Page 96 of String Boys

“I did not know that. This way to my truck, okay?”

Seth followed him, their long legs falling into easy strides, and Seth was lulled into complacency.

The heavy fist seemed to come out of nowhere.

“Fuckin’ faggots! Give us your fucking money!”

For a moment, Seth lay sprawled out, clutching his violin and watching as two shadows threw Guthrie against the truck, raining blows on his head.

He wasn’t sure when he moved.

Like he had with Castor, he started with a kick, this time to behind one assailant’s knee. That guy went down, and Seth used his elbow to catch the other guy in the middle. The first one came back, and Seth kicked him again, high on his upper thigh, and then cracked the other guy—shorter—in the jaw, hard with his elbow again.

And again. Both men were down, and Seth was kicking them, hard in the ribs as they whimpered. One of them voided his bladder, and Guthrie wrapped his arms around Seth’s waist and lifted.

“Easy there, boy. Easy! You’re going to kill them!”

“Fuckers!” Seth growled. “Fuckers! No! Just fucking no! Not again! Not ever fucking again!”

Guthrie carried him to the truck door, opened it, and shoved him in, and Seth came to his senses. “My violin!”

“Yeah, boy, fuck!”

The violin came sailing in next as Seth scooted to the passenger seat, and Guthrie jumped in and gunned the engine. The truck pealed out of there in a spatter of mud, and Seth tried to wrap his brain around what had just happened.

“You okay?” Guthrie asked after a few terror-fraught moments. “You… you sort of came unglued.”

Seth took a couple more shaky breaths. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“No, sir, but they were gonna. How about you?” Guthrie pulled off in front of a gas station and took stock. “Oh boy, they got you. Your face is swollen. Your lip is bleeding. How’s your hands?”

Seth flexed them. They were practically untouched. “Elbows,” he said. “Have to play.”

Guthrie laughed, the sound hysterical and jarring. “Man, you are something else. But brother, you can play something special. I did not believe that shit you did tonight. I almost cried myself.”

“It’s all I know how to do,” Seth said apologetically.

“Yeah, that and fight.”

Seth shifted uncomfortably. “Think they’re okay?” he asked, not wanting to think about Castor Durant and what he might have done, but unable to think about anything else.

“Who in the fuck cares!”

Seth let out a choked laugh. “I… I don’t want to kill anybody,” he said.No. Not again.

“Those boys? They took you out first because they thought you were the weakest, right? And then it was goddamned two to one. You didn’t kill ’em, but I’m pretty sure they’re gonna be pissing blood for a week.”

Seth grunted. “Should I… should I go back to the bar?” he asked hesitantly. “They’ll…. Will they press charges?”

Guthrie shook his head. “Seth, they jumped you!”

“But I’m black,” Seth said, like maybe Guthrie hadn’t noticed. “And gay.” Which he probably wouldn’t have said if he wasn’t so damned rattled. “And the cops hate me just for… for… being me!”

Guthrie took a breath. “Sounds like you’ve got experience,” he said after a moment, the truck idling noisily.

“Some.”

“That sucks.” Guthrie grimaced, and in the light from the gas station, Seth could see his face was sort of appealing. He had a big nose—Roman, he guessed they called it—but a strong chin to balance it out, and brown eyes, which were as big a shock in his pale face as Seth’s green eyes were in his.