The Duality of Swans

Prologue

PROLOGUE

“WILL YOU HURRY up already?” Randy hollered as he kicked a spray of dusty rocks down the dirt path. He spun, cupping his hands over his mouth and shouting, “Next time, I’ll bring that broken-down stroller in front of Old Man Hinkle’s trailer so I can roll your slow ass. At least we’d get there faster.”

Randy back-walked along the dirt road a good thirty feet in front of Tate with a forty of Budweiser sticking out from his back pocket. His hair, the same dark blond as Tate’s, was buzzed short as always. He constantly teased Tate for leaving it a bit longer and shaggier, calling him a girl and asking if he wanted pink bows for his birthday.

Tate rolled his eyes. His damn brother wasn’t breathing if he wasn’t acting dramatic or ragging on someone. “Where’s the damn fire?” he yelled back. “Pretty sure you’ve never given a shit about the county fair before. It ain’t going nowhere for five days. Why you gotta rush me? It’s too hot to walk fast.”

“The fire’s in my fucking pants,” Randy said, jiggling his crotch as he waggled his eyebrows. “Whit’s gonna be there. She told Ginger if I find her ’fore Daryl, she’ll blow me, but if he gets there first, he’s gonna get his cock sucked insteada me. So fucking move it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Tate slowed his pace, shooting his brother a smirk. “Has Whit seen those pubes on your face? Cuz if she has, it won’t matter what time you show up. She ain’t gonna blow you if she sees you looking like a walking ball sac.”

“Fuck you,” Randy said, stroking his new, patchy goatee. It grew darker than the rest of his hair, making him look stupid as hell. “Ma said it makes me look like a movie star.”

Snorting, Tate slowed to a snail’s pace. “Should probably do the opposite of what Ma recommends. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s strung out ninety percent of the time. Probably can’t see shit right.”

Randy flipped him the double bird. “Shut up. I look good. And can you just walk faster, loser? You’re doing this shit on purpose cuz you’re jealous. No chick wants your knob.”

Tate rolled his eyes again. Annoyance, not jealousy, had him messing with Randy. He didn’t give two shits about having some chick slobbering over his dick. Two years ago, Randy started calling him all sorts of names for not showing much interest in girls, so he talked the talk, but he’d yet to walk the walk. Not that Randy knew. Tate could spin a tale like nobody’s business, and he’d let Randy think he was getting some.

“Run ahead! What the hell do you need me with you for? Need me to cheer you on so you can get hard for Whit?”

“Fuck no.” Randy blinked, then laughed. “But, shit, you’re right. What am I doing waiting on your stupid ass? Later, loser.” He took off at a jog, shaking up that warm Bud hugging his ass. There’d be an unpleasant surprise if he offered the beer to Whitney after the poor girl blew him. At least something would erupt for her, though it’d be the last blowie she offered up. His brother needed a few more brain cells. Tate didn’t hold out much hope of him finding any.

He took his sweet time, strolling past cornfield after cornfield on his way to the county fair. Carnivals weren’t his scene, but he had a few extra bucks from the tile job he’d helped his neighbor, Jim, with last weekend. Jim gave him a hundred fucking bucks for two days’ work. Tate hadn’t ever had his hands on that much cash at once. He spent eighty of it on groceries and saved twenty. The good groceries too. Frozen peas instead of the kind that came in a can and some bacon. Spending that last twenty on some funnel cake and a few rides at the fair would make this the most exciting night he’d had in ages.

By the time he reached the event, the sun had dipped into the horizon, leaving the whole fairground shadowed in twilight. Tate didn’t bother looking for his brother. The last thing he wanted was to walk behind some booth and find him getting blown by Whitney, the easiest girl in their high school. She was cool, though. She was always nice to Tate, which he couldn’t say of all of Randy’s dipshit friends.

At eighteen, she and Randy would graduate in a few weeks, while Tate had a few more years to go. Fifteen, but some days, he felt like forty. Guess that’s what happened when your old man was a damn deadbeat, and your mother couldn’t make it through the day without pumping something into her bloodstream. Some days she made it to her job waiting tables at the local truck stop diner, but it was a crap shoot. The only reason she hadn’t been fired was pity. The owner had known his mother since childhood and felt fucking sorry for her.

Someone bumped his shoulder, jostling him from his thoughts. Tate blinked the fair into focus with a muttered apology. He glanced around at the bright, blinking lights and the crowds of townsfolk. Shit, he’d wandered halfway through the fairgrounds without paying a lick of attention to where he was walking.

Where was the damn funnel cake booth? He’d had a craving for the stuff since he’d seen the first fair flyer a few weeks ago. There was not much better than some warm, fried, sugary goodness.

As he glanced around, movement from a stage to his left caught his attention. Performers moved all over the stage, but what had him walking closer was the music that seemed so out of place for a state fair. Behind him, obnoxious carnival music blared from the rickety Ferris wheel, while in front of him, something slow and elegant played for the performers he now realized were ballet dancers.

What an odd thing to have at the fair. Last year, the main event was pig races, and this year a ballet? Maybe someone was trying to class up the place. Tate snorted. They’d have had better luck getting lipstick on those racing pigs.

Still, he took another step closer to the show out of what he’d later call morbid curiosity.

The stage, like everything else at this hick fair, had seen better days, made of rusted metal with what looked like plywood layered on top. Rows of folding chairs held maybe fifteen scattered audience members despite the crowds at the fair. It seemed like most people were as confused as he was to see a ballet performance at the county carnival. Either that, or they were too busy puking their guts out on rides.

Or getting blown like Randy.

Girls who seemed to be around his age danced across the stage in pink tutus with flowers in their hair. They pranced and leaped on the tips of their toes with identical smiles plastered on their faces. Tate watched for a minute before boredom set in. As he was about to resume his search for a fried treat, a new dancer practically floated onto the stage.

Tate froze.

His skin prickled, starting at the nape of his neck and spreading through to the tips of his fingers.

Air whooshed out of his lungs like it did when Randy socked him in the gut.

The guy on stage danced with a fluidity that almost seemed fake like a person shouldn’t be able to move with such grace.

Grace? When the hell had he ever used the word grace ?

When the male dancer leaped, his long legs extended as straight as an arrow. When he twirled, Tate held his breath, sure no one could possibly spin that fast and that many times without toppling over.

This was the first ballet Tate had seen, and his brother and friends would rib him to no end if they saw him gawking like a fool, but he couldn’t turn away. He couldn’t even blink for fear of missing a second of the guy’s routine.

Sweat broke out across Tate’s brow as he watched the play of muscles in the guy’s bare chest while performing a move that required a flexibility Tate couldn’t fathom. The dancer’s lower half was covered by a pair of light gray tights that were so fucking snug he could make out each individual ass muscle as the guy danced.

Or he could have if he was looking.

But he wasn’t.

He especially wasn’t looking at the way those tights cupped the guy’s crotch.

No fucking way.

Tate swallowed.

Fuck, I’m looking.

Staring.

His heart raced.

Completely transfixed.

The dancer held a final pose, and the sparse crowd cheered. Tate should have clapped, but he still couldn’t move. If it wasn’t for the fact he stood seventy feet from the stage, he’d have sworn the dancer’s gaze met his.

His gut tightened.

God, he couldn’t fucking breathe. Nothing in the world had captured his attention the way this dancer had. The entire fair could erupt in flames, and he’d never notice. It felt like live wires were popping and crackling under his skin, making him crave something he couldn’t put his finger on.

He swallowed a painful lump down his arid throat.

The guy’s body was like marble, crafted to perfection—smooth, hairless planes, rippling abs, sculpted arms, and that muscular ass. Were he closer, Tate wouldn’t be able to keep from reaching out and touching—

Oh fuck.

No. No, no, no.

His stomach cramped. Forget the funnel cake. He couldn’t eat to save his life right then.

I can’t be. It’s not possible.

The weird feelings were nothing more than admiration for someone who worked hard at their impressive skillset. A skillset Tate would never have but could appreciate the sacrifices it would take to get there.

No way in hell was he attracted to the guy on stage. This was probably from all the girls in their tight costumes. He tried to shift his attention to one of the perky ballerinas, but his damn eyes wouldn’t cooperate.

No.

His stomach lurched.

A heavy weight slammed into his back, making him stagger forward with a grunt.

“Here you are, you fucking slowpoke.” Daryl, Randy’s best friend since they popped out of the womb, hopped on Tate, piggyback-style. “What the fuck are you watching this shit for?”

Tate tore his gaze from the stage where the ballet troop bowed for their meager applause. He forced himself to turn toward the rest of his friends.

Randy laughed. “Look at that. One dude dancing with all those bitches.”

Still hanging off Tate, Daryl snorted. “That ain’t a dude. It’s a fairy. That why you are watching them, Tatey boy? You got a thing for fairies?” He ruffled Tate’s hair.

A crushing pain bore down on his chest, making it impossible to speak.

Randy’s laughter increased. “You better not be a fucking fairy, Tate. I ain’t living with a homo.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, bucking backward.

Daryl yelped as he flew off Tate’s back. His ass hit the dusty ground. “What the fuck, Tate? Rude.”

Whitney, standing under Randy’s arm, giggled. “Maybe you’re the fairy, Daryl. Always jumping on Tate’s back and rubbing his head.”

Randy’s eyes widened. “Oh shit, you two fucking?”

Was this what a heart attack felt like?

Tate’s face burned hotter than the damn sun.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled again.

“I ain’t no fucking fairy,” Daryl said, all humor gone. “I’ll fuck you right here right now, Whit.”

“I’d rather die,” she said with a smirk.

“C’mon.” Randy kicked Daryl’s leg.

“Ow! What the hell, Whit? You’da blown me if I got here first, right?”

She shrugged.

“Quit it, you two. I want some fucking funnel cake,” Randy announced.

“Oh, me, too,” Whitney cooed, running her hand up Randy’s torso.

Daryl hopped up. “Let’s do it.”

The three of them started for the food tent. Tate still couldn’t move. Chances were high he’d need CPR in the next few minutes.

“You coming, asshole?” Daryl shouted, walking backward next to the others.

Tate risked a final glance at the stage. It stood empty and quiet, and any onlookers had disappeared into the crowded fair.

He shuddered and blew out a breath. “Yeah. I’m fucking coming,” he said as he forced himself to jog after the group. Whatever had happened a few moments ago had been a damn fluke. Maybe he’d had a mini-stroke or needed some damn water.

Dehydration fucked people up, right?

Whatever. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he knew for certain he hadn’t been attracted to that dancer.

No way, no how.

They passed the next few hours laughing, eating, riding rides, and making general fools of themselves, not attempting to leave until they were stuffed and a little nauseated.

“I gotta take a leak before we walk home,” Tate said as they approached a restroom.

“Hurry,” Randy said. “I hate waiting.”

“What do you care? Didn’t you already get blown?”

Whitney, Daryl, and a few of their other friends snickered.

“I’m young,” Randy said with a shrug. “Time to go again.” He slung an arm around Whitney’s shoulders.

“Poor Whitney,” he muttered as he strode into the restroom.

Not more than a minute later, he emerged a few ounces lighter. Of course, his loser friends were nowhere to be seen.

“Jackoffs,” he muttered, starting for the fair’s exit. Whatever. It wasn’t as though he needed them to find his way home. As he reached the edge of the building that housed the bathrooms, jeering and a familiar laugh caught his attention.

“The fuck? Randy?” he called as he followed the sound around to the back of the building. His brother had a unique laugh, and Tate loved to bust his balls over it. When he really got going, his laugh sounded like a six-year-old girl, high-pitched and giggly.

“Dude,” Randy called, waving him over. “Look at this shit.”

He pointed, and Tate craned his neck to see past his friends. What he saw had his stomach twisting.

Two guys with dark hoodies and bandanas over their faces huddled over someone curled in the fetal position on the ground. They whaled on him, kicking, shouting homophobic slurs, and laughing. The sight made him sick. Tate could hold his own and had been in a crap load of fights in his fifteen years, mostly with his brother, but he didn’t enjoy it, and he’d never go after anyone for shits and giggles.

“What the fuck?” Tate said. “Why are you standing around watching this shit?”

Daryl jumped up and down, practically giddy. “It’s that guy. The sissy from the ballet.”

“What?” Tate whispered, blood turning to ice.

“They’re teaching him a fucking lesson,” Randy said.

“Damn straight,” Daryl agreed. “Bet he’ll think twice before prancing around on a stage in this town again. We do not need his kind spreading their fairy dust all around.”

Tate didn’t hear what else was said. His feet acted of their own accord, propelling him toward the fray. “Hey!” he shouted.

Randy caught his arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Tate whipped around while still walking. He jerked his arm from Randy’s hold. “They’re gonna kill him,” he shouted, gesturing toward the beating.

Scoffing, Daryl shook his head. “Who the fuck cares?”

Jesus. He spun back. “Get the fuck off him!” he screamed, charging forward.

The assailants were big, and two-on-one odds were never good, but Randy and Daryl would have his back. They might not be eager to save a gay guy’s life, but they wouldn’t let Tate get his ass kicked.

“I said, get the fuck off him.” He reached one of the guys, grabbing the back of his sweaty shirt.

The guy stopped kicking the dancer and whirled on Tate. “What the fuck?” he shouted in a lethal growl

“Tate!” Randy hollered.

“Fuck this,” Daryl yelled. “I’m out of here.”

“Let’s go.”

Randy’s voice.

Guess Tate was on his own. He cocked his arm and rammed it into the attacker's face. Blood spurted beneath the bandana, but he didn’t go down. His buddy stopped kicking the dancer and spun toward Tate.

Shit, I’m so fucked.

He fought as hard as he could, but the dudes were huge, and before long, he was bruised and bloodied, but so were the attackers.

The dancer lay curled up on the ground, twitching every so often but unable to get up and run away.

Tate dodged a fist coming at his nose and kicked out, but his foot only met air. Another fist collided with his stomach, making him double over and nearly tossing his funnel cake.

“Hey! What the fuck is going on back here?” The new voice came from twenty or so feet away.

The fight stopped instantly, and all three of them faced the voice. A rent-a-cop rounded the corner of the building and jogged their way.

Without another word, the two attackers took off in opposite directions.

“Stop!” the guard shouted as he raced after one of them. He grabbed his radio. “I need an ambulance behind the bathrooms. Cops too!”

He had to get the hell out of there before he was arrested. An ambulance was coming. The dancer would be taken care of.

Go, go. Run.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he gave into the driving urge to peer back at the dancer on the ground. He’d managed to sit himself up. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, and his dark hair had twigs and dust throughout the strands. He cradled his arm against his chest and trembled. He seemed to be struggling to breathe.

“T-thank you,” he whispered.

Tate froze, unable to speak. Even battered, the guy captured his attention in a way no one had before. He wanted to rush forward, wrap his arms around the dancer, and promise no one would hurt him ever again. He wanted to chase after his brother and beat the shit out of him for watching and laughing.

He wanted to kiss the tears right off that devastated face.

No.

A siren sounded, closer than was comfortable. Red lights flashed, providing the electric jolt he needed. Help was on the way. Instead of responding, he fled.

He ran until his legs burned, and his lungs screamed at him to stop. He ran straight through the cornfields, ignoring the stinging cuts from the coarse leaves slicing his skin. He ignored the blood and bruises on his face and body.

He had no idea how much time or distance passed before he tripped and landed hard on all fours, panting like an exhausted dog.

Fuck.

He couldn’t be gay. He could not be gay.

I’m not gay.

He’d be next. The next guy on the ground protecting his vital organs as giant feet slammed into him again and again.

I’m not gay.

A flash of the dancer holding a beautiful pose flitted through his mind, and his heart skipped a damn beat.

Oh God.

I’m not gay.

He vomited all over fallen ears of corn.