Forever Broken

“Hey buddy.”

The harsh masculine voice interrupted his desperate thoughts and Laurent forced himself to sit up and look at whoever was addressing him. “Yes?” he managed to croak. “Yeah, you better look at me while I’m talkin’ to you.” It was one of the young men from the other end of the diner. From the way his friends were snickering behind him, he wasn’t simply interested in passing the time of day.

Laurent was too depleted to be diplomatic. “What do you want?”

“What I want is not to have to see two fags sitting up in my favorite restaurant.”

The young man, who was wearing a black t-shirt that read “Pussy Patrol” in neon blue lettering, glared menacingly.

Laurent frowned, feeling a measure of his strength return out of sheer anger.

“Excuse me? You wish my traveling companion and myself to leave this establishment because you believe us to be lovers?”

“I saw the way you had your arms around each other comin’ in here.” The man spat to one side to indicate his disgust. “We don’t care for your kind around these parts.”

For a moment all Laurent could do was stare. Was this man seriously asking him to leave because Paul had helped him into the restaurant? No wonder Paul was so concerned about any kind of touching between them—even nonsexual touching—if such a caring gesture was so easily misinterpreted. What was wrong with the people in this country anyway? I should bespell him—make him offer his wrist. Even a small sip of his blood would be better than nothing.

Lauren looked up, trying to catch the other man’s eyes. “Look at me,” he murmured. “And let me look into you.”

“What?” The man with the “Pussy Patrol” T-shirt made a face. “What the fuck— You coming on to me or something?”

“Just look at me,” Lauren insisted but he couldn’t catch the man’s eyes. His powers of persuasion, so devastatingly powerful during the night, were severely diminished by the sun overhead.

“What’s going on, Ray?” One of the other men came over, frowning. “Pretty boy here giving you some trouble about leaving?”

“Fucker’s trying to put the moves on me.” The first man leaned forward threateningly, pushing his face close to Laurent’s. “But I told him I’m not interested.”

“Maybe we oughtta teach him a lesson.” The second man grabbed Laurent by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “A trip across the hot concrete might set him right.”

Laurent could feel everything spinning out of control. He was in worse trouble now than he had been the night at the park when he’d been surrounded by Paul’s pack. And he was being menaced by mere humans—beings he was capable of swatting like flies once the sun was down. But mere humans or not, if they threw him out of the restaurant and into the direct sunlight he would surely die. Born to the Blood or not, there was only so much his body could take and he was already weak with thirst.

“Please,” he tried to say but they were already hauling him out of the booth and dragging him toward the door. Outside the sun was dazzling, reflecting starbursts of pure, painful radiance off the chrome of several motorcycles parked in front of the diner. He tried to struggle but it was no use—his strength was gone. I’m going to die now, he thought, feeling bewildered. Die having never really bonded my Coeur de Sang to me.

Die without ever telling him I love him or hearing him say that he loves me. Of course he could probably live a thousand more years without hearing Paul utter those words considering how the were felt but still— “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The familiar voice snapped Laurent out of his rambling thoughts and he looked up to see Paul standing in front of the swinging glass door, blocking it.

“Look, Ray, it’s the other fag,” sneered the man who’d grabbed Laurent to begin with.

Paul stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“We saw the way you two lovebirds were leaning all over each other when you came in here,” snarled the first man. “And now we’ll be helping you out the door. I don’t need to sit here trying to eat my lunch and watch two homos kissing all over each other.”

“Yeah, ruins my appetite.” The second man shook Laurent roughly. “He’s going out and I suggest you follow him unless you want the shit to hit the fan.”

“The shit hit the fan the minute you put your hands on my…on Laurent.” Paul’s voice was a low growl and his eyes were suddenly wolf gold. He took a menacing step forward. “Let him go now or I’m gonna fuck up your shit so bad you’ll crawl out of here on broken legs.”

Ray, the man in the “Pussy Patrol” shirt, lifted his chin defiantly. “Yeah, motherfucker? I’d like to see you try.”