, then patted the back where he apparently wanted Red to climb on.

  After a heavy swallow, Red swung a leg over.

  Mark leaned back to show Red where to put his feet, and then he did it. He took hold of Red’s hand and wrapped it around his waist. For half a stupid second, Red pulled back. The contact was—a lot! What the hell am I doing? If nothing else, I could fall off! He wrapped his whole arm tightly around a warm, narrow waist and followed it with the other.

  Oh. My. God. From groin to upper chest, his front connected with Mark’s back. The key word here was groin. Red could theorize he was gay, but it wasn’t like he had much experience. Being pressed against a g
uy was light-years from just your regular. Being pressed against Mark? Somewhere between heaven and hell. For a second, he relaxed his arms to lessen the contact—just as Mark stepped on something or released something or pressed something and the bike leaped forward.

  Yikes! Red grabbed and his hands locked—lower than the waist.

  Uh.

  Is that a belt? Uh, holy shit!

  He slid his clasped hands up so fast he practically fell off the bike.

  Mark folded his big warm paw over Red’s, and for a second, all the blood left Red’s head. Passing out? Definite option. His helmet-covered face would fall straight into the shaggy brown hair at Mark’s neck. That was Red’s idea of how to die. Smothered in Mark Woods’s hair.

  Then the bike slowed in front of his house and some piece of Red’s brain remembered that it had only been a few blocks down that he’d nearly been—whatever had nearly happened.

  Disoriented, Red kept holding on as a few seconds ticked by and the motorcycle purred in front of his grandmother’s cottage. His house.

  Mark looked back and said softly, “You okay?”

  “What? Oh yes, God!” Red unclasped his hands, planted his foot, and tried to lift the other—but he did it all at the same time. Fail! He should have yelled, “I am Groot” as he toppled toward the ground, one foot wrapped about the opposite ankle.

  Mark was halfway through dropping the bike again, to save Red—again!—when Red managed to catch himself, and, hopping on one leg like the guy who invented the word dork, he gasped, “Right. Got it! Almost lost it again, but nope. Ha-ha. Thanks. That was, uh, amazing. And, uh, yeah, thank you.”

  Mark tightened his lips, maybe holding back a smile or maybe trying not to barf. With one of those quick nods, he pulled away and drove down the street until he was just an engine roar in the distance.

  Red stared. There was no way he could regret Mark Woods coming to save him from Phil. He couldn’t kid himself huge enough to believe Phil meant him no harm, and no matter how hard he fought, he could never have won against four guys.

  But the rest. He softly released air from his lungs. Mark had put him in that helmet and wrapped Red onto his back like some hopeless baby monkey and then Red’s whole stupid body went wacko and he’d made a fool of himself so huge there weren’t enough words to describe it—all to ride a distance Red could have walked in five minutes.

  He pulled his hair back and tied it in a knot. Why didn’t I? I could have extended my hand like a man instead of a monkey, thanked him from the bottom of my soul, and walked home. Then I wouldn’t have looked like some flailing queen and I wouldn’t know—anything.

  He sighed, opened the front door, and stepped into the small entry of the only home he’d ever known. There’d been a mother back there somewhere, and she’d, in fact, been his grandmother’s daughter, but she’d died when he was really young and his Gran had stepped in. End of mother problem. Hell, his Gran had even named him.

  “Red dear, is that you?” Right, he usually called to her when he came in.

  “Yes, Gran. Be right there.” He ran a hand through his hair, but he didn’t have a mirror. He could make an excuse and run to the bathroom, but—oh hell.

  He walked slowly into the living room. As usual, she was reading. She looked up, her book dropped to the floor and she leaped to her feet. “Red, what happened to you?”

  He glanced down at himself. Yeah, it was bad. Somehow he hadn’t noticed that his jeans were ripped, his windbreaker had a hanging pocket and God only knew about his face. His cheek still throbbed.

  She rushed to him, grasped his arms, and he must have flinched because she gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. “You’re hurt.”

  Funny. I guess I am. “I—I—” And stupidly, embarrassingly, he started to cry.

  “Oh my God, sit down.” She put her arm around his waist, but it was still pretty funny since she was a foot shorter than he was. As soon as he was sitting on the flowered couch, she said, “I’ll call Dr. Michaels.”

  “No. No. I’m fine. Honest. I’m just being stupid.”

  “Stupid. You look like you were attacked.” She frowned ferociously, her brows pulling over her slim nose so like his.

  “I was sort of, no I was, but somebody saved me. So I’m not really hurt.”

  She sat beside him, patting his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

  For a second, he considered editing the story, but hell, if you can’t tell your mom, who can you tell? He went through the whole thing, even including the word fag. About Mark, he was less specific. He just said Mark smashed Phil and then brought Red home.

  A muscle jumped in her jaw. “So, that bastard Phil Gordat did this.”

  Red nodded.

  “I want to go to the sheriff.”

  He looked at her and smiled tightly. “To complain about his nephew?” He wiped a hand over his neck. “I don’t think so, Gran. Mark scared Phil pretty badly, so there’s a chance he might not tell his uncle, but if I start complaining, I’m sure he will. Mark could get in trouble. He hit Phil really hard.”

  She pushed aside her strawberry-blonde hair that might have contributed the genes that produced his own mane, except she “enhanced” it, her word. “How interesting that Mark came to your rescue. He doesn’t live near here.”

  Red said, “No, I think he lives above his shop down near the railroad tracks.”

  “Well, it certainly was lucky.”

  Yeah, his lucky derp day.

  “Honey, go take a shower and throw away those clothes. I kept some dinner warm for you.”

  “Thanks, Gran.” She didn’t like him to eat what she called “the junk” at the diner, and they couldn’t afford the higher-ticket items that weren’t hamburgers and fries, so she made him dinner after work.

  He rose and walked over to give her a kiss on the cheek. Gran had only been in her late forties when she’d checked the mother box on his bio. While she hadn’t been a lot older than many moms, she’d been a widow with a job as an admin in a lawyer’s office, so they’d always scrimped to make it. Fortunately, the house had been in the family, so all they did was pay the taxes and even that was a lot. A little less than a year ago, she’d retired, but fortunately, she had a small income from her husband apparently, and, of course, now Red worked. No mom could be better than Gran. Only her big dreams for him ever made him want to run and hide, but if that was the worst you could say about your parent, hell he was one lucky dude.

  He climbed the steep staircase and walked to the end of the narrow hall where his bedroom was located. The room was tiny, but oddly it had its own small bath, so that gave him some privacy he cherished.

  After he tossed the ripped T-shirt and jeans in the wastebasket with a lot of force, he climbed into his shower. No luxuriating since he didn’t want to keep Gran up too late. Lately, she seemed to get more tired.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the dining room wearing pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt. He slid into his place and Gran sat across from him, even though she’d already eaten. She said grace, and he took his first bite of roast chicken. He really wanted it to taste good, but maybe that was a lot to ask after the night he’d had. Dutifully, he ate chicken and broccoli. He grinned at Gran as he chewed and glanced toward his plate. “Mashed potatoes?”

  “They’re comfort food and you need some comfort. Starch one night won’t kill you.”

  Actually, they tasted better than anything else on his plate. “Thanks, Gran.” She watched his food intake like a hawk. For her blog, she stayed up on the latest nutrition research, and according to her, all the stuff people learned all those years ago about fat making you fat and cholesterol killing you was garbage science and had been proved wrong. On the other hand, grains were poison, so unlike most kids, he never got sandwiches, french fries, french toast, or French pastry. When he complained that the regimen kept him skinny, she countered with his exceptional level of health, which was true, and she always went on to say how he needed to be le
an to be in front of the cameras that were no doubt going to be an integral part of his famous future—which was Neverland. Of course, sometimes he sneaked the forbidden goodies at work, and while Gran didn’t know it officially, she had to expect a chocolate milk shake and fries slipped in there sometimes.

  She sipped a cup of herbal tea as he methodically consumed healthy food. She asked, “How soon do we get our tax refund?”

  “Any day now.” He kept chewing. He was good with numbers so he’d always done the taxes and all the banking for Gran and him.

  “We’ll get you some new clothes.”

  “I don’t need anything.” She always tried to spend what little extra they had on him. “You should get a new outfit for you. Call it a business expense. After all, Granny in Jammys actually needs more than pajamas.” He smiled.

  She shook her head. “Speaking of the blog, guess what happened today.”

  “What?” Chew. Chew.

  I got a direct message from a reader who’s a blogger also, and she wants to come to Ever After to meet me.”

  “It’s nice to have fans.” He smiled. Chew. Chew.

  “Yes. She was so complimentary. She said I’d helped her so much with her diet and lifestyle, that she owed me everything.” She chuckled softly. “She said I should have my own TV show.”

  “That’s great.” He forced the smile to his eyes. It really was a nice thing. He loved that she made a difference in people’s lives.

  “I was so flattered and touched.”

  “I can understand why.” He swallowed and glanced at his plate. Had he eaten enough to show he enjoyed it? He didn’t like humoring her as if he were some self-consumed teenager, even if that’s kind of what he was. But he felt suddenly really tired and he wanted to sort the night out in his head and go to sleep. He had to work the next day, and he was probably going to have a few bruises to explain. Just to have something to say, he asked, “Do you think she’ll come?”

  “Oh gosh, I doubt it. I mean, who really does things like that?” She clasped his forearm. “Honey, you look like your head’s about to land in the rest of the potatoes. You better get to bed.”