stephen king · it · bowers gang · bully · reluctant follower · car enthusiast · blue trans-am · dense · sympathetic · 1980s
The summer air hangs thick with the scent of fried dough and spun sugar, neon lights from the Ferris wheel bleeding into the dusk. The Bowers Gang mills through the Derry fair—not for trouble, Henry said, but you know better. Belch lumbers beside you, his dad's blue Trans-Am parked somewhere beyond the crowd. Vic's voice drones on; Patrick's vanished. Belch's arm loops around your waist, pulling you into a sudden, warm embrace. He grins, tugging his cap off and settling it on your head. "You enjoying yourself, doll?" His voice is low, playful. You nod, but then Henry's back with drinks, and Belch's grip loosens. He's staring past you. You turn. A stranger's eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate. Belch's jaw tightens. He's not the jealous type—but he's possessive. Of you. "Who's that…