Guyliner Page 3

  He continued walking but turned the volume down on the music and slowed his steps. The two guys matched him stride for stride, their shadows building a dusky cage around him in the afternoon sunlight as they came up on either side of him.

  “Hey, Roy, get a load of this guy. Have you ever seen a dude wearing makeup?” The boy to the right of Graham—the brunet—finally spoke, his voice loud enough to carry. “And check out that jacket. Kind of fancy, city boy.”

  Graham ran his hand down the lapel of the sleek brown leather jacket. Sure, he hadn’t seen many people wearing anything other than letterman jackets or sweatshirts, but his jacket was only a jacket.

  “I think you’re right, Clint. Must be some kind of pussy.” The boy to the left of Graham, whose name was apparently Roy, responded as loudly.

  “Is that right? Are you a pussy?” The first boy, Clint, turned in front of Graham, blocking his way.

  Graham’s mouth dried up, and his heart pounded a desperate rhythm in his chest as memories of another confrontation stirred. The stench of smoke, the flash of fire. Forcing himself to breathe, Graham tried to look unconcerned, even as he balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to act.

  In his bid to push back the panic—he was so tired of being afraid—Graham went with attitude. “Pussy? Not very original, are you?”

  Clint flushed, his chest swelling with anger. “Okay, then. Fag. You like that better?”

  “Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “Depends on why you want to know.” Though he faced the dark-haired guy, Graham’s attention never strayed too far from Roy. Clint may have been a jerk, but something about Roy practically screamed violent tendencies. Probably something to do with the emptiness in his eyes or the casually menacing way he loomed.

  Clint narrowed his eyes and took a small step forward. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you want to know if I’m a fag because you want some fashion advice”—his gaze tracked the generic outfits each wore—“I can see why. If you want to know because you forgot the lyrics to Rent, I can’t help you. So not my thing. If you want to know because you’re looking for a date, well, you’re not my type.” Blondie sputtered next to him, and Graham dropped the easygoing act. “If you want to know because you’re a homophobic asshole and you want to kick my ass, you’re welcome to try. See, it depends.”

  The shock on Roy’s face and the automatic step away he took would have been funny if Graham didn’t feel like he’d just run fifty suicide drills in ninety-degree weather. The adrenaline-spiked nausea increased when Roy checked his backward momentum and fisted his hands at his sides. “You really are a fag. A fucking cocksucker.”

  Graham really wanted to simply walk away, but he couldn’t make his feet remember how to do it. Too bad his mouth hadn’t forgotten how to work too. “Yours? No way. I already said you weren’t my type. I like my guys with a bit more brain and a bit less brawn.” Why did he keep antagonizing these jerks? Was he trying to get a beat-down? What a lovely welcome to the neighborhood that would be.

  “Shut your mouth, you fucking perv.” Roy stalked forward and leaned into Graham. Though they were close to the same height, Roy’s bulk made him seem a little more Incredible Hulk–like than Graham was comfortable with. Graham was intimidated, all right, but he was either too stupid or too proud to let it show. The jury was still out on that one.

  Nope, definitely stupid, he thought as the words kept coming. “What has you so pissed? That I don’t want to date you or that I called you an asshole?”

  It was apparently the last straw as far as Roy was concerned. “You sick fuck.” With a stomp and a snort, Roy bore down on him like an angry bull. Two meaty hands plowed into Graham’s chest, shoving him to the ground. Graham landed on his ass, scraping his palms on the cracked sidewalk when he tried to catch himself. Oh shit, not again. He fought to draw in a breath.

  “Roy, knock it off,” Clint said and jumped in front of Roy, straining to hold the other boy back. “Not now. Witnesses,” he murmured, tipping his head to the street where a tan car had pulled up.

  Roy jerked free of his friend and leaned over Graham. “You’ve just been saved, faggot. Later.” He stormed past, kicking out and nailing Graham in the calf.

  “Hey.” The car’s driver jumped out and jogged near. “What’s going on?”

  Graham looked over and cursed under his breath. Of course. It was the hottie from the body shop.

  “Stay out of this, Golden Boy. It’s none of your business.” Roy shot one last glare at Graham and turned and walked away as Connor approached.

  “Golden Boy?” Graham asked, finally able to breathe enough to attempt standing. Connor reached out a hand to help him up. Calling himself a complete moron, Graham reached up and took it. The slight scrape of work-roughened skin against his palm was almost enough to make up for getting dumped on his ass. Almost.

  Straight, he reminded himself as he let Connor pull him to his feet.

  “Just a stupid nickname.” Connor blushed. “Never mind. You okay?”

  Graham dusted off bits of gravel from the back of his legs, noticing for the first time that the jeans were damp. “Crap. Of course I’d land in a puddle. Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks, by the way, for stopping.”

  “Let me give you a ride home.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it.” Graham untangled the cords to his earbuds. Somewhere along the way they’d fallen and pulled free of the phone. He looked down the street, making sure Roy and his buddy were long gone.

  “Seriously.” Connor followed Graham’s gaze. “Those two are assholes, plain and simple. And, well, I think you took Clint’s place on the soccer team. It might be better if they didn’t get a chance to get their hands on you again right away. They may leave you alone at school, with people around, but they aren’t likely to pass up a chance if they catch you alone….”

  “Good point.” It seemed that Graham could follow common sense when it came from Connor. Unlike those times when his brain was screaming at him to shut up even as his lips kept moving. After wrapping the slippery strings of his earbuds around his phone, Graham tucked the combo into his pocket. “A ride would be great.”

  Connor got into his car and reached over to unlock the passenger side door. When Graham opened it, Connor tossed a bulging backpack into the backseat. As Graham settled in and fastened his seat belt, Connor reached over, his hand diving under Graham’s legs. Graham jerked back, his arm automatically sweeping down to push away the threat. He halted the motion barely in time when Connor pulled back, a grease-stained work shirt in his hand.

  “Shit. Sorry, man.” Connor tossed the dirty blue cloth onto the backpack.

  When would he stop jolting at sudden movements? He’d hoped to be over that by now. “No, I’m sorry. I must still be riding the adrenaline rush from the thing with Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. I overreacted.”

  “It’s cool. Speaking of the Tweedles, what had them so ticked off? I mean, Roy’s got a big mouth, but he’s never tried to punch anyone before.”

  “I guess it was my fault.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “They seemed to take offense at my being gay, and instead of letting it go, I sort of egged them on.” Since coming out a year ago, Graham had seen many different reactions, and he waited for Connor’s. He was prepared for curiosity, disgust, anger. Heck, he was even prepared—weirder things had happened, right?—for interest. He wasn’t prepared for no reaction at all.

  “Yeah, they’re not used to people standing up for themselves. Out of curiosity, why did you egg them on?”

  “Verbal diarrhea.”

  Connor snorted out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, you know those times when your head tells you to shut up but you keep on talking anyway? And usually what you say is probably the worst thing you could say and makes everything worse?”

  “Oh yeah, I think I’ve been afflicted a time or two.” Connor slid the key into the ignit
ion. The engine of the small car came to life with a well-maintained purr that belied the rust spots and model year. The benefits of working at a mechanic’s shop, Graham figured.

  “So, where do you live?” Connor put the car into gear.

  Graham gave him the address, and they sat in silence for a couple of minutes. When the car slowed for a stop sign, Connor spoke again. “Why didn’t you lie?”

  Graham looked over. “About what?”

  Connor didn’t take his eyes off the quiet street. “You could have denied being gay or, I don’t know, something. It could have saved you a lot of trouble.”

  “Let’s just say that I learned the hard way that it’s better to be upfront and honest, even if people disapprove, than to live a lie. The truth has a way of coming out, and it’s not always pleasant.” When his hands began to ache, Graham realized he’d clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles showed white against his already pale skin. He loosened his grip and cracked his knuckles.

  “That sounds like it could be quite a story.”

  Fire. Pain. Betrayal.

  Graham kept his tone even when he replied. “Maybe someday I’ll tell it.”

  They were quiet the rest of the way to the Parkers’ house. Connor whistled as he pulled up the long drive in front of the enormous brick and river-rock house. “Nice place.”

  “Nothing but the best for Philip Parker.” There was no malice in the comment; it was a simple statement of fact. His father had exacting standards and willingly paid for them. A couple of years ago, Graham would have made some snarky comment about his father’s pretentious lifestyle, but the last year had proven that his dad cared more about his family than he did his image and reputation. Hell, he’d moved to an entirely different state to make life easier on Graham, something Graham still had trouble wrapping his head around.

  “Not a bad life if you can afford it.” Connor said it quietly, but Graham was able to make out the words.

  He almost let it go, but if he could face a couple of ogres like Roy and Clint, he could face someone who had been, up to now, a decent guy. “Sorry?”

  Connor winced. “Damn. I didn’t mean it quite like that.” He smiled wryly. “See, I told you I understand the verbal diarrhea thing. I’ve got a big family and a small house. The idea of a house like that, a house where I could have my own room, my own space. You have no idea what it’s like, seven people, one bathroom… things get a little hairy sometimes.”

  “I bet. I’m a lonely only, and while I used to want a brother or sister to play with or share the blame with, I’ll admit there are benefits.”

  “Well, I hope I didn’t offend you. It’s pure envy, let me tell you.” Connor glanced at the time on the car’s dash. “I’d better get going. My friend Marc is expecting me to help him save his physics grade.”

  “It’s cool.” Graham stepped out of the car, hunching to keep from hitting his head on the low roof. How on earth did someone built like Connor drive this thing? He leaned in the open door. “I guess I’ll see you in school. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Not a problem.” Connor nodded.

  After an awkward pause, Graham tapped the roof of the car and turned toward his house. He reached the front door and watched the Neon driving down the block, its rough exterior sticking out among the Hummers and Mercedes parked in the neighbors’ drives.

  Chapter 4

  THE DATE with Allyson was a disaster. It was Connor’s fault too. Instead of enjoying the movie and the sundaes afterward, he’d tried to prove to himself that this new obsession with Graham was only a weird phase brought on by stress or something. Besides, he liked Allyson. They’d been going out since Homecoming, five, almost six months now. She was pretty and smart and nice.

  So what if he’d never been tempted to take the physical side of their relationship past a hug or two here and there? If she wanted more, she’d have said something, right? She hadn’t, so why should he worry about it now? They got along and they were compatible. That was more important. Right?

  When he’d picked her up for the movie, he’d examined her carefully. She’d looked good, as usual. Her red hair fell in a smooth curtain down her back; her green eyes lit up when she saw him. It made him feel like a pervy old man, but he forced himself to really check out her body. Marc always said he was a leg guy, so he started there. Since she was wearing skinny jeans that hugged every muscle, and since he’d seen her a hundred times in the short skirt she wore for cheerleading, he could admit that she had perfectly nice legs. His mind raced back to the sight of Graham in his thin soccer shorts and the toned legs they revealed, and the clench and release of his quads as he worked the hyperextension bench. Something fluttered in his chest.

  “Let me grab my bag and tell Dad I’m leaving.” Allyson twisted and reached back for her purse, causing her shirt to pull tight across her chest and belly.

  Yes! Boobs. Surely checking out her breasts—he couldn’t even let himself think the words rack or tits—would give him the reassurance he was looking for. After all, the guys in the locker room were always going on about girls’… assets. Not that he’d gone there with them. Not only did he have nothing to share, but he’d kill any jerk that talked about his sister that way. So now he took a moment to look at Allyson’s… assets. She definitely filled out her shirt nicely. Like her legs, her breasts seemed perfectly nice.

  Oh man. This is too weird.

  Allyson’s arms came up and crossed over the handfuls he was eyeing. Shit! She caught him staring like some dumb kid with more hormones than manners. He cleared his throat. “Uh… I like your shirt. Is that new?”

  If there had been a table nearby, he would have banged his head against it. He knew it wasn’t a new shirt. He’d seen it on her a dozen times in the last six months. It was the green one that he’d once told her matched her eyes.

  Not giving her the chance to reply to his lame attempt at face-saving, he said quickly, “We’d better go or we’ll be late for the movie.”

  Connor had no idea what the movie was about. He spent the two hours in the theater alternating between watching the other couples and obsessing about his own behavior with Allyson. In the seats in front of them, a girl rested her head on her date’s shoulder, cuddled in close to his side. Allyson sat in her own seat, her personal space never invading his, staring raptly at the screen. Several seats to the right of them, another couple held hands. In the back, the moaning and slurping noises indicated another couple was doing a lot more than holding hands.

  Did Allyson expect him to make some kind of move? They’d gone to the movies several times, and they’d leaned closer now and then, usually to comment on a preview or the movie, but they’d never really touched or anything. Had she given him any silent clues? Some hint that she was looking for some kind of public display? He couldn’t think of any, but how would he know? Girls were weird. They expected guys to just know this kind of stuff.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he stretched his arm across her shoulders. He’d be damned if he was going to pull the whole stretch-and-yawn ploy.

  Allyson let out a small shriek and jerked back, knocking her mostly full Dr Pepper into his lap. He jumped and brushed at the icy, syrupy drink that soaked his jeans.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” Allyson dug in her purse and pulled out a travel-sized packet of tissues and began frantically dabbing at the soda. Unfortunately, the majority of the damage was at his crotch, and when she realized this, she dropped the tissues and yanked her hands back.

  “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

  “Do you want to go?” she asked.

  Someone behind them shushed them loudly. A couple of others who’d seen what happened chuckled.

  He shook his head, wiping his sticky hands on the remaining tissues. “No. We’re good. Let’s watch the movie.”

  Calling himself a dumbass and periodically plucking at his pants, he watched the rest of the movie. Neither he nor Allyson crossed the armrest between their seats
.

  Back at his car, Connor grabbed a hooded sweatshirt that hung low enough to cover most of the soda stain. The denim was still damp and uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to draw attention back to his earlier awkwardness.

  By the time they sat down at the Frosty Zone, the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor in town, things seemed to have gone back to normal. They chatted about the movie some—Connor let Allyson do most of the talking since he had no idea what happened during the first half—and about school.

  “Hey, isn’t that the new guy? Grant?”

  “Graham,” he corrected automatically before following her gaze to the other side of the dining room. Graham stood with a handful of the other soccer players huddled around a pinball machine. He hung back a bit, a silent observer. With a shake in one hand, Graham listened to whatever discussion the players were having. Whenever someone looked his way, he’d smile or nod, but didn’t say anything.

  Graham dressed differently than the others. Most of the school jocks, whatever the sport, tended to dress the same. Jeans, sports T-shirts or jerseys, tennis shoes. Graham, on the other hand, wore black jeans with a silver-studded belt, bright red Converse shoes, and an expensive-looking fitted plaid shirt. He’d obviously taken the time to style his hair in a way that was too perfectly tousled to be an accident. Once again black eyeliner circled his eyes.

  It wasn’t only the clothes either. Graham didn’t fit in. The Frosty Zone, like the rest of the town, had seen better days. Nothing had been upgraded or replaced in years. Even the pinball machine had stood in that same corner since the eighties. Kids hung out here because there wasn’t anywhere else to go in town. And Graham, he looked like he’d be used to places more exciting than a rundown ice-cream parlor. Hell, the Frosty Zone became exponentially cooler by his presence. He was polished and perfect.