Read Online Robin and Ruby by K. M. Soehnlein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K. M. Soehnlein
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he look so serious?
Who is this guy reaching out his arm, resting his hand on Peter’s shoulder, halting Peter’s speech in mid-sentence, this guy Peter is suddenly leaning toward, closer, closer?
This guy who is kissing Peter on the mouth.
Robin sprints to Peter’s window. He looks down at the back of Peter’s head as he kisses this other guy. And before he knows what he’s doing, Robin is banging on the roof of the car and shouting Peter’s name. The night fills with the sudden thunder of fists on metal.
Peter breaks out of the kiss. His face is a mask of alarm shifting into recognition. “What are you doing here?” he asks and opens the door.
“What are you doing here?” Robin repeats, and when Peter stutters the beginning of some kind of explanation, Robin finds himself shoving Peter nearly back into his seat.
I’m going to hurt him, Robin thinks, as he raises his hand.
But then there’s some other force upon him, other arms, belonging to this other person, the passenger, who has run around the car and is behind him now, pulling.
Robin wriggles sideways, frees himself, and gets a look at this guy: skinny, tiny waist, bony arms. Blond hair the color of Robin’s and blue eyes much like his, too. A puffy lower lip and a soft chin. A smooth, hairless face.
Now all three of them are standing in a tense, triangular face-off. “Calm down, Robin,” Peter says. “Just calm down.”
“Ohhhh,” the kid says. “You’re Robin .”
“And who the fuck are you?”
Peter answers for him. “Douglas is, was, one of my students.”
“Hi, Douglas,” Robin says, his voice calm for a split second before he’s shouting, “What the fuck are you doing making out with my boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Douglas says.
Robin swings his arm and lunges, ready to smack this boy on the mouth, the mouth that Peter just kissed, but Douglas blocks the blow, grabs Robin’s fingers, and twists. There’s a struggle for a moment, the two of them intertwined, and then Robin turns the momentum around, getting Douglas’s arm in his grip, yanking it behind him. “Ow!” Douglas shouts.
Peter yells, “Stop it, Robin, stop it!”
With a rush of force he didn’t know he had, Robin pushes Douglas into the street. He watches as Douglas stumbles and falls to the pavement.
There’s a sudden glow of headlights, a car approaching from the end of the alley, the sound of tires on asphalt.
Peter rushes to Douglas and pulls him out of the way. The approaching car stops, blinding them with light, not the elevating light of the stage but the overpowering light of interrogation. Robin backs away, but Peter is suddenly on him, spinning him around, shoving him toward the Honda, pinning him facedown against the door. Robin smells the dry dust on the window and the mechanical odors of the engine. The will to struggle seeps away, replaced by the sensation, the vision, of lying in bed on his stomach with Peter on top of him; Peter has just finished fucking him, the heat still lingering, their bodies compacted and trembling.
Then there’s another voice shouting, “Let him go.” It’s George, silhouetted in the headlights. It was George’s Cadillac that came down the alley. “Get off him, Peter.”
“George. Hey…” Peter loosens his hold, but Robin remains against the car, depleted.
George has something in his hands, brandished like a club—it is a club, it’s The Club, the weighty, metal steering-wheel lock that everyone uses these days.
“Oh, my God,” Douglas says.
George looks over at Douglas, then back at Robin. “Are you all right?”
Robin nods.
“He’s not all right, he’s crazy,” Peter says. “You owe us an apology.”
“Us?” Robin asks.
“I’m calling the police,” says Douglas, standing behind Peter and sucking up snot, wild-eyed, defiant. He’s shaking his injured hand. Robin wants to charge at him all over again, land a powerful blow on that pure, pale skin. He feels the strength he is
Who is this guy reaching out his arm, resting his hand on Peter’s shoulder, halting Peter’s speech in mid-sentence, this guy Peter is suddenly leaning toward, closer, closer?
This guy who is kissing Peter on the mouth.
Robin sprints to Peter’s window. He looks down at the back of Peter’s head as he kisses this other guy. And before he knows what he’s doing, Robin is banging on the roof of the car and shouting Peter’s name. The night fills with the sudden thunder of fists on metal.
Peter breaks out of the kiss. His face is a mask of alarm shifting into recognition. “What are you doing here?” he asks and opens the door.
“What are you doing here?” Robin repeats, and when Peter stutters the beginning of some kind of explanation, Robin finds himself shoving Peter nearly back into his seat.
I’m going to hurt him, Robin thinks, as he raises his hand.
But then there’s some other force upon him, other arms, belonging to this other person, the passenger, who has run around the car and is behind him now, pulling.
Robin wriggles sideways, frees himself, and gets a look at this guy: skinny, tiny waist, bony arms. Blond hair the color of Robin’s and blue eyes much like his, too. A puffy lower lip and a soft chin. A smooth, hairless face.
Now all three of them are standing in a tense, triangular face-off. “Calm down, Robin,” Peter says. “Just calm down.”
“Ohhhh,” the kid says. “You’re Robin .”
“And who the fuck are you?”
Peter answers for him. “Douglas is, was, one of my students.”
“Hi, Douglas,” Robin says, his voice calm for a split second before he’s shouting, “What the fuck are you doing making out with my boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Douglas says.
Robin swings his arm and lunges, ready to smack this boy on the mouth, the mouth that Peter just kissed, but Douglas blocks the blow, grabs Robin’s fingers, and twists. There’s a struggle for a moment, the two of them intertwined, and then Robin turns the momentum around, getting Douglas’s arm in his grip, yanking it behind him. “Ow!” Douglas shouts.
Peter yells, “Stop it, Robin, stop it!”
With a rush of force he didn’t know he had, Robin pushes Douglas into the street. He watches as Douglas stumbles and falls to the pavement.
There’s a sudden glow of headlights, a car approaching from the end of the alley, the sound of tires on asphalt.
Peter rushes to Douglas and pulls him out of the way. The approaching car stops, blinding them with light, not the elevating light of the stage but the overpowering light of interrogation. Robin backs away, but Peter is suddenly on him, spinning him around, shoving him toward the Honda, pinning him facedown against the door. Robin smells the dry dust on the window and the mechanical odors of the engine. The will to struggle seeps away, replaced by the sensation, the vision, of lying in bed on his stomach with Peter on top of him; Peter has just finished fucking him, the heat still lingering, their bodies compacted and trembling.
Then there’s another voice shouting, “Let him go.” It’s George, silhouetted in the headlights. It was George’s Cadillac that came down the alley. “Get off him, Peter.”
“George. Hey…” Peter loosens his hold, but Robin remains against the car, depleted.
George has something in his hands, brandished like a club—it is a club, it’s The Club, the weighty, metal steering-wheel lock that everyone uses these days.
“Oh, my God,” Douglas says.
George looks over at Douglas, then back at Robin. “Are you all right?”
Robin nods.
“He’s not all right, he’s crazy,” Peter says. “You owe us an apology.”
“Us?” Robin asks.
“I’m calling the police,” says Douglas, standing behind Peter and sucking up snot, wild-eyed, defiant. He’s shaking his injured hand. Robin wants to charge at him all over again, land a powerful blow on that pure, pale skin. He feels the strength he is
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