Elephant shoe, p.30
Elephant Shoe, page 30
“You filthy fuckers!”
Gary’s voice thunders venom through my veins.
Tate must feel me tense – my mouth stilling; my fingers clamping to stab nails into his thigh – but I don’t let him break away.
Screw it, screw everything. This is my moment to step up, to act for me and me alone. And I’m goddamned taking it.
Winding my free hand around his neck, I secure him to me. I tease his lips with my tongue. He willingly lets me in and I deepen our kiss, giving him exactly what he deserves of me.
It’s exhilarating. I feel powerful!
A chair screeches over the floor. “Knock it the fuck out before I knock you the fuck out!”
Closer, another chair squeals. “Just try it, Tinwell!” Adele blasts, “I’d love to crush any chance of you reproducing.”
“Shut up, you miserable bitch. As if you could.”
“I feel sick,” I barely hear Lyndsay announce above the sounds of more chairs on the move. One topples to the floor with a crash.
Violently swatting back my flight instinct, I wrench my own chair in closer to Tate’s, my hand venturing that bit further up his thigh, up to about where I know he has Deadpool’s mask drawn on his jeans. I focus on his accelerated heartbeat, perfectly in synch with my own.
“Uh, guys,” Callum pipes up, his voice shaky. “Maybe you should…”
“Stop!”
Tate yanks himself free, gasping in a lung’s fill of air as his leg lurches away from me.
“Stop,” Adele repeats, and my eyes fly open to find her hand gripping Tate’s shoulder. His head twisted around to her, his profile displays a wild, disorientated confusion. Letting him go now she has his attention, she flaps her hand out at the room around us, “this is about to get real messy.”
“What…?” Tate glances at me, frowning, before he turns to take in her meaning. My gaze follows.
“Hey, no, please, don’t stop on our account,” Derek calls out, catching my eye. There’s a strain to the grin that accompanies his words, but then, it’s clear he is exerting a great deal of energy into holding Gary in place. Squared up, he has one hand pressed firmly to Gary’s chest, blocking the beast from an attack on us he looks all too eager for. His chair is on its side next to him. “Congrats on working it out,” he adds with a wink. “The two of you look great together.”
Gary shoves his bulk into Derek, sneering. “Get your faggot-loving hands off me!”
“Yeah, cos it’s contagious,” Derek retaliates with a sneer of his own, pushing back on him and catching up a fistful of his shirt. “And I truly am a massive faggot-lover. Especially when one has their mouth wrapped around my dick.”
“Shit, Mikey.” The flat tone in which Tate utters my name pulls me back to him.
Adele has her hand on his arm, running her eyes over him. “Okay?” She mouths.
He nods. But his face contradicts him.
He looks kinda sick; peaky. And… Angry? Scared?
I used to have a far easier time reading him. He’s learned to hide so much.
Leaning in, I press my lips firmly to his shoulder. So tense. It’s a notable age before he reciprocates, his kiss to my forehead featherlight.
I straighten. “We could…”
“Oi, oi! None of that!” My peripheral snags on the barman’s hasty step out from behind the bar at the same moment the distinct sounds of a scuffle hit me.
With Derek’s wrist in a vice-grip, Gary’s bearing in on him. “If only you’d had the sense to get out of my face,” he taunts, his other hand raised in a fist.
“Drama,” Tate breathes out on a sigh. And then, louder: “It shouldn’t be this fucking hard!”
He won’t look at me now. I catch Adele’s eye and our perplexed expressions are a match.
“I’ve already given out one black eye to a queer this week, but I’m real okay with giv…GYNNAaah!”
I miss how it happens. But somehow, suddenly, Derek’s behind Gary, and Gary’s arm is being savagely twisted up around his back.
Someone at my table gasps. Perhaps me.
“Pervert,” Wayne spits, surging to his feet. He does no more than stand there and posture, though, when Ben fails to act on his signal. Ben’s gaping, apparently dumbfounded by the power switch.
Lyndsay… uh, Lyndsay appears to have gone. Where? When?
The barman hovers at the edge of the bar, ready to intervene should it be necessary. “Chill time, yeah?”
“Sit. Down.” Derek growls close to an ear as he presses in, wrenching the arm up further. I can’t help my lips kicking up in satisfaction as Gary’s bent almost double, twitching like a shored fish. About time he met his match. “Now.”
Finally, knees buckling, he staggers back under Derek’s coercive guidance to drop down into the chair behind him.
Looking every bit as smug as he should, Derek releases Gary’s arm and then gives his cheek three sharp slaps while crooning, “Good. Little. Homophobe.”
No sooner has he taken a step away, however, the beast rises back to his feet.
“Any more trouble and you’re out!”
“Relax.” Gary flashes the barman a wide and far-from-reassuring grin, circling his wrist through the air and flexing his shoulders. “I’m so done with this shit. Going for a smoke.”
Crossing the pub for the doors, his swagger is as cocky as it ever is – like he hasn’t just taken a major beating to his pride – and that unnerves me.
38
Trigger Warning
“You!” The grin Derek sends my way kick-starts a nervous fluttering in my gut. A justifiable reaction, it turns out. “You just create chaos wherever you go, eh?” He chuckles. Pulling out a chair at the table beside ours, he copies Callum in straddling it so he’s facing us. His finger then waggles between me and Tate, “nice bit of PDA there, though, boys. Awesome.”
My face heats. “Uh, thanks?”
He shoves my shoulder.
Tate’s eyes are grazing over Derek’s colourfully inked sleeve, all the way up, pausing to inspect the skull at his collar before skipping to his amused face.
“Looks of an angel, your boyfriend has,” Derek continues to poke fun, speaking to Tate. Even as I will him to stop and turn his focus elsewhere, his use of ‘boyfriend’, said for the first time in a none derisive way, has my heart thrumming. “Most deceiving. Those big browns of his hide a devilish spirit.”
Tate’s hesitation before he flashes a small, lopsided smile, however, makes fast work of dulling that. I study him as he shifts in his seat and takes a drink, his face upholding the half-smile while Derek’s playful teasing runs on. I take in the slight furrow to his brow, and the tightness of his grip on his glass. He darts me a glance when Derek says my name, and – Oh. It finally clicks: Derek’s talking fast. He’s not following. That ends the thrum completely.
I slip my hand into the narrow gap between his chairback and him, flattening it on the small of his back. He leans into it and his smile ticks up, just a little.
“I jest, obviously,” Derek says, giving my shoulder another shove. “But, hey, bet he does keep life interesting, eh, Mac?”
“Tate,” My correction slips out automatically. I wince when Derek inclines his head in apologetic acknowledgement. But, see, no one ever called him Mac before I left. Mac’s the name of a stranger; a hostile stranger, mocked and ignored. And that name needs snuffing out, not spreading. Damnit, Lyndsay!
Thinking of whom…
“Interesting?” Adele snorts, replying in Tate’s stead (because of course she figured him out before me). “Okay. Sure.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“’Scuse me.” Moving free of my hand, Tate pushes his chair out from the table to stand. I track him up, questioning, and then make a move to stand, too. He puts his hand on my arm, halting me. “We’re not girls, Mikey. I don’t need a bathroom buddy.”
Derek’s set off laughing again. Adele joins him.
“Lyndsay left already?” The question bouncing on the tip of my tongue is stolen and voiced by Callum. I blink away from my watch of Tate’s journey toward the toilets, returning attention to the table. “I didn’t see her go.”
Shaking his head in reply, Derek points his finger after Tate. “Actually, damn, I should have asked your boy to check on her.” He scrunches up his nose and bites into his bottom lip, turning to the only girl at the table. “She’s taking her sweet time. Would you mind?”
Adele heaves out a sigh, like she’s been mightily put-upon.
“She’ll be puking.” Callum finishes off his Budweiser, slamming the empty bottle down on the table. “And fingers crossed she manages to purge all the stupid from her system.”
So much for being through with her, eh?
“Yup,” Derek nods his agreement, instantly sobering. “I’ve never, ever considered slapping the girl, until tonight. He’s a nasty piece of work, that one.”
With a heavy sigh, Callum then pushes to his feet and moves to collect his jacket from the corner of the stage. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Where you going?” Adele asks, watching him zip up.
“Home.” He leaves the ‘Duh!’ hanging in the air unsaid but does roll his eyes as he shoves his hands in his pockets. Moves himself up in my estimations, right there. He nods his farewell to each of us in turn, “catch yas in school tomorrow. And great gig once again, Derek.”
“Aim to please. Thanks for coming.”
As he skirts by our table, Adele springs up.
“Just checking she’s not dead, yeah?” She asks Derek. “Cos I’m totally not okay with holding her hair out her face and stroking her back.”
Derek studies her a moment, entertained, his brows high. “Let me know she’s still breathing and conscious, that’s all I ask.”
“Right you are,” she salutes. Then, falling in beside Callum, she says, “you’ve been friend-zoned for way too long to ever get out of it, surely you get that, right?”
Callum’s retort sounds more like a legitimate apology, “I’m sorry, I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Hey, no need to be sorry. You absolutely never did. But you’re getting it anyway, you lucky thing,” Adele’s badgering continues as they weave together around the empty tables. “Gotta quit being her doormat, Cal. It’s making you miserable. And to the rest of us, you come off as pathetic.”
One hand reaching out for the door, he pauses and turns to her. “You’re one helluva bitch,” he says, grabbing and yanking the handle. I catch myself nodding. Derek snickers.
“Why, thank you!” A smirk stretches her mouth as he whirls his back to her and steps outside. She calls after him, “I do try.”
The door has barely closed behind Callum, however, Adele only two strides further forward, when an ear-splitting scream has us all on the ceiling.
Across the far side of the pub, the door through to the toilets swings wide, crashing off the wall behind it. Gary hurtles out.
“Lyndsay?!” Derek bolts into action first. “If you’ve fucking hurt her, Tinwell… Shit! Lyndsay?”
Then Adele.
I’m half a beat behind.
“Gaz?” Wayne shouts. He and Ben hastily stand, chairs skidding back. “Oi!”
Gary doesn’t react, not a flicker for any of us. There’s something disturbingly vacant about his face. One hand cradling his other against his chest, his eyes lock in on the exit and he charges for it.
His move from the doorway reveals Lyndsay behind. She’s supporting herself on the corridor wall, her chest heaving as she staggers forward. “He tried… I couldn’t…” She gasps. “OhGodohGodohGod.”
With a bestial growl, Derek makes a sharp change of course, vaulting over a table to intercept Gary. “I will fucking end you!”
“Mikey.” Steadying herself in the doorframe, Lyndsay finally gets a fix on me as I swerve around the table Derek’s just cleared. I take in the tears streaking her cheeks. And then the blood staining the sleeve of her powder-blue shirt as she gestures frantically into the corridor at her back. “Help, Mikey…Please. It’s Mac.”
“Tate?” My chest begins ticking fast toward explosion. “Tate!”
Every damn chair impedes my terror-driven dash. Blocking. Bruising. Tripping. Doesn’t help that the ground won’t stay firm beneath my feet.
Adele reaches Lyndsay first. “Breathe. Let me past.” How can she be so freaking calm?!
My leg sends another chair toppling. I’m a lot further than half a beat behind now.
“Mac tried to help,” Lyndsay gushes, working hard to make herself coherent. “But – it all happened so fast – he got slammed off the wall, then he – something’s very wrong with him – and Tinwell wouldn’t…”
“MOVE!” Adele orders, dropping every last shred of patience. Grabbing her shoulders, she shoves Lyndsay from the doorway and storms past.
I see Derek lunge as Gary veers last minute to avoid his attack.
I hear him call out to the barman, “Joe! Get him out of here! Tweedledum and Tweedledee over there, too. The three of them, they’re now barred, right?”
And then I’m pitching into the corridor behind her.
“Tinwell blocked me in the toilets. Said it was time I repaid him. For – for all the drinks he’d got me,” Lyndsay picks up her garbled explanation at my back, her every breath pulled up in a sob. “I tried to get past him. He grabbed me. Dragged me back, and I hurt my arm – it was the lock, I think. I don’t know. Then Mac’s suddenly there. What might’ve happened if – oh God!”
My gaze barely touches on a hunkered Adele before dropping to the figure at her feet, prone across the doorway to the ‘Ladies’.
“Oh God, Mikey, what’s wrong with him? I told him to get help. To just get help. I didn’t…”
I stop listening to her.
“Stay back!” Adele warns as I launch myself for Tate. “Just give him space. He’s going to be alright.”
He sure as hell ain’t looking like he’ll be alright.
Unconscious. Body jerking. Skin ashen. Breathing laboured.
It’s terrifying.
Nothing about this scene is alright. And Adele’s face is doing nothing to reassure me.
What if it’s another status-elep-whatever? He’s been out too long already. And Tinwell slammed him into the wall, that’s what Lyndsay said, she said he was slammed against the wall. He could have hit his head – off the wall; off the floor. It’s been a lifetime since her scream. Is anyone timing this? My mind’s whirling. How come Saunders gets to be beside him, but I can’t?
“Shit, whoa!” Derek startles me, grabbing me from behind, holding me up before I can drop to my knees at Tate’s side. “Epileptic?” He asks softly into my ear.
I don’t know if I nod or not. But I’m mighty aware of the painful sound lacerating my throat as he hauls me back against him.
“This is my fault. This is all my fault,” Lyndsay whimpers, “I’m sorry, Mac. Mikey, I’m so sorry. He only tried to help.”
“ALSTON! WEBB!” Adele’s dark eyes pierce me, and then Lyndsay. “Couple of minutes – tops – and he’ll be out of it, okay? Get a grip!”
“Just let me go,” I plead.
Derek doesn’t let me go.
“Take it easy, Mikey. There’s nothing you can do right now, just let him be,” he attempts to soothe, securing his thick arms around my waist. “Lyndsay, angel, hush. Take a breath.”
Neither of us take the advice. Until, at the count of 32, the spasms wracking Tate’s body stop. He groans and his eyes flutter.
Wordlessly, Adele arranges herself cross-legged on the floor and eases Tate’s head into her lap. His breathing’s steadied, and, already, colour’s returning to his face.
“Ah, see,” I hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “He’s back.”
Lyndsay’s babbling ceases with one last sob.
Relief torpedoes me into hysterics.
“Drink,” Derek orders, nudging my rum and coke toward me. “Now.”
We’ve returned to the table; a forlorn trio. Derek’s sat across from me in Adele’s former chair. Beside him, in Callum’s, is Lyndsay. ‘Last orders’ has been called, and aside from Barman Joe, we’re the only ones left in the place.
“Go home, Mikey,” Tate’d said. But they won’t let me. They’re worried home wouldn’t be the place I’d go. And they’d be right. So, they’re keeping me here, minding me. I suspect I’ll be here ‘til we’re kicked out, and then Derek will insist on escorting me home.
Lyndsay’s recounted the whole awful string of events leading up to Tate’s seizure. Several times. Until Derek felt enough reassured that Gary was interrupted before anything happened that could only be avenged with murder, and Lyndsay fully absorbed just how close to a bullet she’d put herself tonight. He’s successfully calmed her down now. She’s sipping her water, sobering up, and acting almost herself again.
But not me. Nope. I’m not even close. Any second now, I could explode into a million jagged shards.
Derek’s not giving up, though. “My music teacher in college, Teddy, he was very open about his epilepsy – would talk about it with anyone who’d listen. Still, the first time he had a seizure in class – scary as shit. Most the class panicked, much like you did, me included. It’s okay. Understandable.”
I pick up my glass, roll it between my fingers for a moment, then put it back down and shove it away.
“He told us,” Derek continues, “when he comes to, he always feels disorientated and drained, needs to take a bit quiet time to regroup himself. Tate’s likely the same, right?”
I remain unresponsive to him. My gaze holds firm on the door; on the point I last had eyes on Tate as he let Adele lead him out and away from me. My hand’s splayed on the seat of his empty chair, pretending his body’s heat still warms it
“Just talk to us, Mikey,” Lyndsay implores as Derek sighs. “You’ll feel better for it, honestly.”
Rubbish.
I don’t trust myself to speak. One word is all it could take to detonate me.
Because, yeah, Tate was confused and, yeah, he did say he needed sleep; I knew to expect all that. But he was also angry. At me. And it was, without doubt, anger that moved him to leave me behind, not a wish for alone time.
