Page 54 of Shaken and Stirred (Bottle Service Boys #1)

“Here you are, you fucking slowpoke.” Daryl, Randy’s best friend since they popped out of the womb, hopped on Tate, piggyback-style. “What the fuck are you watching this shit for?”

Tate tore his gaze from the stage where the ballet troop bowed for their meager applause. He forced himself to turn toward the rest of his friends.

Randy laughed. “Look at that. One dude dancing with all those bitches.”

Still hanging off Tate, Daryl snorted. “That ain’t a dude. It’s a fairy. That why you are watching them, Tatey boy? You got a thing for fairies?” He ruffled Tate’s hair.

A crushing pain bore down on his chest, making it impossible to speak.

Randy’s laughter increased. “You better not be a fucking fairy, Tate. I ain’t living with a homo.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, bucking backward.

Daryl yelped as he flew off Tate’s back. His ass hit the dusty ground. “What the fuck, Tate? Rude.”

Whitney, standing under Randy’s arm, giggled. “Maybe you’re the fairy, Daryl. Always jumping on Tate’s back and rubbing his head.”

Randy’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, you two fucking?”

Was this what a heart attack felt like?

Tate’s face burned hotter than the damn sun.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled again.

“I ain’t no fucking fairy,” Daryl said, all humor gone. “I’ll fuck you right here right now, Whit.”

“I’d rather die,” she said with a smirk.

“C’mon.” Randy kicked Daryl’s leg.

“Ow! What the hell, Whit? You’da blown me if I got here first, right?”

She shrugged.

“Quit it, you two. I want some fucking funnel cake,” Randy announced.

“Oh, me, too,” Whitney cooed, running her hand up Randy’s torso.

Daryl hopped up. “Let’s do it.”

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.

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.