#scenebreak
She had no fucking gratitude. Five grand was nearly Twist’s entire savings. She should’ve accepted his apology. And she planned to spend his money on Fox?
No. That was too far. That was not going to happen.
He knocked on the linebacker’s door.
Gunner answered the door himself. “Yeah?”
“Guess who’s going to see a movie with her new boyfriend.”
The huge guy looked down and shook his head. “The same day? The same fucking day?” He joined Twist on the porch and closed the door.
“Yeah, and they were laughing about Corey, how he was over at Fox’s crying his eyes out.”
“That bitch.”
Twist offered the beer Magoo had spiked with magic. “The weirdest thing is, I saw Corey over there this morning, in the garage. . . dancing salsa with Fox.” Twist’s heart pounded. He had to take the bottle!
“The hell you say?”
“How messed up is that?”
The linebacker took the beer. “That pretty boy needs to go down.” He gestured to a bench with the bottle. “What the fuck did you see?” He drank.
Twist sat with him and sipped his own beer. It tasted normal, but Magoo promised that the bottles were linked, that Twist could control Gunner.
twelve
The movie was a sensational idea: a superhero flick with lots of explosions. Watching things blow up in movies? Stellar, especially to avoid thinking and feeling anything about reality. So, superhero movie: check.
We sat near the back and held hands, sharing a popcorn and soda, just like a real date. I’d never had many of those. Monika and I spent nearly all of our time together practicing. We rarely had “dates.” In hindsight, that seemed odd. So, holding hands in the dark: check.
Everything was amazing and perfect until halfway through the movie. The doors opened with a bang and a group of guys, all wearing letter jackets, stumbled into the theater. I smelled alcohol.
“Oh shit,” Tango muttered and scooched down into the seat. “Corey’s buddies from the team.”
Joy. Corey wasn’t with them. Was that a good thing or bad?
Maybe they’d go down front and not notice us.
Nope. When one of them spotted us, they elbowed each other and muttered and snickered like freaking eighth graders. They took the seats just two down from ours and kept up the noise, ejecting an elderly couple so they could have the entire row. No one seemed likely to tell them to cool it.
Every once in a while, one of them would mutter, “Fag Trot,” or “Slut,” and cover it with a cough, which must have equaled the full extent of their comic repertoire since they laughed and fist-bumped the cougher each time as if he were Jeff Dunham.
“They must have heard I broke up with Corey,” Tango whispered. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“You know,” I said, “maybe, but as far as those guys know, you broke up with him for screwing Monika. None of them knows what really went down.”
“Be that as it may,” she whispered. “I don’t think explaining the details when they’re drunk will help our cause.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” I lied.
Their coughing fit graduated to “fucking slut,” and that was all I could take. Tango grabbed my arm before I rose more than an inch out of my seat.
“The chivalry is appreciated,” she said, “but I can take these assholes myself.”
“Whoa there!” I held her arm tight when she tried to jump up. “Maybe we should just leave.”
Her arm shook. “No. We paid our money. We should get to enjoy the movie.”
I did not enjoy the movie, but leaving might have been a bad idea, anyway. They may have followed us out if they saw they’d rattled us.
As soon as the credits rolled, they hopped up and filed past, every single one of them staring at me with drunken hatred. “You’re dead,” more than one of them muttered. “Dead meat.”
“Okay,” Tango whispered. “Please tell me you’re at least a little bit scared, now.”
“I am,” I admitted. “Should we call someone?”
She shook her head. “If a posse of dancers meets us outside, it’s guaranteed to explode and, other than Juicy, we’re a bunch of pussies compared to those goons.” She grabbed my hand and rose. “Tell you what, they have a Pump it Up in the arcade. We can kill time. They’ll get bored and leave.”
“Pump it up?” I asked as we crept out of the theater and into the lobby. No goons, so that was good at least.
She stopped and stared at me as if I were broken. “You’ve never played Pump it Up?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a dance game.” She hauled me into the arcade. “How can any dancer not know how to play Pump it Up?”
Maybe because arcade dance games were lame and boring?
“You’ll love it.”
I didn’t. But we did kill almost an hour, an hour of my life I will never get back, but Tango enjoyed the game so much her enthusiasm was infectious. I forgot to be nervous about the football team. By the time we left the theater, I was certain they’d have gone home bored.
Tango took my arm with both hands as we walked out to her mom’s car. “I so would have beaten you that last game if you hadn’t—”
“Hey, Fag Trot.”
Four of them appeared from behind a Ford Super Duty pickup with a camper top.
My whole body went cold. I mean, sure I was a boxer, but there were four of these guys and what about Tango? What the hell might they do to her once I was unconscious or dead? I pushed her behind me, and strangely enough, she let me. That’s how much they scared her.
A bottle hit the ground and shattered behind us. We spun.
Four more sauntered toward us from that side.
Fuck. “If you get an opening,” I muttered, “make a fucking run for it.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You know what these bastards will do to you once I’m out of the way,” I hissed. “Promise me.”
“I’m dialing 911,” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “So you better—”
It’s like that was their signal. Two guys grabbed her and ripped her purse out of her hands before she even reached her cell.
For once in my life I couldn’t find a single smartass thing to say. All that witty banter in movie fight scenes is bullshit. The only thing I could think as I jumped one of the guys who’d grabbed Tango was, “Please don’t let us die. Please don’t let us die.”
I punched the guy and he released Tango, but two more goons grabbed her and threw her into the back of the pickup. “No!” I screamed. “No!” If they trapped her in there, they could do anything.
A huge fucking guy threw me against the pickup. A fist hit my head at least six times, then the blacktop flew up and smashed me in the face. I sprawled on the ground while the Earth spun.
“He’s a pussy dancer,” someone laughed. “This’ll be easy.”
“Bro, his dad fucking killed someone with his bare hands.”
“No shit?” Dark laughter. “Better not take any chances then.”
A foot landed in my side, forcing all the air out of my lungs.
I struggled to look up, to see Tango. She shouted bloody murder, and the only consolation was that her screams were filled with anger, not. . . not what they’d sound like. . . if. . .
Heavy weights held my arms and legs. Through a blood red haze, I spotted Tango at last. She smashed the rear window of the camper top, and a couple of guys hauled her out and held her against the pickup. She kicked one guy solidly in the balls.
Nice.
That’s the last thing I remember.