Kickass Anthology (25 page)

Peeking around the corner into hall, I see Mister Fuck-You-Up come out of the spare room, open our bedroom door, and disappear inside. I take the crowbar with both hands and quickly make my way along the hall, sidestepping that one spot I know will squeak and give me away. Light from the bedroom spills across the carpet, and the voice that follows it curdles my blood.

“Look what we got here! A fuckin’ faggot that can’t move!”

My grip tightens on the straight steel shaft. The curved end brushes my cheek as I raise it to eye level.

“Who the fuck are you?” The strain in Cam’s voice is chilling. “How’d you get in here?”

I slither to the open door and ease my head past the edge of the frame. My eyes snap to the glint of a knife as the man swipes wide, menacing arcs at Cam.

Cam dodges and weaves as best he can trapped on the bed. “Get away from me, asshole!”

“Oh, I’ll get away!” He has no trouble avoiding Cam’s one-armed swings. “Just as soon as the world has one less butt-fucker to worry about!” He lunges, slashing within an inch of Cam’s throat.

It’s now or never!

I step into the doorway, brandishing the crowbar. “Get the fuck away from him you son-of-a-bitch!”

He swings to face me, the knife pointing at my chest. His face twists into a sneer. “You!” he bellows. “You little fucking fairy!” I cringe at the word. He takes a step forward. “You have sucked your last cock, dead boy!”

I can’t tear my eyes from the blade, but I feel Cam’s gaze, hear his rapid breaths.

It’s bizarre, but Rock/Scissors/Paper flashes through my mind!

Crowbar always beats switchblade!

But I don’t trust myself to actually use it. I’ve gotta draw this scumbag away from Cam. “Oh, yeah? Come and get me, mother-fucker!” I turn and bolt back down the hall.

Dashing through the living room, I leap over the end of the coffee table and spring through the door to the half bath. I pivot, shove the door closed, and twist the lock in the knob a split second before he slams into the other side.

This shit makes Pamplona look like a cakewalk!

Standing in the dark, I try to catch my breath as he alternates between yowling some insane screed against homos, and full-body slamming into the door. Each blow makes me twitch as if I’d been hit. I back away from the door, a half-step at a time, unsure how long it will hold, but knowing I can only back up so far in this tiny space.

I can’t believe I did this!

Everything goes quiet.

Did he give up and leave?

But… if he’s gone anywhere, it’s back to an easier target.

I’ve gotta keep him away from Cam!

I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes tight. “Whats’a matter mamma’s boy? Not man enough to take down a little fairy?”

He roars. The door shudders in its frame under the hardest impact yet.

Might as well have swung a two-by-four at a hornets’ nest!

A brilliant wash of light stabs across the door, drawing my attention to the window behind me. I turn my head and glance out. Two squad cars are stopped in the street and a third is pulling into the driveway. Dark figures are creeping up the yard, guns drawn.

My hand quivers as I lean forward and reach out to flip on the lights. Then—though it’s the last thing I want to do—I turn my back to the door. I crouch and put the crowbar on the floor by the toilet.

Making sure my head stays lower than the window, I use one arm to slide up the sash, then I push both hands through the opening and wave them frantically. Keeping my hands high, I slowly rise, peeping over the edge of the sill. I’m looking down the barrel of a gun at a cop—a shrub the only thing separating us. I hiss at him, “Front door’s open! He’s right behind me!” The cop’s gaze shifts to the door as it bows inward, crackling with the sound of splintering wood. He lowers his pistol and motions to the other cops.

I don’t know what distracts my would-be assailant, but there’s one final slam against the door, and then I hear the telltale creak of a floorboard as he retreats. Next, I hear “Freeze and drop your weapon!” There’s some scuffling. “On your knees, hands on your head!” I move back to the door to listen more closely. “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering…” A sharp grunt. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to…”

I suddenly discover that I have less than zero interest in what rights this asshat has.

You have the right to get the fuck out of my house!

Right fucking now!

I flinch at a gentle tap on the door. Then a voice that’s even gentler says, “Sir? You can come out now.” In the living room, our attacker is screaming something about queers. Then I hear his muffled voice from behind me, and I look out the window in time to see two officers hauling him toward the street, squirming.

I twist the lock and turn the knob. A few splinters of wood fall to the floor as I pull the door aside.

“Are you hurt?”

“No sir. I’m fine.” The quaking in my legs belies my assertion, but that’s not his business.

“Why don’t you take a minute. We just need to ask you a few—”

“Excuse me!” I start to push past him.

“Hey!” he shouts, grabbing my arm. His grip is like a vice.

“Please, officer. I need to check on my… on Cam!” It must be the look in my eyes—he releases his hold. “I just need a minute. I promise, I’ll be right back.” He nods, and I hurtle down the hall toward the one thing in this life more precious than any other.

At the bedroom, I grab the door frame to stop my momentum, swinging to a stop. Cam’s good forearm lies across his face, but he must hear my raucous breaths, because he lowers his arm and our gazes lock. He smiles, and I know my knees will give out unless I can touch him right fucking now! I lurch across the room and throw myself down on the edge of the bed, scrambling over to get in contact. He reaches his left arm under and pulls me in tight.

“Oh God, Cam! What would I do without you?” I gasp as I bury my face in the hollow of his neck. “Are you okay?”

Despite the heavy cast, he manages to reach his right arm across and crook his index finger under my chin, pushing up. I take my cue and look into his eyes. He watches me for a good long while.

What does he see when he looks at me like this?

With a stern nod, he says, “I hope you get what you did tonight… I mean really ‘get’ it!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Bobby! You just saved my life.”

I look away, but he scritches me under the chin, and I almost giggle as I turn back to face him. “Bobby? Do you see what just happened here?” I give him a little squint. He gives back a little snort. “Do you remember the guy you were a few years ago?” I furrow my brows. “I loved that guy, but c’mon! Could that Bobby have done what you just did?” I shake my head, then open my mouth to speak, but he has more. “I loved you then with all my heart, Bobby—like I never thought I could feel for anybody—but my God, right now? You are the most amazing man I have ever laid eyes on!”

I hold his gaze a moment, then let my head sink to his breast and settle there. His heart is beating faster than usual, but that’s alright.

With an open hand, I stroke tender circles over his chest and allow my eyes to fall closed.

I deserve this.

What a weird thought. What’s up with me?

This is mine.

Maybe I never felt like I had anything worth protecting before?

This is where I belong.

Thinking gets me nowhere, so I let it go and revel in pure sensation—his good arm cradling me, the rise and fall of his breathing, the rough texture of the cast brushing my chin as he slides his thumb back and forth across my lower lip.

In this moment, I’m a stranger to myself.

It also feels like coming home.

It’s like I’ve crossed a bridge, without even knowing I was crossing till I’m standing here, on the other side, looking back over the river.

It's not like I think I have “the answer” now. I’m pretty sure the stuff that’s always scared the crap out of me is gonna go right on making my gut churn when it happens. But I’m also pretty sure that when it does, I’ll remember who I am, and that I can stand toe to toe with whatever life throws at me.

I know one thing for certain. I have Cam’s love to thank for that.

Jonathan  Penn
grew up in The South and has been inventing tales for at least fifty years. He was probably also making stuff up during the two years prior to that, but, as this was his pre-verbal period, there’s no evidence one way or the other. An armchair linguist, he has taught himself to ask, “Where is the bathroom?” in seven languages.
He enjoys gardening,
He gardens, and enjoys red wines, cooking, theatre, and, of course, writing. Jonathan reminds himself every day how fortunate he is to have shared the best and worst of the last thirty-three years with the man of his dreams. He loves hearing from readers, so please feel free to contact him.

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Taomi
is Love in a seventy-year-old body. She lives happily with her two cats on a trail near a peaceful river, making music, singing, painting, and dancing in the moonlight.

by Jackie Keswick

The fog hadn't thinned all day. Pearls of moisture clung thickly to every surface and wavering tendrils snaked between bare branches and around buildings, blurring edges and muffling sounds.

Backpack dragging heavy on his narrow shoulders, Jack hunched over the lock to the basement door. His breath steamed the air in front of his face until the condensing moisture burned like hot acid on his chilled skin. His fingers were so stiff with cold he knew he wouldn't be able to feel the wards give way. So he leaned close to the lock and strained to listen as he worked the skeleton key, grateful that the mid-afternoon traffic was light and its roar muted in the back garden of the Victorian terrace house.

When it finally came, the tiny snick was barely audible.

Jack held his breath and turned the doorknob. It moved easily, belying the long minutes of delicate picking it had taken to unlock the door.

Jack wasn't a natural with a lock pick, not like some of the older boys who could open doors in less time than it took Jack to draw a breath. Nor had he ever tried to open anything more complicated than a padlock or a car door. That he was even making the attempt to break into this particular house had as much to do with the colour of the front door – bright red – as the beautiful car parked in the driveway. 69, Walgreen Road differed from the other houses in the street. In a world of soot-stained brick and black and white trim it had colour. It also had a vibe that drew Jack, enticed him enough to throw caution to the wind and try to sneak inside.

He'd not dared breathe a word of his plan to anyone, convinced that admitting his intention would somehow jinx the outcome. Especially since Jack wasn't after money or jewellery. He wasn't after easily moved electronics he could sell. Not here, not today.

Jack needed a safe place to stay. A space that would shelter him from the cold and damp of an English winter. A space that wasn't prone to erupt into violence as easily as he drew breath. Boys his age were easy prey on the streets and Jack hadn't escaped the pimp to fall into someone else's clutches. He tightly clasped the knife that was his solace. The straight, broad blade had helped him escape and had kept other men away. Finding a safe place for himself would do the rest.

The latch shifted under his fingers and Jack carefully pushed the door open. Nothing moved. He listened, trying to hear past the rapid thump of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears. After a long moment or two, he flipped the light switch beside the door with shaking fingers and stepped into the basement.

Warmth and silence wrapped him up like a cocoon. The traffic noise receded to a bare hum as he closed the door and the house breathed quietly around him, safe and solid and a hundred years old. Bare brick walls met with a smooth, dry concrete floor. A rack beside the door held a pair of drab green Wellington boots along with a few gardening tools and a broom.

The coat hooks on the wall above were as empty as the rest of the room.

The air held just a hint of damp cellar smell, but Jack cared as little about that as he cared about the lack of furniture or a carpet. The soft silence in the small space was as welcome as a touch of spring sunshine after a long cold winter. Nothing moved, nobody shouted or threatened, the room was dry... and warmer than anywhere else he'd slept for a while.

The door to the rest of the house was closed but not locked. Jack pushed it open cautiously, expecting stairs. Instead he found another small room with a large freezer beside yet another door, a central heating boiler and a low sink with a tap.

Running water.

Jack turned the tap one way and water flowed, droplets hitting the sink in a tinkling shower of tiny sparkles. He turned the lever back other way to stop the soft noise and glittering stream, and silence settled over the basement once more.

A deep, shuddering breath tore from Jack's throat as he stood in the empty space. Tears clogged this throat and burned his eyes until he swallowed them down, not ready to let them escape. He surveyed the small room; decided where to sleep and plotted the fastest way out the door if he had to make a run for it, all the while marvelling at the perfection he'd found for himself. When he spotted the extra key on the hook beside the door, he finally let go of his tight control. He shed his backpack and curled up in his chosen corner, back to the wall and knees tight to his chest. For the next two hours he simply sat, breathing in the silence until he'd made himself believe that – for the first time since his escape – he was safe.

"THAT'S not the way to hold a knife."

Jack huddled deeper into his parka. It was at least one size too large, the cuffs ending well past his fingertips, but Jack didn't mind. The olive-green coat was brand new and smelled better than anything else he possessed, like fresh air and chocolate. It sported a fur lining and a hood, and it had taken ingenuity and a not inconsiderable amount of butterflies to acquire. Most of all, the coat was warm and Jack snuggled into its folds as if he could disappear.

Back tight against the wall, he squinted through his ragged fringe to make sure the dark-skinned, dreadlocked man who owned the house wasn't coming any closer.

The man talked, but at least he had the sense to stay back far enough that Jack couldn't catch his smell. Almost as if he knew that the smallest wave of scent would send Jack running. More than insults, pain and rough hands on his body, Jack hated the smell of sweat and booze and stale aftershave. The scents used to cling to him so he'd catch a whiff at odd times, as if he had needed reminding how trapped he was. Even now, a hint of it would send his heart racing and his mind spinning in panic.

Jack was glad he couldn't smell this man. He liked the small safe space he'd found. It was clean, dry and a much-needed shelter from the November cold. It was also his alone and he guarded its location like the charm it was, taking long detours around Clapham's backstreets and alleyways, checking constantly that none of the other street kids were following him. Growing up with an addict mother who'd do almost anything to pay for her next hit, Jack had never found solace in company. There hadn't been any kids his age in the block of flats where his mother lived, and the further he stayed from the men his mother brought home, the safer he was.

"You listenin' to me, kid?"

The man's voice and a hint of movement drew Jack from his abstraction. The Jamaican had settled himself cross-legged on the bare concrete in the middle of the room, elbows leaning on his knees and chin resting on his hands while he surveyed Jack and the tight hold he had on the handle of his knife.

"That's no' the way to hold a knife," he said again. "No' if you want to use it to defend yoursel'.

The man's name was Rio. He'd introduced himself that night three weeks ago when he'd come downstairs to his basement and had come face to face with Jack. He'd told Jack his name then, explained that he was Jamaican, and promised Jack that he wouldn't throw him out.

It made no sense that Rio didn't mind Jack squatting in his house. People always minded. They yelled and threatened. They called the police or social services. Jack hadn't believed that Rio could be any different. He'd sat up all night listening for sirens and the doorbell before making sure he was gone before the man woke the next morning.

When he snuck back in, very late that night, he found an air mattress and a sleeping bag where he'd previously spread his blanket. The man – Jamaican,
Rio
– didn't bother Jack, but he came down to the basement now and then. He talked, brought food and even left books for Jack.

The books were nice, something beyond survival to occupy Jack's mind.

And the food was heaven. There was usually bread and ham or cheese, and apples, and soup kept hot in a deep green thermos flask. One afternoon, Rio had brought hot chocolate, so sweet it had burnt Jack's throat.

Having food made Jack's life easier. Food always came first. If he didn't have to steal food, he could spend his time acquiring other necessities. Like his parka. Or the boots he had his eye on. And maybe even another knife.

Jack pictured the knife he'd seen, the blade narrower than the one he currently held, and with a grip that was wrapped in dark brown leather. He didn't want to believe a word the man,
Rio
, said, but maybe he knew what he was talking about. What if Jack wasn't holding the knife right? What if...?

"How do you know?" he asked suspiciously.

Rio shrugged his broad shoulders. "I fight when I need to."

"With a knife?"

The dreadlocks swung a little with the man's nod and the fluorescent light added odd glints to the long strands. "You wan' me to show you how?"

Jack considered the offer. Having a knife was an advantage. Just showing that he carried a knife had gotten him out of a tight situation the other day. Maybe being able to use it right...

"You stay back there," he said, getting to his feet and pushing his too long sleeves back and his hair out of his eyes. "You can show me from there, right?"

The next two weeks sped by. Getting the knife stuff right wasn't easy, but Jack had an empty room to practise in, without anyone knowing what he did. Rio even brought a mirror – on a roll! – and fixed it to the wall. He drew chalk marks on the concrete floor to guide Jack's steps and came down occasionally to watch Jack work. For the most part, though, he stayed away and Jack was glad about that. He'd cut himself more than once and really didn't need an audience for his ineptitude and clumsiness.

When Rio left on a business trip, he stuck a note on the door for Jack to help himself to the food in the freezer. For a couple of days, Jack did nothing of the sort, too suspicious to believe that anyone would offer him food without Jack having to ask, but on a cold, rainy afternoon when he could do little more than huddle into his sleeping bag and shiver he went to investigate. The small room beside the one he'd made his didn't just hold a freezer filled to the brim with food. While Jack was out, Rio had added a small table, a microwave and a kettle along with a couple of plates, mugs and cutlery.

Jack had to scrub away some traitor tears before he could make sense of the instructions Rio had taped to the front of the microwave. It seemed too much and he wasn't used to having things easy. But he pulled himself together and dined on beef stew and dumplings that night. The dish was hot against his palms and a spot of welcome warmth against his jeans-clad thighs. The rich, thick stew reminded him of the long-ago time when he'd gone to school. And even though it felt somehow illicit, he followed Rio's written instructions to make himself a large mug of hot chocolate before he curled up and went to sleep.

The weather was even worse the next day.

For once, Jack didn't feel the need to go out to find food or try to earn money. He was content to stay in his basement and practise his knife work.

Rio came back a week later. Jack heard the front door bang shut and the stairs creak under Rio's tread. The steps went up the stairs at first, to where Jack surmised Rio's bedroom and bathroom were, but Jack didn't have long to wait before Rio's steps clunked down the stairs and neared his hideout.

The big Jamaican moved as if he was hurting and even the bouncy ebony hair looked tired. Once he'd made a face at how little of the food in the freezer Jack had actually eaten, he settled himself cross-legged in the middle of the room as he always did and watched Jack with his knife. Every now and then, he called out corrections or instructions but, contrary to the first few times, he didn't get up to demonstrate each move.

Jack was inordinately proud about that and kept at it far longer than he'd ever done before.

"How about you come upstairs?" Rio asked when Jack's arms shook so badly he had to stop practising or drop the knife. "You can have a hot shower and sleep in the spare room in a real bed."

Jack recoiled. He backed up against the wall, knife tight in his fist and before him as he'd learned. Fear swamped him like a wave of heat, speeding his heart until he struggled to draw breath.

He'd known it!

One of his first
clients
had started out like this, coming night after night just to sit with Jack, doing nothing more than talk. Later... Well, Jack still had the scars of what happened later. He wasn't going to be that stupid twice.

When Rio renewed his offer, Jack tried to tune him out. The words reached him anyway: a door with a lock and its own bathroom.

Right.

Jack would just bet that the key was on the outside.

He so wasn't going there again.

It took ages for Rio to concede defeat. Even longer for the Jamaican to leave Jack's sanctuary and head back upstairs.

Once the sound of Rio's footfalls had died away, Jack slid down the wall and hugged his knees. He ignored his shaking hands and ragged breath, ignored the moisture that blurred his vision and thought. He could no longer stay in his cosy basement, but it was late in the year to find a good place to squat. He hadn't been that diligent about keeping up with the neighbourhood in the last few weeks, so he had no idea where to go. At least he had a coat and boots and a little bit of money. That had to be enough until he found another place.