Children of the Knight - Michael J. Bowler (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📗

Chapter 10:
Is That What We’ve Become?

Somehow, Hollywood Boulevard looked even sleazier to Lance as he and Jack strolled up and down the always-busy thoroughfare dodging the tourists. The boys were attired in their usual tunics—Lance’s green and Jack’s scarlet-red—leather pants and knee-high leather boots, and Lance sported his trademark golden circlet around his head to restrain his lengthening tresses, which now spilled halfway down his back.

Maybe it was all he’d learned from Arthur about right and wrong, but now he saw so much wrong around here, so much that seemed almost designed to corrupt kids like him: the tattoo and piercing parlors, the sexy billboards, the bling, the sordid little hookah places, not to mention stores like Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret. It all reeked of temptation and pleasure and greed. He actually felt a little dirty just being out here.

As they ambled down the street, Lance also discovered just how big a celebrity he’d become. People stopped and gawked. Cameras and phones flew up, and pictures were snapped. Everyone wanted to chat and get his autograph. Some just wanted to shake his hand. Jack’s, too.

Two teen girls, dressed in unbelievably short shorts and practically non-existent halter tops, recognized Jack as “the buff one with the abs” and batted their long lashes at him, each grabbing one arm for a group photo. As the picture was snapped, one girl yanked up Jack’s shirt to display his abs. Jack blanched in surprise. Afterward, the girls made sure to thumb their numbers into his phone before swishing their hips in departure.

Had the circumstances not been so grave, Lance would have laughed, but Jack was so engrossed in his fears for Mark that the irony of two pretty girls hitting on him went over his head. It was nothing new, anyway. Jack had told him hot girls in high school had been all over him because he was a football player, and pretty built even was a freshman, but he’d never told them the truth, at least not until his own father outed him to the entire school. After that, the hot girls eyed him with disdain, as though it were his fault they’d flirted so shamelessly with him.

As the boys passed by the famous Chinese Theater with its lavish, ornate architecture and handprints-of-the-stars concrete entryway, a double-decker Starline tour bus rolled to a stop near the parked cars. They could hear on a loudspeaker, “And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the world famous Chinese Theater and, oh look! We have a celebrity sighting, ladies and gentlemen, right over there.”

Lance wasn’t paying too much attention as he glanced disinterestedly at the handprints embedded within the concrete beneath his soft leather boots. He didn’t care at all about celebrities and didn’t even know who most of these people were, anyway. He was just trying to keep his head down, appear inconspicuous, and not be noticed. But then he heard the tour guide continue, and he froze in place.

“It’s Sir Lance and Sir Jack,” the female voice squealed excitedly, “of King Arthur’s Round Table! You’ve seen them on the news and the Internet, cleaning up our fair city.”

Lance grabbed Jack and pointed at the bus. Everyone was leaning out open windows or over the top deck railing snapping pictures with their phones or cameras. Lance stared in amazement, heart in his throat, fixed to the spot like a wax statue.

“Let’s hear it for Sir Lance and Sir Jack!” one of the tourists shouted, and the entire bus erupted in applause and more shutter snapping.

Lance wished he could disappear into the sidewalk. “What are we supposed to do?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’ know. Wave?”

And so they waved, and smiled, and waved again, as more pictures were snapped before the bus finally trundled on down the boulevard and left them behind.

Unfortunately, the tour guide’s “outing” them drew many of the tourists perusing the foot and handprints, and suddenly admirers young and old again swamped the boys, smothering them by turns with selfishness and affection. More snapping of pictures, more girls hanging all over them, more glad-handing.

Lance felt oddly exposed in this crowd, as though the crush of people knew his innermost fears and insecurities, and he desperately wished to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Jack, he could tell, was equally squirmy, but his days as a football player had somewhat prepared him for this kind of shallow adulation.

Two tween girls who couldn’t have been older than twelve, and dressed even sluttier than the two who’d accosted Jack, roughly pulled Lance in front of the theatre and flanked him for a picture. The moment their friend raised the camera, the girls each planted a kiss on his cheeks. Lance was certain that photo would show his face turning crazy-ass shades of red, and rather than feel flattered, he felt almost queasy.

These two slipped Lance their phone numbers on a tour bus brochure one girl had scooped off the ground. They told him if he wanted a girlfriend, he could have them both, at the same time! That made Lance blush three shades of scarlet, and even Jack shook his head in disbelief as the two giggled their way down the street.

Before meeting Arthur, Lance would’ve taken such behavior as normal for girls today. But now he recognized it as another symptom of adults poisoning children at younger and younger ages.

As they continued down the boulevard, Lance saw a Metro bus cruising slowly past in the heavy traffic. Plastered across the side of the bus was an enormous ad for Channel 7 News. It displayed a massive headshot of him! The ad proclaimed “Get the latest on Sir Lance on Channel 7 News.” And beneath the picture was written, “Is He Dating Anyone Special?”

That last part actually made him gag. “My God, Jack,” he choked as the bus rolled past them. “Is that what we’ve become? Just another reality show?”

“Guess so.”

That bus ad really disturbed Lance, numbing his body with shame and a deep sense of failure. That kind of exposure, that “who’s he dating” crap, was exactly the sort of thing Arthur was fighting against. Were they losing their battle after all? Would the next thing really be a reality TV show about them?

Lance observed his brooding friend standing at the corner, brushing back dark, untamed curls, anxious eyes roaming. So big and strong, so toweringly beautiful, so capable and athletic, and yet so sad. So lost and weak and helpless without Mark.

Is this what it means to be in love, he wondered?

If so, love looked pretty scary and painful. Maybe that’s why he’d steered clear of it his whole life. As he eyed Jack, he realized that maybe he’d just been too fearful of whom he might fall for, so he never let himself get close enough to anyone to find out. He’d made sure never to even look at anyone, male or female, that way, so he wouldn’t give them any ideas.

Despite his best efforts, however, he’d often found himself at school sneaking surreptitious glances at this girl or that guy, noting the way the hair draped or the muscles flexed, and then he’d shoved it all down deep inside where it couldn’t get out. At least until the next time he’d peeked from beneath his sheltering hair and had thoughts he didn’t want to have because they confused him. Because they brought him back to that time… back when he was six. Back to that first time.

“You like that, don’t you, my little fag boy…?” came Richard’s breathlessly excited voice whispering from the charred ash heap of his memory.

Lance shuddered, despite the warmth of the sun, as the searing pain that had torn open his small, young body once more ripped its way through his consciousness.

From that moment on, he’d never trusted anyone, never allowed a single soul into his emotions, or into his heart.

Until Arthur came along. And then Mark.

And now Jack.

Watching Jack morosely search up and down the busy street, Lance felt a chill ripple through him, and sweat break out on his forehead. He so desperately yearned to reach out and take Jack’s hand in his and just relish the warmth of that basic human contact. The intense desire scared him so much, he began to tremble.

Jack turned his eyes on him. He must’ve looked ill, because Jack asked, “You okay, Lance?”

Lance gulped and nodded, shaking off the deadweight of his past, and the confusion of his heart. They had to focus on Mark. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s keep looking.”

Jack eyed him with uncertainty but nodded and continued down the sidewalk, Lance by his side.

Jack stopped a few creepy-looking guys along the street wearing long overcoats and asked about “Blue Eyes,” but they hadn’t seen him “since he got all famous on TV.”

“Blue Eyes?” Lance asked as they left one of those creeps behind in a shadowy alcove and strolled past junky tourist shops.

Jack nodded, all roving eyes and uncertain steps. “You never give your real name on the streets, especially to dealers like them.”

“You got a nickname too?”

Jack nodded, his eyes scanning every face they passed. But he didn’t answer.

“Well?” Lance asked.

Now Jack stopped and looked sheepishly at Lance. He raised his right arm and flexed the massive biceps. “Great Guns,” he whispered, embarrassed.

Lance squeezed the biceps. Rock hard, as always. “It fits,” he said, trying to ignore that little shiver tingling up his back.

They continued the search up and down the boulevard, stopping more often than they liked for their “fans.” Everyone, it seemed, wanted a photo with the two most famous boys in the world, and all the adulation began to wear them down as the day wore on.

After checking a few more of Mark’s old haunts, Lance wearily suggested they get something to eat. His stomach had become a growling lion.

“Not hungry,” Jack mumbled, disconsolately. “We gotta keep looking.” Lance stepped in front and put both hands on Jack’s chest to stop him.

“Look, Jack, you gotta take care of yourself. For Mark. You heard him in his letter. You’re his hero.”

Jack stopped and quickly dropped his gaze to the dirty sidewalk, to the star of some actor Lance had never heard of. Jack’s body hitched with emotion, and Lance feared he might start bawling right there on Hollywood Boulevard. That would be hard to explain to their fans.

“Mark gets so depressed, you know, Lance?” Jack said, gazing helplessly into his eyes as Lance squinted against the harsh sunlight. “Without me and you and Arthur… he’ll go back to the junk. I just know it.”

He