The story thus far: Wes hires ‘Tonio as his Chief of Security and Numero Uno Bodyguard. The hot and hunky guys discover they have lots in common. And soon, they begin to form a deep connection and forge a strong bond. And needless to say, their sexual attraction for one another is flying off the chart! However, they’re too afraid to act on what they’re feeling for one another.

So, one Saturday, Wes is promoting his new comedy album at a record store in the metro Washington area. ‘Tonio and another bodyguard, Rock, accompany him.

However, without warning, two young, brawny brothas take everyone hostage in a stick-up attempt. Now, let’s jump right into “Nothing Can Tear Us Apart.”

But then, unexpectedly, two young black guys, dressed in hip-hop gear, shrieked, “Dis is a fuckin’ hold-up! Nobody move!” The hoods whipped out handguns to prove they meant “bizness.” HBO could’ve plucked these guys to portray a couple of hardened inmates in “Oz.” I’m sure these brothas decided to hit the store because my appearance had been heavily publicized. They were intending to pick up a phat chunk of change.

Immediately, a ruckus broke out. People were scrambling, trying to escape. They whooped and hollered, “Oh Lord! They’ve got guns! They’re gonna kill us all!”

Antonio was seething, but kept his cool. Gripping my hand, he gave me a look that said, “Trust me. It’s all gonna work out okay.” I returned a glance which said, “I know. No doubt.” His liquid blue-green eyes were full of affection…and worry.

Menacingly waving his piece (gun, that is), the burly hood with the dreds yelled,
”And I fuckin’ repeat—nobody move!” After that, everybody did as they were “requested,” pretty much becoming mannequins.

Customers held onto one another. Some tried to calm each other down, while others prayed. Meanwhile, I “could see the wheels turning” in Antonio’s brain. He was strategizing a way out of this mess.

Clearly, the burly bruh, in his early ‘20s, was calling the shots. Believe it or not, his first name was “Barcardi.” Daymn. Why in the world would anyone name his or her kid that???

After the “rude boyz” disarmed ‘Tonio, Rock and store security, they demanded all the cash. Bacardi then addressed yours truly. He concluded, “Yo, ‘Mr. Super Gay,’ I just know that there’s plenty of loot up in here. So give it all up, goddammit!”

Next, Bacardi swaggered his way up to the cashier. He stared her down. Trembling, she was absolutely petrified.

“Bitch,” he growled, “Gimme all yo’ money. NOW!” The unfortunate young woman, an El Salvadorian, was named Flor. At 24, she was petite, very pretty, with high cheekbones. Her shortly clipped hair was a honey, golden brown.

Flor continued shaking, uncontrollably. Sobbing, she fumbled about. Barely hanging onto consciousness, she couldn’t remember how to open the register.

“What’s your problem, bitch?”

“I…I’m tryin’ as fast as I can, sir.”

“You ain’t tryin’ fast enough, bitch.”

“I am. Please don’t hurt me. I just had a little boy, and…”

“Fuck all that, bitch! I’m gonna tell you just one mo’ time…OPEN THE GODDAMN REGISTER!!!” Bacardi demanded, saliva whipping out of his mouth.

Then, the deranged bro got the idea that Flor was trying to signal the store’s hidden alarm.

Frustrated, the thug concluded, “You tryin’ to signal five-o.”

All of the color evaporated from Flor’s face. She protested, “No…sir. I’m not!”

All of a sudden, he leaned forward, getting all up in her grill. His was contorted in a really weird, scary, sick kind of way. And without warning, he thrust the handgun scant inches from the cashier’s face.

Tears streamed down Flor. She pleaded, “Sir, I’m not trying to call anyone! It’s just that I’m so frightened…I’m begging you not to hurt me…my husband and little boy need me!”

“Fuck the ‘All My Children’ bullshit, bitch!” And before Flor could utter another syllable, blink another eye or take another breath, Bacardi’s piece went BLAMMMMMMMMMMM!”

Everyone gasped. No one could believe that the animal actually pulled the trigger.

The powerful gun blast struck Flor directly on the right side of her face. Blood splattered every which way. Pieces of flesh spiraled through the air. My skin immediately crawled. My stomach flip-flopped. Dizziness seized me.

As the young woman fell backwards, blood-curling screams filled the air. A couple of people fainted. If we didn’t know it before, we knew then that these brothas were crazed. Totally. And extremely dangerous.

(Subsequently, Wes devises a crafty plan to take Bacardi down—both figuratively and literally. Let’s pick up the action…)

And then I made my move. I hit him. Hard. Right in the nuts.

Bacardi yelped like a dog that had gotten its tail slammed in a door. He repeatedly hollered, “Mufucker, you tricked me!”

Meanwhile, I was on my feet, wrestling with Bacardi over the gun. The bruh was incredibly strong—it was if he’d grown up in some goddamn rock quarry, splitting and cracking open boulders. He was using his heavier muscle mass to force me to lose my footing. Luckily, I was able to pry the weapon away from him.

However, I didn’t have the gun in my possession for very long. It flew outta my hand, plopping onto the floor.

A voice boomed forth, “Wes, the gun! Grab the gun!” That was ‘Tonio, steadily making his way towards me.

Suddenly, I fell down. Painfully so. As I closed my hand around the revolver, the brawny thug jumped squarely on my back! The impact sliced through me like a red-hot, burning sword.

That blow caused me to lose control of the weapon—again. Bacardi grabbed it, yelling, “What’cha gonna do now? What’cha gonna do now? Huh? Huh?”

He was riding me piggyback style, pressing all of his considerable weight down on me. The fool kept shouting, “What’cha gonna do now? Huh? Huh?”

Somehow able to get into the pushup position, I replied, “This!” And astonishingly, I lifted myself up with him still riding me. (Later, I’d thank my personal trainer for making me do pushups with dumbbells strapped to my back.)

Anywho, the muscled bruh and I arm-wrestled for the pistol. He still had it in his grasp, but I was making some headway. Suddenly, he stuck the piece into my ribcage.

Then, an extra burst of adrenalin kicked in. With a fluid, forceful thrust, I pushed the gun away from me.

But then, all of a sudden, there was a sound that went, “BLAMMMMMMMMMM!”

“WES! OH, MY GOD! WES!!!”

At that very moment, all movement ceased. It was stone cold quiet. Rock had made it to Big Guy, who immediately peeled Bacardi off of me.

Fortunately, I hadn’t eaten the bullet—Bacardi had. The slug entered the bro’s chest. He was, as they say, “checkin’ outta this life.”

Meanwhile, I was wallowing in blood. And shaking. I had to admit that I’d been scared shitless. Well, when you come to think about it, I’m pretty sure most anyone would’ve been.

BigGuy was anxious to get me on my feet as quickly as possible. Wobbly, I ended up in his supremely muscled arms, which seemed to hold onto me for dear life. Hell yeah.

‘Tonio caught me around the waist, steadying me. “Wes! Are ya sure you’re okay?” His voice was awash with concern. It was as if his liquid blue-greens were saying, “What if you were the one lying in that pool of blood on the floor? What if I’d lost you?”

Oh, boy. Our eyes were in lockdown again. “ ‘Tonio. I’m just fine…now.”

“I shoulda gotten to you sooner, Wes! If anything ever happens to you, I wouldn’t know what I’d…” Catching himself, he stopped.

“Things turned out okay,” I reassured him. “Besides, baby, you ain’t Superman.”

Oh my God. I slipped and called this man “baby.”

He was floored. And so was I. Our gaze intensified.

And at that exact instant, we both moved closer together. And at that point, we almost kissed.

However, we both made a hasty “retreat….”



Wyatt O’Brian Evans is CEO and founder of Nair’Bo Universal. He’s also a writer, actor, stand-up comedian, and voice-over instructor/talent. He conceived, developed and wrote a gay, Black, erotic serial for “Gay Black Male” magazine, which was quite popular. This is his first full-length novel. To order “Nothing Can Tear Us Apart,” visit: www.lulu.com/content/833337. And, visit Wyatt’s web site at: www.wyattobrianevans.com