Chapter 1

The parking lot behind the school lay under a velvet hush, the kind of autumn night in Hill Valley where the stars seemed close enough to snag on the radio antenna of a parked car. Marty McFly sat rigid in the passenger seat of the borrowed Ford, the leather creaking beneath him like a warning. The Enchantment Under the Sea dance thumped faintly in the distance, a saxophone sliding through some tune about moons and magic, but inside the car the air had thickened into something else entirely.

Lorraine Baines leaned in, her breath warm and sweet with the faint trace of cherry soda. In the dashboard glow her face was luminous, eyes heavy-lidded with a hunger that made Marty’s stomach twist. She was beautiful—God, she was beautiful—and that was the problem. He knew the slope of that cheek, the way her hair curled just so at the temple. He had seen it every morning of his life across the breakfast table.

“Calvin,” she whispered, using the name he had given her, and her fingers traced the line of his jaw with startling confidence. “You’re shaking. Don’t be nervous.”

Before he could answer, her mouth found his. Not the tentative press he had braced for, but something fierce and open, her tongue sliding against his with an eagerness that left him frozen. She tasted like lipstick and youth and every forbidden thing. One of her hands slid down his chest, bold, possessive, fingers catching in the fabric of his shirt as if she meant to claim whatever lay beneath. Marty tried to pull back, but the seat pressed against him and Lorraine followed, pressing closer, a small eager sound rising in her throat.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. George was supposed to see a struggle. Marty was supposed to play the villain just enough. Instead his mother—Jesus, his own mother—was practically climbing into his lap, her knee nudging between his thighs, her breath quickening against his ear.

He managed a strangled, “Lorraine, wait—” but she only laughed softly, mistaking hesitation for shyness, and kissed him harder. Her hand drifted lower, brushing the front of his jeans, and Marty felt a surge of horrified heat he immediately hated himself for.

Headlights swept across the lot.

The driver’s door was wrenched open with a shriek of metal. Rough hands seized Marty by the collar and hauled him out into the cool night air. He hit the asphalt hard, the impact jarring up through his bones. Laughter erupted—ugly, wet, familiar.

“Well, well,” Biff Tannen drawled, towering over him. “Look what we got here. Skinner’s little charity case trying to get lucky.” Behind him, his three goons shifted like wolves scenting blood. One of them kicked Marty in the ribs, casual as flicking ash from a cigarette.

Marty gasped, curling inward. He caught a blurred glimpse of Lorraine scrambling upright in the car, her dress disheveled, mouth still swollen from kissing him. “Leave him alone!” she cried, but the words were thin, already half-swallowed by fear.

Biff ignored her. He jerked his head, and two of the goons dragged Marty away, his sneakers scraping uselessly across the ground. The last thing he saw before they shoved him behind a row of cars was Biff sliding into the Ford like he owned it, one thick arm draping across the seat back where Marty had been.

“Get lost, McFly,” one of the goons laughed, and they melted into the shadows, leaving Marty crumpled and wheezing.

Inside the car, the radio kept playing.

Biff smelled of beer and Brylcreem and something sharper—rage, maybe, or just the simple animal certainty of a boy who had never been told no. He filled the space Marty had vacated, his bulk making the suspension groan. Lorraine shrank against the passenger door, but there was nowhere to go.

“You and me, we’re gonna have a little fun,” Biff said. His hand landed on her knee, heavy, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her stocking. When she tried to push it away he laughed and caught her wrist, twisting just enough to make her whimper.

“Stop,” she breathed. “Please, Biff—”

He leaned in and kissed her anyway, sloppy and bruising, forcing her head back against the seat. His free hand shoved her dress up her thigh, calloused palm scraping over skin that had never been touched like this. Lorraine made a choked sound, half-protest, half-sob, but Biff only pressed closer, his weight pinning her, his mouth moving wetly down her neck.

Outside, footsteps crunched on gravel.

George McFly stepped into the weak circle of light, shoulders hunched inside his too-big jacket, glasses glinting. He looked small. He always looked small. But his voice, when it came, carried a tremor of something new.

“Get away from her.”

Biff lifted his head, lips shiny. He grinned like a man who had just been handed a gift. “Well, if it ain’t the loser himself. Come to watch, McFly?”

George’s fists clenched at his sides. Lorraine was crying now, quietly, dress torn at the shoulder, one strap hanging loose. The sight of it did something to George—something hot and bright and terrifying. For the first time in his life the fear felt smaller than the fury.

He stepped forward. “I said get away from her.”

Biff unfolded from the car like a nightmare rising. He grabbed George’s arm and twisted, hard. Bone creaked. Lorraine lunged to help and Biff backhanded her almost lazily, sending her sprawling onto the asphalt with a cry.

George’s world narrowed to the pulse hammering in his ears. He screwed up his fist the way he had practiced in mirrors a thousand silent times and swung.

The punch connected with a meaty thud. Biff staggered back, more surprised than hurt, blood already trickling from his nose. For one shining second George felt like a hero.