Once upon a time this room was wallpapered with posters of me, but now the walls were bare. A pile of magazines lay on the nightstand. The top one featured some random asshole, but I knew she had a small story in the back of it.
I’d purchased enough of them.
I grabbed it and fell flat on her bed, shoes still on, cozying up against pillows I’d watched her fluff and throw and hug and cry against.
I wanted to mess up her room. Get it dirty. Leave the bedspread wrinkled and pillows in disarray.
Some kind of imprint, something of me, even if it could never be for real.
I flipped through the magazine, finding Raegan Fairchild.
No one was as good as her, definitely not the jackass they put on the cover, yet they only gave her a small article next to pills for penis enhancement.
I scoffed, reading the article for the umpteenth time.
I guess it’s just always been in my blood, but there was one person who helped me tremendously…
She’d come a long way from the little girl who didn’t know which way to put her feet, but in a way, she hadn’t. She was always going places.
If the world would let her.
So why was she back at Patchwork?
A hard lump dug into my spine. With the magazine still on my lap, I pulled it out. Red and silky, with a broken lock at the side—a diary. Jackpot.
I skipped to a random page and my brows flew into my forehead.
Flip.
My name. My chest pounded, eyes tearing down the page, when I heard, “I need to unpack, big brother King. We can talk more tomorrow.”
Tweetie. Right outside her room.
“Well, whatever the reason,” King responded, “I’m glad you’re back, Tweetie.”
“Shit.” I fumbled with the journal, quickly shoving it back under the pillows as Tweetie walked through the door.
She stopped short when she saw me, and a smile quirked my lips.
Tweetie was unapologetically a skater with baggie pants, a baggier shirt, and a cap always covering her bright, short curls. To most, it was unsexy, but to me, it was the hottest thing in the world. I’d always wondered what she looked like beneath.
“W-What are you doing?”
I slowly stood, stretching my arms above my head. Her eyes traveled to the muscles revealed at my waistband and I grinned.
“Got lost looking for the bathroom.”
Three
Darkside: Your board is darkside if it's upside down.
FLIP
I shoved cassettes and clothes into my backpack—whatever I could reach. There wasn’t a lot to pack. It was all just stuff. This was just the period to an already finished sentence.
The goal was to finish quickly and not think about Tweetie, especially not the way her eyes grew when she’d found me in her bedroom. Or the perfect shade of strawberry her cheeks had turned. Or the many different ways I could make it happen again.
Fuck.
I slammed another T-shirt into my bag.
Hours later, the party was still raging, having increased from tame to insane, and I was almost packed up, hand on my zipper and ready to discount this night as another thing that would ultimately fade away in Tweetie’s world but would forever stay in mine.
I glanced at my closet, the last thing to pack up, and the first place I’d let myself get too close to her, let myself fall, let myself believe I could be anything but bad for her.
I zipped up my bag, threw it over my shoulder.
I didn’t really need those clothes anyway—except my D.A.R.E. shirt, but that was already hanging over my chair. I grabbed it and headed out. Downstairs, music pounded, lights low and delirious, and some asshole with so much gel in his hair it could withstand a hurricane had one arm to the wall above Tweetie.
I paused.
Where the hell were the guys?
He handed her a joint.
Tweetie took it, the corners of her pretty lips lifting as she mouthed something. Thanks. Was she really going to smoke with this one-man Flock of Seagulls? She slid out from under his arm, heading toward the stairs. He followed, a shit-eating grin on his face.
The music faded out, people now a blur. My brain yelled at me to keep going.
I stepped into his path.
“Get lost.”
His angular face dropped and he looked over my shoulder, contemplating even through my scowl. I got it. Most assholes didn’t see Tweetie for what she was, so I appreciated this guy did. Didn’t mean he got to have her.
Double fuck.
I needed to leave. If this guy challenged me, I might even step aside. I had no right. I never had.
He exhaled and turned away. I stayed frozen, the party coming back in a whir. The front door was only a few feet away.
I went back upstairs.
I stayed in my bedroom, backpack digging into my shoulder, stuck between right and wrong as much as I was stuck in my doorway. Then I heard the window latch unclick, saw Tweetie crawl onto the roof, quiet and shadowed like she was sneaking out.
Shit really hadn’t changed much. Like her room, my window pushed directly onto the amethyst tiles. I watched her for a good while.
I told myself I hadn’t really entered Tweetie’s life, not really. One slip-up was okay. Everyone had an occasional relapse, fell off the wagon every now and then. I could still leave and it would be okay.
Then I saw her pull out the joint.
His joint.
I dropped my backpack to the floor.
“Shit,” she said as I came out my window. “I didn’t know—I mean, I’ll go.”
“It’s cool.”
She turned her head slightly, eyeing me.
“But you gotta share.”
She stared at me, blue eyes iron and glinting in the night. Then she lifted the joint to me like an offering.
I plucked it from between her fingers and tossed it off the roof before she could say a word.
“That shit is trash.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own, giving it to her. She took it wordlessly, eyes growing wider as she latched onto my stare. Wonder.
Oh, fuck. Now all I want to know is all the different ways I can make those eyes grow.
Cool night air passed in our silence, and I hazarded a glance in her direction. Blonde tendrils danced on the breeze. The joint remained unlit in her hand.
“You gonna smoke it?” I asked.
“I dropped my lighter…” She leaned over the edge, staring at the night-darkened grass. I had the urge to grab her elbow and tug her back.
Instead I pulled my trusty lighter out of my pocket.
I flicked the flame to life, its orange glow snuffing out the darkness, creating a hazy halo that engulfed us. She hesitated, looked everywhere but my face. Tweetie was fearless, so to me, her nerves were intoxicating. I drank it in. The way her middle finger dug into her thumb. The way she licked her pouty lips.
Then she leaned forward. The flame lit her face aglow. Soft skin. Soft lips. Soft cheeks. No makeup. Nothing. Just soft. A curl fell across her eye and I absently pushed it behind her ear. Her eyes widened.
I laughed, retracted my hand and released my thumb, the flame sucked back into its plastic cell.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” she said on a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be digging through your stuff. I didn’t…I wasn’t aware…” Our roof overlooked the changing leaves, and it was the perfect slant to sit and watch them disappear into the dark night. It wasn’t too far to the grass, either.
“You can come into my room any time, day or night.”
Her breath caught on a hiccup and I clenched my jaw to hide my smile.
Some time passed and I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, holding the burning joint with a slight frown twisting her beautiful face.
“You gonna smoke it?” I asked again after a few minutes, the flame burning the joint down. Tweetie stared at it.
“I’ve never…” she stuttered. “I mean…”
Her pouty, cold-stained lips.
She shrugged. “I was surprisingly sheltered.”
I smiled to myself. No weed during those years, then. It was always part of the plan to keep her as separate from our life as possible, to give Tweetie a normal life, whatever that meant.
But she came back.
Now all bets were off.
I raised a brow, tilted my head to hers. “Want to learn?” She nodded, passed the joint to me. Our fingers stayed connected. 1…2…3…I gripped the back of her head, tangled my fingers in her hair, dragging her head to mine.
A gasp fell from her lips.
Those perfect, pink lips centimeters from mine.
Fuck.
I’d dreamed of this, of her full bitable lips so close her taste was a whisper on the wind.
“What are you doing?” Her question was breathless, eyes wide and latched on to my every move. I inhaled deeply, and as an answer blew smoke into her parted lips.
She coughed.
I kept her head tight in my grip, forcing her still, and took a snapshot of the image in my head. Her red, tear-stained eyes and pink cheeks.
Tweetie was all grown up and smoking marijuana—a big change from the little girl who’d told me cigarettes were bad.
She was unbearably sexy, and when her eyes refocused on mine, hazy from the high, I shifted uncomfortably, adjusting my pants.
“I’ll teach you about the dark side,” I said, tangling my hands deeper in her curls. “You have every right to be here.”
My hands were still deep in her hair when the call sounded. I could stare at Tweetie for hours, getting lost in the way her lids dropped over hazy blue eyes, learning things only visible up close. Barely there freckles. A small dimple on her nose.
“God bless America!” someone called in the distance.
“God bless the great US of A!” someone answered. All around God bless America! was heard, the cop warning Romeo christened years ago.
Tweetie’s eyes popped in fear.
“Cops,” she whispered. “They’ll smell the weed.” She tried to pull back, and instinctively my grip tightened.
“Follow me,” I said calmly. I slowly untangled my fingers, then pushed open my window, gesturing for her to join me. There was a split-second hesitation, then she came.
I hadn’t hidden from cops in my closet in years.
Tweetie wouldn’t realize the significance, but it was all I could think about as we nestled in opposite one another. Almost exactly two years earlier, on a snowy night, I’d found her in my closet.
Minutes passed in silence as we listened for cops. King was no doubt doing damage control. I dropped my head against the wall, still watching her. She was too fucking cute. Her head was down, the bill of her cap shadowing her eyes, tip of her nose peeking out. She’d pulled her legs up to her chest, putting as much space between us as possible, but the closet was small enough that if I stretched, our legs would touch.
So that’s what I did.
My dark jeans almost rubbed against her light blue ones, when I saw it. A small, eight-legged demon. It scurried across the floor. I sprang up without thought, pressing myself against the wall. The small ones were the worst.
Tweetie’s back straightened. “Did you hear something?”
“Uh, no. Thought I did.” Fucking spiders.
I settled back down, a bit uneasily. Minutes turned into an hour, and then I heard the all-clear call so faint I almost didn’t catch it. When Tweetie didn’t say anything, I was pretty sure she’d missed it. I stayed quiet, not wanting to leave, wanting to soak up as much time with her as possible.
Tweetie’s stomach growled and she threw her arms across her belly as if that could hide it, eyes wide.
I laughed.
Then stood, opening the door.
She eyed it. “What about the cops?”
“Your hunger is more important than jail.” I threw her a grin when she hesitated.
Downstairs was quieter than usual, the cops having made everyone else scatter. I rummaged around for bread, peanut butter, and bananas. When she saw what I was making, she placed two hands on the granite counter and practically jumped.
“Peanut butter and banana is my favorite! My dad always made these for me.”
I smiled to myself as I set down the plate. “So then this makes up for it.” She drew her brows, not sure what I meant. “Stepping on your dinner.”
Tweetie nodded, taking a bite that left peanut butter on her lip. “This is way better.”
I pushed my cheek out with my tongue to keep from smiling.
“Want some?” She offered half.
I made a face. “Gross.”
Her brows pinched. “So why’d you make it if you think it’s gross?”
I paused, heart rate skyrocketing. Because I know everything about you. Because somewhere along the line, your wants and needs became more important to me than my own breaths.
I couldn’t exactly say that.
I shrugged. “You look like someone who likes disgusting food.”
She scrunched her nose. “Well, what’s your favorite food?”
“I don’t know the English word for it.”
That made her tilt her head as she chewed. “Describe it?”
“It’s like pork-flavored cotton candy.” I went to the cupboard and pulled out the jar of rousong I’d brought with me, showing her.
It was Tweetie’s turn to make a face. “And you dare call my food gross?” I smiled for real this time, my tongue sliding to my incisor to halt a laugh.
We settled into a comfortable silence, me with an elbow on the counter, chin on my fist. I watched her eat. Her incisor was chipped, and even though the way she’d gotten it was awful, it fit her. It was adorable.
She stopped chewing. “What?”
I can’t believe this is real.
I coughed, stood up straight. “So, what brought you back to Patchwork?”
She chewed deliberately, working the sandwich in her mouth, then swallowed. “How did you know I was coming back?”
Shit.
Caught.
I shrugged. “Overheard some people talking.”
“Everyone is such a gossip.” Tweetie exhaled, pushing her cheeks out. “I was looking for someone and when I couldn’t find him…I don’t know. It was the right time. I missed everyone.” She’d been looking for someone? I fought the urge to press her.
Who the fuck had she been looking for?
There was something I really, really wanted to know, anyway. Something I could never ask, because I’d never really been granted a good moment.
“So, uh…” I attempted my segue. “The first time you lived here, it was because…”
“King killed my dad.”
I paused. I couldn’t believe she’d just said it. My eyes must have been saucers because she laughed, wiping a bit of peanut butter off the corner of her mouth, nearly distracting me as I imagined doing it with my tongue.
Then she kept eating.
“I didn’t think you would answer.”
“Everyone knows the story. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
It felt like one, because the truth behind what really happened could never come out.
“Do you hate him? King, I mean.”
“I never hated him,” she said, and for a moment I hoped. “I was mostly just so, so sad, and so young. I’m glad it happened then, as horrible as that sounds. If it happened now, I don’t think I could forgive him, you know? I was a kid. It made it easier. When you’re a kid you can move on.”
She paused.
“Now I don’t think I could move past it. I would be blinded by pain, and then I wouldn’t have my big brother.”
I f
ell into my seat, stared at the different graffiti pictures on the wall.
I didn’t know why I ever thought it would be different. The guys had been telling me as much for years, had been warning me away from her. Over and over again they’d warned me.
Nothing but selfish desires told me the opposite.
I must have stared at the wall for minutes, sound nothing but a rush of blood in my ears. I only realized Tweetie was talking when I saw her mouth moving.
“What?”
“You used to live here too, right?” she asked. I couldn’t exactly lie; she’d figured out as much when I arrived. I nodded slowly, unsure how to play it. “When?”
“A while ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
Tweetie finished her sandwich, waiting with wide and open eyes for me to tell her a truth that would shatter her entire world. For the first time, I was glad King interrupted us.
“I’ve been searching all over the goddamn house for you.” King grabbed Tweetie, pulling her from the kitchen island so she faced him. “I thought the cops snatched you.”
“I was hiding,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “I checked all the hiding places.”
“Not all of them,” I said. King shot me a look and I couldn’t help myself—I grinned. Tweetie’s strong stance faltered, chin wavering.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” King said, almost to himself, then his grip tightened and I focused on burying my feet into the hardwood so I didn’t yank him off her. “You were almost arrested, Tweetie. This life isn’t for you. I think coming home was a mistake.”
Her eyes shone bright like gems in water.
Then she ripped her arm out of his grip and ran up the stairs. Tweetie never wanted anyone to see her vulnerable side.
“You underestimate her,” I said. King stared after Tweetie long after she’d disappeared up the steps. When he spoke, his back was still to me, arms folded.
“You were supposed to come get the last of your shit months ago. You shouldn’t even be here.”
I tried to stay away.
Skater Boy (Patchwork House Book 1) Page 3