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“There’s still plenty of sunlight left, son.”
Blair’s shoulders sag, and as he scratches at the back of his neck, I know that he’ll cave. He’ll stay out here well into the night to finish this for that miserable man, and all it takes is the tiniest push back.
Fuck that.
“No can do, sir,” I say, wrapping an arm around Blair’s shoulder, massaging the tense muscle. “Blair has already worked an entire shift today, then came straight over here. I promised to make him call it quits before he pushes himself too hard.”
Mr. Novak barely reacts other than a scoff, and he rolls his wheelchair dangerously close to the edge of the doorway, grazing over our work with calculating eyes.
“Back in my day, an honest day’s work started with the sun and ended at dusk unless you were on night crew.”
“No offense, sir, but Blair isn’t in a laborer’s position. He’s a student with a job, doing his father a favor.”
That gets me a narrow eyed look, and I’m suddenly glad he can’t wheel right out because I do not want to have to defend myself from a man with one leg. That feels like a lose-lose situation.
“I raised and provided for this fag for eighteen years. I’ve paid my dues, and it’s time he pays his.”
I’ve put up with my share of queerphobic assholes, but that doesn’t stop the coil of anger in my gut that makes me clench my fists and tighten my hold on Blair when he tries to duck away.
“Don’t call him that, sir.”
Mr. Novak looks down at us, and I notice the shake in Blair’s shoulders, the way he’s drawn in on himself, pressed into my side and resigned himself to being a spectator.
Strong, fearless Blair looks like he’d dig his own grave and bury himself in it if his dad demanded.
“Guess when boys are as close as those two, it was bound to happen.” The man sighs and leans back in his chair, steely eyes glaring down like we’re some kind of scum. “A little surprised they’re sharing, though.”
That’s when Blair jerks, and I let him go as he wraps his arm around himself and forces himself to stand straighter.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
His dad picks up a bottle squished between him and the ass of his wheelchair, pops the top off using the doorframe, and takes a long, slow drink.
“I’m saying you and your brother have your hands in the same cookie jar.”
The way he speaks to Blair but stares straight at me leaves absolutely no room for confusion on what—or who—the cookie jar is in this analogy.
How many people think Shiloh and I have been fucking?
“I always thought it was a good call in his case. Atlas has a good head on his shoulders. Means your brother hasn’t forgotten his more... feminine urges.”
I’m a fairly calm guy. Work things out with words rather than fists. But that right there is my line.
“If Shiloh and I were together,” I say, arms crossed and stance wide, fighting back the urge to deck the crippled old man. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that. If Shiloh is into men at all, it has nothing to do with no goddamn X chromosomes.”
“Don’t lie to me. You’ve been fucking my daughter—” Mr. Novak stops when Blair slams a hand to one of the support legs. “—my son since you were both old enough to know what sex is. I walked in enough times on the two of you tangled in his bed to think otherwise. And I’ve got windows, boys. I’m not fuckin’ senile.”
It’s definitely not out of the realm of possibility, but my tongue is too heavy with all the curses I’m holding back to say anything.
“We’re leaving,” I say, holding out a hand to Blair and praying that he takes it. This man is nothing but petty and toxic, and there’s no reason for us to stay here arguing with his wrong assumptions and backward thoughts.
Blair hesitates, but only long enough to throw a look over his shoulder, and his hesitation melts away instantly when our eyes meet. He nods and laces his fingers with mine, and I give them a reassuring squeeze.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, though I have thoughts about standing the bastard up because neither Blair nor I need any of his bullshit.
A harsh sound comes out of his throat, but we pay it no mind as we head back to the truck, not even bothering to clean up any of our mess. Maybe tomorrow will be the day the city decides to pay his decrepit ass a visit.
Glass shatters behind us and Blair rips from my hold with a loud hiss and a dozen muttered curses. It takes a minute for my brain to catch up, to register Mr. Novak’s barked laugh and the pain twisted on Blair’s face. I grab his arm and spot the prickles of blood and little shards sticking out of the skin on his back.
