Talker by Amy Lane Page B

Lane
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    bleeding, but a lot of it came from the useless sack of shit lying on
    the sidewalk in back of the club. “O h G od,” he said thickly, “I’m
    going to throw up.”
    Jed made an exasperated grunt—he was still practically lifting
    Brian bodily into his car. “If you could go home and do that, I’d be
    really grateful. And I wouldn’t show back up here for a couple of
    days.” He let out an “oomph” here as he fished through Brian’s
    pockets and came up with his keys.
    “I need to pick Tate up,” Brian said. It was the only thing he
    could think of as Jed opened his car door and shoved him in.
    “Wel , how about I drop him off tonight, and you can drop him
    off tomorrow? I can pick up some of the slack, man, but you’ve got
    to get out of here, and I’ve got to cover your lily-white ass, okay?”
    F inally, Jed’s sacrifice penetrated Brian’s fog. “Why you doing
    this?” he asked hazily, remembering to turn the key in his ignition
    and roll down his window while he was waiting for an answer. His
    adrenaline was pumping big time, and he had a shake in his hands
    and his knees that he couldn’t seem to get rid of.
    “Tate’s good people,” Jed said quietly from the window. “I can’t
    count the number of hysterical kids he’s talked out of the bathroom
    come closing. I’m sorry he got hurt.”
    Brian sniffed and tried to get control of himself. He had to work
    tonight, and he had to be there for Tate when he got home, and he
    couldn’t be a sniveling weenie because that’s just not how he
    rolled. “Thanks for helping,” he said at last, putting the car in gear.
    He was about to ease up on the clutch when Jed stopped him with
    a question.
    “Does Tate know?”
    Brian couldn’t look at him. “Know what?”
    “How you feel about him?”
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    Brian shook his head and shrugged. “It’s not like I can tell him
    now.” Then they both heard the sirens, and Jed stepped back from
    the car so he could drive away.
    He’d stopped on the way home to throw up.
    That night, when Tate got home, Brian had rewrapped his
    bleeding knuckles and put on a hand-me-down shirt with the
    sleeves pul ed past his fingertips. It had been late January—he’d
    been ready to complain about the cold.
    But Tate had been dazed, shel -shocked, exhausted from
    keeping it together in the press of bodies and loud noises from the
    club, and he didn’t notice the knuckles, not even when the
    bandages went away and there were only scabs left. All he was
    real y capable of in those first days was doing his homework or
    sitting on the couch watching television anyway.
    Brian would sit with him, homework or no homework, and put
    food in his hands and nag him until he ate. Brian would make sure
    not to turn the hal light off at night, and to go into Tate’s room
    before he went to bed to see if Tate was sleeping or needed to talk.
    A lot of the times he was sure Tate pretended to sleep, but
    sometimes he would say a few words. Apparently, he saved all his
    talking for work.

    BRIAN had fal en quiet at his aunt’s question about consequences
    for the fucker who’d hurt Tate. At her prompting, he jerked out of his
    reverie.
    “Don’t worry, Aunt Lyndie. He… he’s not going to come near
    Tate again.”
    Lyndie raised her eyebrows then. “O kay, baby. G ood for you.”
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    Brian shrugged. “Didn’t help much,” he muttered, and she
    reached out and covered his hands—battered with scars, but not
    hurting—and said, “Did it help you?”
    A slow smile crossed Brian’s face, and he had to concede that
    it had.
    “O kay,” Lyndie said after a moment. “So, what’s the plan?”
    Brian’s smile faded. He had one. O h, definitely, he had a plan.
    But he wasn’t really excited about it. He outlined it in its barest
    points, and Lyndie nodded.
    “So, the grand romantic gesture, huh?”
    Brian shrugged, and then swal owed, showing exactly how
    nervous he really was.