Riot Boy

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Riot Boy Page 12

by Katey Hawthorne


  Shit. Shit, shit. "Shit." If Susanne had taught me anything, it was that anytime the police tell the press something had been "carefully planned," it means something went sideways, bad. So not just hot and cold superpowers but guns. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

  I was going to puke.

  I tried calling the Richmond PD. I got nowhere fast with a pissed-off guy at reception who kept telling me a further statement would be issued to the press in the next hour.

  I was crossing the 295 loop into Richmond proper, about to start screaming my head off for lack of any other way to get rid of the immense frustration and fear, when my phone finally rang. I snapped it up without even checking the ID. "I hope to God this is Brady."

  "Of course it's Brady. What's up with the frantic texts from you and Susanne?"

  My heart, swollen to twice its natural size at least, thudded so loud in my throat I could hardly speak. He sounds okay. He must be okay. Everything's okay.

  "You're asking me what I'm doing? Jesus, are—" A horrible thought then. "You're not in the hospital, are you?"

  "No. No, I'm in one piece, but—Wait, what's that noise? Are you in the car?"

  "Yeah." And he had a point. I couldn't have this conversation while I was driving—my vision was already starting to blur. "You're okay? Really?"

  "I'm okay, yeah."

  "Okay. Where are you, and how do I get there?"

  "I'm—" He paused. "Where are you?"

  "The motherfucker conventionally known as I-95. The nearest exit says"—I squinted into the darkness—"Lakeside."

  He was quiet. Then I heard a little choking sound and realized he was laughing.

  "Brady, I swear to—"

  "Okay, okay. When you get to 64, bear left…"

  *~*~*

  He was at the Marriot downtown. At least the Richmond PD had sprung for decent accommodations. At least he wasn't in an ICU somewhere hooked up to millions of tubes and—

  Yeah. Not going there. Not even thinking about it.

  There was a cop by the elevator, but he checked my ID and apparently I was "okay to go ahead" to the room indicated. I knocked and waited. I still felt sick—as in, puke-inducing sick. My head ached as if a string had been pulled too tight between one temple and the other, cutting through my brains and squeezing my skull together. My ass hurt from sitting still so long.

  For the second time in less than a week, I wasn't sure what I was going to do when I saw him. Though I should've been.

  The door swung open, and he was standing there shirtless and barefoot, scratching at his side. Whole. Unbruised. Hair product and eyeliner in place.

  Like I was just popping over from the next room to borrow some ice.

  He smiled, lopsided and guilty. "Hey."

  I stepped inside, forcing him to move back and let me past. The door closed, and I stared, looking him up and down, over and over, to make sure it was real, and he was okay, and nothing bad had happened to him. Heart in my throat.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked to the carpet. "So, you're probably going to ask why I didn't tell you my plan, if it was on the up-and-up."

  Something inside me shattered. I flung my arms around him and nuzzled his hair, inhaling the clean pomade and ashy cigarette scent of him. He relaxed into me, put his arms around my neck, rubbed his cheek against mine. I felt the tickle of his eyelashes, the deep rise and fall of his chest, and knew he was breathing me in too.

  Yes, he was whole and safe and there—at least the visible parts of him. I had to believe it, when he was in my arms like this. But that left the mental bit. And what must be going on there was so much worse than the potentiality for physical damage, it made me shiver thinking of it. "Brady." My throat was too tight to speak much louder than a whisper. "Jesus, are you okay?"

  "Only slightly less okay than I was before, I reckon." I heard the smile in his voice, but he clung to me as tightly as I clung to him.

  "I would've come." I pulled back a little to look him in the eye. "Just to be here with y—"

  "I know. But if you'd come, I would've leaned on you, and it's—it's one of those things no one can help you with, so leaning on someone weakens your whole position. I knew it'd be better if I had to do it alone. And it was. And it's over. And I'm really sorry."

  "Don't even think about that." I kissed him, mouth closed, to punctuate that sentence. Then I tilted my forehead to his and held him there. "What happened?"

  "Armored car. A big load too. They been planning it for a month, and that's why they were pulling out the stops on me."

  "I saw online. They said there was an ambulance. Two."

  He grimaced. "Fucking Mal got himself shot being a dumbass. Big baby screamed his head off, and it was just his leg. He had this little gadget on him—amped him up somehow so he sent the cop up in flames from all the way across the street. Weird as hell, man. I put her out, but she got some mean burns."

  I couldn't even process this tale of madness. Could not fathom what his night had looked like, inside, outside. Could not comprehend that these things had happened and here he was holding me—not like he was too weak to stand on his own, not like it had nearly killed him.

  Just like he was happy to see me.

  "Glad he didn't use that shit on me," he went on. "The really good news is, the police gathered enough evidence at the scene to pin a bunch of our earlier stuff on them too. In theory, I'll get immunity for my trouble. Or that's what they're saying. Dunn out there—the cop—he's awakened. He sorted shit out to get them into the right prison and everything."

  There was gratitude in the way he said the last bit. I asked, "You mean safe from awakened vigilante justice?"

  "Safe from everything. Even themselves, for a while." No panic, no fear. Just relief, his face a little too pale, his voice a little too subdued.

  "You get to talk to him?" I couldn't bring myself to say Malory. Like the name alone would reduce him to tears.

  It wouldn't. I didn't think anything could, in fact. But it was bad enough.

  "Rode with him in the ambulance." Brady's eyes were still that same wintry blue outlined sharply in dark kohl—still cut right through me with a look—but sadder than I'd ever seen them. "I told him I saved his fucking life, and he said—" He sighed and blew his hair out of his eyes. "The bastard said, 'What the hell for, Brady?' And he looked at me like…" He trailed off and worked his jaw.

  I rested my cheek against his, and our arms tightened around each other. "They'd only have gotten busted eventually, anyhow. Dragged you down with them. Probably ended up dead or—"

  "No, Mal's right. I didn't do them any fucking favors. I saved myself. Nobody else to do it."

  I kissed his ear. "Let me."

  He drew back a little, fixed me with a look that was at once heavy with all the ice inside him and hot as fire. "You want to take care of me, Etienne?"

  Though my stomach twisted up inside me, screaming that this was the wrong reply, well, it was the only one I had. "Yeah. That's what I always wanted."

  "Goes both ways. So I'm asking you to understand that this time, taking care of you meant not telling you about the Diabolical Plan. You forgive me or what?"

  The final pieces clicked into place just like that, and I was ashamed of myself. He'd told me outright, even; the less they knew about me, the better. I hadn't understood. "That part of why you disappear, too? Why you never told me who you really were? Trying to protect me?"

  "Should've stayed away from you altogether. Couldn't. Sorry for that too."

  "Don't ever be sorry for that." I kissed him again, this time turning my head to go in deep, one hand on either side of his face so I could tilt it upward, get my fingers into his hair. Thank God for Brady's lack of self-control.

  "I know you thought it was weird that I came to see you. But I had to know if…if you might want me back after, before I decided what to do. And when I knew you would, I thought of Susanne—"

  "I will always want you." It hurt my throat to s
ay it, but it wouldn't stay inside me, either. "I love you."

  He pressed his hips into mine, sending a quick thrill and a sigh through me, and said, "Oh, sweetheart," just like that first dance, before I'd known his name. Before we'd been interrupted by his mad life. "Maybe I'm not in a position to make demands…"

  "Anything."

  "You come in here being all sweet, with your hair all messed up and your shirt all crooked. Got me so fucking hard, I can't see straight."

  I laughed and helped him pull off my shirt. Between kissing and petting and peeling off each other's clothes, I managed to get him against the wall. He grabbed for my underwear, all either of us had on by then, but I kept him pinned tight, rolled my hips, and groaned into his mouth.

  "Always said you wanted me against the wall." He laughed.

  "I want you everywhere." I let up a little and pulled off his shorts. Before he could get to mine, I took his smooth, swollen cock in hand.

  He hadn't been joking; he was so close to getting off, he could hardly breathe. "Fuck, say that again."

  "Everywhere," I whispered into his ear, stroking his straining cock deliberately, letting the head rest against my lower belly, leaving me wet. "Stay with me."

  "Yeah." His hands went cold, one squeezing my arm, the other running up my chest, tweaking my stiffening nipple.

  My dick gave a thrill, shifted in my shorts. "You will?"

  "If you—unh—if you want."

  I tightened my grip, and he writhed against the wall, biting down hard on his lip. He pinched my nipple, cold, God, so fucking cold. I cupped his balls with my free hand and jerked him harder, and he bit down again, making little white indentations. His balls pulled up tight; his cock thickened, grew hotter still, pulsing, dripping.

  I leaned forward, readjusted my angle so more of him rubbed against my stomach when my hand moved down, and put my lips against his ear. Breathed, gentle and wet and warm, "I want."

  He wound his fingers into the hair on my chest, moaned softly with his climax. The sensation, the sweet stickiness dripping hot down my belly, almost set me off. I held him close and pressed my dick into his thigh, and my mouth to his, chests heaving. When I let him go, he tugged my shorts down over my ass. Unrestrained, my cock stood up like it had done something to be proud of.

  "Fuck me, Etienne." His lips smiled against mine.

  I took that as a yes.

  Clever boy had lube in the drawer. As I retrieved it, I wasn't so far gone that I failed to recognize my Rimbaud resting open and facedown on the nightstand above it.

  EPILOGUE

  When the lights went up at the Flowers, I took in the crowd. It got bigger every night—Willoughby Spit was the official house band as of December, and even the icy brick streets didn't keep the kids from showing up in droves on weekends. The band had taken some time off to write new material while Brady was tied up in Richmond; once he'd come back, they'd really started to kick some punk ass.

  I cited his brilliant stint as lyricist. He said I was biased. But anyone would have to admit, at least, that he had great taste in poetry.

  Word was that a record executive was expected to drop by "secretly" within the next month or so. Every time someone brought it up, Brady rolled his eyes and flipped them off. If asked why, he always said, "Because my life is fucking perfect like it is. How's yours?"

  Susanne elbowed me in the ribs and nodded toward the other end of the stage, where a bunch of yuppie types were scrumming over a table covered in martinis. I chuckled, thinking she meant to draw attention to Willoughby Spit's unlikely trendiness. But then one of the polo-shirted men turned, and I saw what she really intended.

  I laughed out loud. Paul waved and smiled, starting toward me.

  I exchanged amused glances with Suse and Lucy and rose to meet him halfway. When our trajectories intersected somewhere amidst the knots of assorted music lovers, I could only laugh again.

  "You look surprised to see me," he said.

  "Not really your scene."

  "Wouldn't think it was yours either. Frankie dragged me in kicking and screaming, but I'm actually having fun. You?"

  I tried not to look smug. "I'm here every weekend. Best band in the world."

  He gave me a skeptical look. "Sure. I, ah, tried to catch your eye before the show started. Susanne pretended not to see me."

  "Sorry."

  "S'okay. I thought you might forgive me someday, but I knew she never would."

  "I thought I saw Frankie in here the other night, but it's been slammed—"

  Someone pressed into my back, hooking an arm around my waist and breathing into my ear so only I'd hear, "Hey, handsome, nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"

  "Excuse me," I said to Paul, turning as Brady came to stand beside me, a frosty glass of bourbon in hand. I leaned close and kissed his cheek. The faint taste of his sweat lingered on my lips—weird, but I think he liked that the lights up there made him sweat at all, cold as he could be. He never cooled off onstage, not on purpose. "You were great," I said.

  "I know." He smirked.

  I stepped back to do introductions, since Paul was, understandably enough, standing there staring. "Brady, this is—"

  Brady held out his free hand and finished for me. "Paul."

  Paul shook, eyebrows high, looking from me to Brady. He was always cute when bewildered.

  I said, "Paul Brahms, Brady Claremont."

  Brady was still shaking his hand. "Always wanted to meet you."

  "Oh?"

  I tried to change the subject. "Is Suse waiting for us, or—"

  Brady released Paul and waved me off. "Nah, they're still drinking. Yeah, man, wanted to since I first saw that picture Et used to have."

  Paul looked to me for help. When my only reply was to take a sip of my G&T—if only to stall for time—he asked, "Uh, because you heard about me?"

  "Yeah." Brady smiled brightly. "And from what Susanne says, I owe you a serious fucking thank you."

  Even in the low light that accounted for the Flowers's atmospheric scheme, Paul's flush was obvious.

  Brady went on as if oblivious, but I knew that smirk too well. "If you hadn't fucked around on Prince Charming here, he never would've looked at me twice. And shit, you've seen him naked, so I don't have to tell you—"

  I couldn't take it anymore. "Brady, Jesus."

  He had his serious moments these days. He had his guilty hours, his sleepless nights, his unhappy memories.

  But in essence, he was pretty damn unchanged.

  He looked up at me, bright, black-lined eyes wide. "What? I'm just saying—"

  "You're a shit." I looked back to Paul. "He's joking."

  "Don't be so fucking polite. Paul knows what I mean. Anyhow, thanks, man, really. Saved my fucking life. Next time you wanna come to a show, I'll put you on the list, no cover charge. You're my personal guest."

  Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked everywhere but at Brady.

  Extremely juvenile of me, I know, but I snickered. Just a little. "You done?" I directed at Brady.

  "Just getting started. Take me home now?"

  "Anything you want."

  "That's my sugar daddy." He kissed me on the cheek. "Gonna get George and the guitar. And Paul, I'm serious, man. Just call the bar and—"

  He laughed. No joke, Paul actually laughed. "Yeah, thanks. I get it."

  Brady tossed off a salute before sauntering away, with a swat at my ass for good measure.

  "So, that's the guy," Paul said.

  "Yeah."

  "Since…?"

  "September."

  "Ah." He smiled again; there was a little grimace in it, but it wasn't too bad. For Paul. "A real punk."

  "The worst. Good bass player, though."

  "Definitely a good bass player." He paused, and his smile became easier. "I'm happy for you, Et. You deserve someone creative and…"

  "Weird like me."

  "Yeah. Weird like you."

  Now when his eyes met mine, there w
as something almost kind in them. For the first time in over three years, I think Paul and I actually understood each other.

  I reached out to shake his hand, and he squeezed before he let go.

  "I'll see you around, huh?" I said.

  "Yeah. Especially if I'm getting in free."

  I found Brady in the dressing room with the little Chinese changing screen and planted a big fat kiss on him.

  "He seems like a nice guy." He snorted.

  "You're a brat." Another kiss.

  "If I wasn't a brat, you'd have nothing to reform. And you are so good at reforming me."

  "Apparently not."

  "Guess you better keep trying."

  "That can be arranged." I kissed him again, grinning. "You ready to go home, mon cher enfant terrible?"

  "Ready to go home, sweetheart."

  FIN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Katey Hawthorne is an avid reader and writer of superpowered and fantastic romance, even though the only degree she holds is in the history of art. (Or, possibly, because the only degree she holds is in the history of art.) Originally from the Appalachian foothills of West Virginia, she currently lives in Ohio. In her spare time she enjoys comic books, B-movies, loud music, Epiphones, and Bushmills.

 

 

 


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