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Racetrack knew the storm was on its way. It was the headline, for one thing, so it was his business to know. But there was no way of knowing how fast the storm was moving, and by the time he left Coney Island and headed into Brooklyn, the weather was already coming hard and fast.
The snow was so thick he could barely see a few feet in front of him, and he knew even if he found his way back to the bridge, there was no way he could walk all the way back to Manhattan. Not in his thin jacket, and not if he didn’t want to freeze to death.
Still, it wasn’t as though he had a choice, because there was no one in Brooklyn who’d take him in. Sure, they had a gentleman’s agreement with the boys in Brooklyn, but there was no Newsie who was in a position to give Racetrack shelter for the night, even if they did put up with him selling on their turf.
He stuffed his last couple of papes inside his jacket to cut the wind, then he tugged his collar up as high as it would go and headed in what he hoped was the right direction. It was hard to know for sure when the whole world had gone white, but he knew if he didn’t make it back to Manhattan by curfew he’d be locked out of the boarding house, and then he’d really be in for it.
Freezing to death in some alley wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, but if that was how he was going out, Racetrack would rather freeze in Manhattan than Brooklyn. So he pressed on, shoulders bent into the wind and hands balled in his pockets in the hopes he could keep them from freezing all the way through before he made it home.
His cap wasn’t doing much to keep his ears warm, no matter how far down he pulled it, and Racetrack had the sinking feeling it was going to blow off as soon as he made it to the bridge anyway. Not that it was doing him any good in the storm, but it was the only cap he had, so he pulled it off and shoved it inside his jacket with the papes.
When the wind picked up even more Racetrack knew he was getting close to the water, which meant the bridge and the way home. The closer he got the more he wished he’d just listened to Davey and stayed in Manhattan today, gone up to Central Park or maybe downtown to sell to the businessmen in their suits and warm wool overcoats. He should have stayed on his own side of the bridge where at least he knew he could get home safe, and if he didn’t sell as many papes as usual, well, that was just the price he had to pay.
But it didn’t matter what he should have done, because he was in Brooklyn now, and there was nothing to do but keep moving and hope for the best. He was nearly past the pier where Spot and his boys usually held court when Racetrack saw something moving in the snow in front of him, and when he got a little closer he realized it wasn’t something so much as someone.
Three someones, to be exact, and the last thing he needed was to get jumped for his wages in the middle of the worst storm of the year. Not that he’d probably be needing his wages, considering how fast the snow was coming down now, and Racetrack cast one last longing look in the direction he thought the bridge laid as he reached the boys who appeared to be waiting for him.
The snow was falling too thick to make out their faces, but judging by their clothes and their stature, he was guessing they were about his age. One of them was just about his height, and when he stepped forward and said, “What brings you out in this weather, Race?” he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Spot?” Racetrack said, squinting through the snow falling faster and faster around them. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“You weren’t thinking of trying to cross the bridge, were you?” Spot drawled, arms crossed over his chest, and Racetrack couldn’t tell if it was because he was cold or if he was still trying to look tough.
“Not much choice,” Racetrack said, shrugging even though he was pretty sure Spot couldn’t actually see him. “That is, unless you wanna put me up for the night. In the name of Newsie solidarity.”
Spot made a noise that told Racetrack exactly what he thought of Newsie solidarity, but he jerked his head in the direction of what Racetrack hoped was wherever the Brooklyn boys spent their nights. Not that it mattered, because he didn’t have a choice but to follow wherever Spot led him. It was either that or try to cross the bridge, and with every minute that passed, the chances of him actually making it across got smaller and smaller.
Those weren’t the kind of odds he liked to play, so Racetrack tugged his jacket a little closer and followed Spot and his boys through the storm. It took a lot longer than it should to walk a couple blocks, but finally Spot turned into a doorway, and Racetrack hurried to follow him inside.
The boarding house didn’t look all that much different than the one where Racetrack stayed, but these weren’t his boys, and when he walked in there were a lot of looks thrown in his direction. He expected Spot to cut him loose as soon as the door closed, to leave him to fend for himself in a boarding house full of less than friendly strangers.
He didn’t even mind, because it wasn’t as though Spot owed him anything. Sure, they were friendly enough, but they were from different boroughs, and that meant he wasn’t Spot’s to look after.
“Listen, Spot,” Racetrack said before Spot could ditch him, “thanks. I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do,” Spot said, but instead of walking away he jerked his head toward the hall, then he flashed the lopsided grin Racetrack liked best. “Come on, if we don’t get a move on there won’t be any chow left.”
Food was the last thing on Racetrack’s mind while he was out in the storm, but now that Spot had brought it up, his stomach growled loud enough for the whole house to hear.
“I could eat,” he said, grinning when Spot laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders to drag him down the hall.
They sat shoulder to shoulder at the table, and if any of the Brooklyn boys thought it was strange that Racetrack was there, one look from Spot was enough to stop them from asking questions. It was kind of weird, being at the center of all that attention, but it was sort of a rush, too, knowing he was important enough to be Spot Conlon’s guest of honor.
“Seriously, Spot, this is real decent of you,” Racetrack said when it was time for lights out, “but I don’t want to put you out any more. I can just bunk on the floor…”
“You always talk this much?” was all Spot said, then he grinned and tossed a pillow at the center of Racetrack’s chest.
“Truth is I usually talk more,” Racetrack answered, but he grinned back at Spot as he caught the pillow. “I’ve been on my best behavior tonight, seeing as I’m a guest and all.”
“Lucky me,” Spot said. “You can bunk with me. I sleep up top.”
Sharing a bunk was nothing new; they doubled up all the time in the boarding house, and nobody thought anything of it. So Racetrack didn’t mind bunking with Spot, but he had a feeling all this hospitality was going to cost him eventually.
Not that he minded that all that much either, considering the alternative. He thought about the wind still howling outside and shivered, then he climbed up and dropped the pillow Spot had given him at the end of the bed. He expected Spot to climb up and slide in the opposite end, so his feet were down by Racetrack’s head. Only when Spot climbed in he grabbed the pillow from the other end of the bed and then laid down face to face with Racetrack, and when Spot slung an arm around Racetrack’s waist and closed his eyes, Racetrack figured that was just the way they did things in Brooklyn.
It was a heck of a lot warmer than the other way, so Racetrack wasn’t complaining. He didn’t mind the press of Spot’s chest against his back or the way Spot’s arm felt draped across his middle, either, not that he’d ever admit it. He was drifting on the hazy warmth of shared body heat, half asleep when a thought occurred to him.
“Hey, Spot?”
There was a grunt from somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, but it was enough to convince him that Spot wasn’t quite asleep yet.
“How’d you know where to find me today?”
“Brooklyn’s my turf,” Spot answered, his voice thick with sleep already. “I know everything that happens on my turf.”
“Yeah, but how’d you know when I’d be by?” Racetrack asked, shifting onto his back so he could squint at Spot’s profile in the dark. “Don’t tell me you’ve been keeping tabs on me. Why, Spot, I’m flattered.”
He meant it as a joke, but when Spot just looked at him in the darkness, Racetrack’s heart picked up speed. When he thought about it there was no other way to explain Spot and his boys running into him the way they did, and judging by the way Spot hadn’t laughed in his face, Racetrack could only assume he’d hit the nail on the head.
“Well, anyway, thanks,” Racetrack said, mostly to fill up the quiet stretching out between them. “I guess if you weren’t keeping tabs I’d be frozen to the bridge by now.”
The thought made him shiver in spite of the warmth under the blanket, and when Spot’s arm tightened around his waist, Racetrack rolled onto his side to face him. It was kind of weird, seeing him this close up. Maybe it was the dark, or maybe it was the fact that Spot was looking at him like Racetrack was something worth looking at.
“It makes sense, you keeping tabs on who’s passing through your turf.” Racetrack’s fingers curled in the blanket; at least he thought it was the blanket, until he felt something warm and solid and realized he’d somehow gotten hold of Spot’s undershirt. “I mean, you gotta know what’s happening in your territory, else what kinda…”
“Race.”
“Yeah?” Racetrack whispered, his voice a little higher than it had been a second ago. He could feel Spot’s breath on his cheek, feel his chest rising and falling under Racetrack’s fingers and his palm pressed warm against Racetrack’s back to hold him close on the narrow bed.
“Shut up.”
Racetrack opened his mouth to answer, because he never did know when to quit, but before he got the words out Spot’s mouth was pressed against his. For a second Racetrack froze, fingers still gripping the front of Spot’s shirt like he wasn’t sure whether to hold him close or push him away.
Then Spot’s mouth moved against his and Racetrack let out a sound he’d deny to his dying day was a whimper – no matter how much Spot teased him about it later – and kissed him back. He didn’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, but Spot didn’t seem to mind, at least if the way he was kissing Racetrack meant anything. It was slow and kind of lazy, like they had all the time in the world instead of being pressed together in a room full of other guys who’d probably forget their loyalty to Spot pretty quick if they saw him kissing another guy.
Another guy who wasn’t even Brooklyn, and maybe that was why Spot figured Racetrack was safe. Except he’d already as good as admitted that he’d been looking out for Racetrack; Spot knew when he’d be heading back to Manhattan, and he knew exactly where to find Racetrack even in the middle of the storm.
“You were waiting for me,” Racetrack murmured, smiling against Spot’s mouth. “My hero.”
Spot huffed a laugh that warmed Racetrack’s cheek, but he didn’t deny it, and that was as good as admitting he was right. “I look out for what’s mine.”
The way he said it sent a shiver down Racetrack’s spine, and his fingers flexed hard against Spot’s shirt. That got him another laugh, warm and low and if Spot hadn’t already kissed him, he’d think this whole thing was a joke. Maybe it was; maybe he’d wake up in the morning and Spot would pretend it never happened, send him back to Manhattan and his own boys and pretend the only reason he’d saved Racetrack’s skin was for Jack’s sake.
But it didn’t feel much like Spot was planning to pretend none of this ever happened. It felt an awful lot like he wanted it to keep happening, and that was a plan Racetrack could definitely get behind.