Summer Sons(32)

Andrew fled, and the crowd swallowed him up. He clapped a stranger’s shoulder and took the bottle from his hand to pour half a lukewarm beer down his throat. The man shoved him good-naturedly and blustered about getting him another drink. Andrew floated like driftwood in a sea of crushing voices and unfamiliar faces. The bridge of his nose stung. A drip of heat rolled over his upper lip. He swiped his tongue out, tasting blood.

Behind him, a man said, “Can’t believe Halse lets those faggots come around here.”

Andrew bunched his shirt up and held it to his nose. Red spread across the fabric and behind his eyes.

Another man said, “I hear the last one he got all buddied up with cut his wrists. Guess that one’s boyfriend is hanging around too, now. Can’t get fucking rid of them.”

“Well, one of them’s his cousin—”

Andrew’s heel slipped on the damp grass as his knuckles slammed into cheekbone and eye socket with devastating accuracy. The shit-talker’s head whipped back. He dropped to the ground in a stone-still sprawl. One observer’s shocked yelp ripped through the raucous music. The second man grabbed Andrew’s shirt and cocked a fist, shouting “Fuck you—”

Andrew flipped his grip on the bottle in his hand and smashed it into the man’s ribs with a sick-hollow thud. He crumpled around the blow and his raised fist foundered to a bruising grip on Andrew’s arm. His stumbling weight took them both to the ground. Andrew saw nothing but flashes of color, air forced out of his lungs. He snarled and slammed his forehead into the bloodied face above him. The crunch of cartilage was unmistakable. He lost his bottle. An elbow glanced off his jaw and snapped his head into the ground. His skull bounced off the dirt. He jammed his fingers into the open mouth above him and yanked, so the man reared up with a yowl. He got on top without knowing how he did it, planting a knee in someone’s gut. A second pair of arms came around his shoulder and throat, trying to choke him out.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Halse’s voice rang out.

The pressure disappeared from his throat. Hands in his hair and shirt hauled him to his feet. His head lolled back onto Halse’s shoulder, eyes rolling; he caught sight of Riley standing offside with his mouth hanging open in surprise. Halse snorted and popped him casually on the jaw, a disciplinary slap that made his vision go patchy.

“Blur, is there a reason you’re trying to murder my fucking guests?” Halse asked.

Andrew considered the man on the ground, struggling to find his knees and sliding on the grass. The one standing, the one who’d been choking him, eye swollen ripe from Andrew’s initial punch, spat on the ground. For a second Andrew was impressed with himself; he wasn’t a big guy, and the one he’d knocked on his ass was built.

“Talking about Eddie,” he slurred through an aching mouth.

“Man, who the hell is that,” gasped the one whose ribs he’d tried to break.

“This young man is a good friend of mine,” Halse said. His jovial tone set Andrew’s survival instincts pinging. Halse lowered him in a controlled fall, and he sprawled on his ass while the other man paced over to the pair of strangers. The strangers drew together, sensing the same threat. “What kind of shit were you talking, and who invited you to my home?”

“Hey, you know us,” the standing man said uncertainly.

His friend, though, stared silent at Andrew’s face. His nose was crooked, a mask of blood painting him from hair to shirt collar. Andrew grinned. “Called Riley a fag,” he offered without breaking the glowering eye contact.

“Oh, did he,” Halse said.

The crowd had gone still around them, ripples of hushed conversation spreading through the circle. Andrew wiped his face again. His fingers bled sluggishly, split on someone’s teeth. When he put his hand on the ground, pain and something other pulsed up his forearm from the grass, the earth he was oozing onto, clinging to his bones with a tar-stickiness. The surrounding forest rustled in an eerie cacophony of wind and leaves. Halse popped his shoulders and sighed, then hauled his foot back and drove it into the prone man’s stomach. He gagged twice and balled up into a shaking huddle.

His friend stepped over him as if he were going to retaliate, but Halse pointed a finger in his face and said, “I’ll kill you. I will kill you if you look at me again. Get out. Take your friend with you.”

Andrew lay back, the starlit sky streaming and shifting above him. The damp grass on the side of his face let him know he’d collapsed. Music shrieked along without pause. A cold can slipped into his fist. He mumbled a thanks and pressed it to his forehead. Beer splashed on his skin. A boot skimmed over his ribs. He blinked up at Halse standing over him. Both his hands were tucked in his back pockets, drawing his jeans skin-tight over his crotch. Andrew dragged his stare up another couple feet to Halse’s chin, tipped at a considering angle. Andrew focused on the sensation of bony ankles and the heels of shoes digging in on both sides of his hips.

“Are you concussed?” Halse asked.

“Holy shit,” Riley said, and he appeared beside them, crouching. “I only lost you for like, ten minutes, dude.”

Andrew let him tilt his head and observe his pupils. Halse waited. Riley reached for the hem of his tank, stripped it over his head, and wadded it up. The long, angry red scars under his pectorals were unexpected. Andrew stopped his hand halfway while reaching out to touch, to trace them with his fingers like he had with his eyes.