Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

other, stepping on Adam to prove they were bigger and badder than the rest. They weren’t hurting him, and they might not hurt him at all if he played his part in the game well. If he was lucky, he’d just lose a pair of underwear and a few of his favorite shirts.
    He didn’t want to think about being unlucky.
    “You wear this freaky blue shit for underwear, huh?” The frat boys snickered in unison as one of them bumped Adam’s shoulder. “What color you wearing right now?”
    Adam shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of pushing him into a panic attack. He wouldn’t.
    Another push. “We’re talking to you, fag.”
    “Please.” Adam had been in this position before. It was time for him to beg. “Please give me my glasses back.”
    “Show us your underwear first, freak.”
    The nervous flutter in the pit of Adam’s stomach turned into sick fear. No, he couldn’t do this. No. No. His panic congealed and began to rise. “Please,” he whispered.
    But his fear only fueled them now. “Strip, faggot.” Someone shoved at his shoulder again. Adam realized with a sick heart that he would very soon be stripping, or collapsing in a heap and either ending up in the hospital or lying here alone on the floor. Or worse. What would these jackals do to him if he had an attack?
    Oh God, oh God, oh God oh God—
    “What the fuck is going on?” someone bellowed.
    Adam startled, but so did the frat boys. One of them swore, and all of them staggered back, parting from their circle around Adam’s table, and as his panic fell back to somewhat manageable levels, he was able to see the newcomer.
    It was a cowboy.
    Cowboy was cut. Not handsome. Not in the let-me-jack-to-you cowboy porn mag way, at any rate. He wasn’t ugly, but he didn’t have a marble jaw or anything, and he wasn’t magazine-slick, not even close. But muscles? Oh yeah . Normally Adam did not go for muscles, because muscles scared him. Muscles could hurt him. Muscles had hurt him on more than one occasion, leaving him still unable to enter most large public restrooms.
    Right now, though, muscles were either going to save or bury his ass, and Adam should stop staring at them.
    Cowboy looked pissed, but at the frat boys, not Adam. He took his time approaching them, covering the distance between the side door to the laundromat and Adam’s table with a slow, steady gait that made his hips roll enticingly in his beaten-up jeans and was punctuated by the clip-clop of his equally worn cowboy boots. The closer he got, the more he slowed down, giving the frat boys plenty of time to take him in.
    “I asked you a question,” Cowboy said. “What. The fuck. Is going on?”
    The frat boys murmured among themselves before one of them replied, “We’re just messing around, old man.”
    Cowboy said nothing, only stared back at the boys. His gaze lingered on the one holding Adam’s glasses.
    The one holding Adam’s glasses took a step back.
    One of the drunk-high boys, though, tossed his hair back out of his eyes and fixed his adversary with an insolent leer. “Did we pick on your boyfriend, honey? We’re sorry.”
    Adam felt something bounce against his hand, and when he looked down, he saw his glasses lying beside him on the table. Immediately he grabbed them and put them back on. When he lifted his gaze again, Cowboy was standing one beefy arm’s length away from the one who’d spoken. Cowboy’s expression up to that point had remained cool, but as Adam watched, the man’s face split into a nasty grin. The five others shrank back into the corner, whispering various panicked expletives under their breath. The frat boy tried to keep his cool, but even from the side, Adam could see it cracking.
    The laundromat went silent as Cowboy ran a thick, gnarly finger down the frat boy’s chest.
    “Don’t be jealous. You want my cock, little boy, all you gotta do is bend over.”
    The frat boy sputtered, swore, and swung.
    Cowboy blocked the blow, grabbed Frat Boy’s nuts, and grinned. “Tell your fuck buddies to give the man his clothes back.”
    Frat Boy swore, then yelped in pain as Cowboy’s grip tightened. “Fuck— do it ,” he cried, and seconds later, Adam’s clothes came sailing over his shoulder to land on the tabletop.
    Cowboy jerked his head in a curt nod of approval. “Good boy. Now all of you apologize.” Frat Boy made a muffled gurgle as Cowboy went on. “And just so it’s clear, you’re