Page 116 of Something So Strong

“Where to now?” Jesse asks as I put a hundred-dollar bill on the small tray. It’s more than enough, and more tip than required, but Tanaka-San and her husband work their asses off and show the same unconditional kindness to everyone who walks through the door.

“Nothing planned,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to let my emotions show on my face because he shouldn’t have to deal with my insecurities. Especially when he did nothing wrong. So I stand, put the tray on the bar, and return to retrieve my mochi. “Let’s just walk.”

Swiveling in his chair, Jesse cocks his head just enough to look up at me. He stares and smiles, and I wish I knew what he’s trying to tell me. I wish I could read his thoughts. Know his secrets. Understand his intentions…

Down the stairs, I take a step ahead to make my way back through the narrow passageway to the main street, but Jesse reaches out to grab my hand and follows so closely behind that I can feel his chest against the back of my arm. His fingertips press into my hand and I run my tongue over the roof of my mouth—dying to taste them. It feels like a decade since I had a cigarette and my constant compulsion to suck on Jesse’s fingers is becoming an issue.

With the sun completely set, the Christmas illuminations mix with the millions of stars and flicker against the pitch black sky. The band is still playing, many more people are huddled around the stage, and the food stalls have deep lines of customers.

I know Jesse had apprehensions about being too close when we first arrived, but there’s no tension now as we lazily walk with nowhere to be and nothing to see outside of just being a part of the night.

As we continue, the crowd thins and the music of the band is replaced by the sounds of The Donegal and an upmarket cocktail bar and restaurant.

Jesse stops to look at something in a store window, and I obsess over how good we look together in our reflection… On the surface… Here, in Canada, with Jesse holding tight to a secret and no one who matters has any idea who he is. He could take me to Royal Ascot. I’d look great in a top hat and tails, but the second I opened my mouth, everyone in earshot would know I didn’t belong.

“Fags.”

I sigh with so much contempt that I growl. And I know they heard me, because, how dare they—whoever the fuck they are—force Jesse to endure this bullshit.

Being taunted in an Eastern European accent isn’t something I had on my bingo card. And had the town not been jam-packed with families, I may have just punched the prick right off the bat. But not this time. Because that’s not what acquaintances of Lord’s would do.

Squeezing the shit out of Jesse’s hand, I drop my shoulders and calmly turn around. “I’m sorry, but was that slur meant to insult me and my boyfriend?”

“You and your boyfriend can fuck off.”

“Oh, such harsh words from a guy with a Cold War haircut. Does Mother Russia know you’ve defected?”

“Don’t get smart with me, gay boy!”

With all the purpose in the world, I look to Jesse, to my other side, down at myself, then back to smugly meet the stare of a man whose voice does not match his stature. He might go to the gym and work on his muscles, but that doesn’t stop him from being five-six tops.

“Gay? Are you gay?” I point to the stranger. “Sorry, no gay boys here.”

“You queers were just holding hands—”

“I fucking knew it.” A new, much more Southern Hemisphere and nauseatingly familiar accent joins the conversation. Tyler, the same douchebag that Saxon picked a fight with last week, towers over our first antagonist.

“Nice eye,” I smirk, referring to the black eye Saxon gifted him as part of the introduction of his fist to his face.

“Why the fuck would you be with him when you had Mavis?” he questions Jesse, his Australian drawl thicker than it was at our first meeting.

“Seem’s someone is still a little too butt-sore at being rejected.” Jesse stops to snicker. “Sorry, mate. Bad pun.”

“I’m not your mate.” He takes a step forward.

Quite obviously acquainted with each other, the Eastern-Block small fry wrings his hands together and steps beside Tyler.

Both with equally infuriating expressions of utter nonchalance, Jesse and I hold firm.

Why move?

This shit doesn’t scare me.

This is only the start of their night. They aren’t really looking for a fight. The midget is far too homophobic to try anything unsavory. And Tyler is simply seeking retribution. Nothing about him screams homophobe, he’s just a big dumb alpha male who stupid girls like. And the one who was smart enough to not want him, had already been ‘claimed’ by someone he sees as less than him. Though it’s only true, physically, these types only ever see bulk and body size. Which is priceless, because he’s forgetting that all his muscles counted for naught when Saxon laid him out flat with a single punch.

“I’m so sorry to disappoint the both of you. But if you were hoping for an easy target for your ritual Saturday night gay bashing, then you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Giggles from the right pull our attention, and Jesse and I spot two girls moving from behind the men. One leans sideways against the shopfront as the other ‘whispers’ something unscrupulous and altogether scathing in her friend’s ear.

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