I did.
I spent two years trying to rip out the roots she’d firmly planted in my head. Then she showed up at Patchwork as I was putting the final nail in the coffin of whatever the fuck we were never supposed to become.
“Yeah,” I said lamely.
“The closer you get to her, the more you hurt her—emotionally, career-wise. You’re no good for her, you never were. The first time you dragged her into our life, her dad died.”
I couldn’t say anything, because he was right.
When I saw her, all of my self-control, what was left of my morals, go haywire.
I’d only ever done one right thing.
Years ago when the accident happened, I moved out of Patchwork and forced King and the guys to bring Tweetie in. I stayed away. Then, one chance encounter brought me back.
I became her shadow.
It wasn’t until age sixteen that I started to see her differently. I fought it; of course I fought it. Tweetie was the little girl I taught, the little girl we saved.
But when she was a few weeks from eighteen, I fell.
Hard.
King turned, jaw granite. “Are you leaving?”
“No.”
“So you’re staying.”
I wasn’t sure.
I couldn’t leave, but if I stayed, I couldn’t have her either. I was fucked in the head. Possessive of a girl I’d started to want when she was sixteen, a girl I’d started to need when she was seventeen, and a girl I’d fallen head over heels for when she was barely eighteen.
I shrugged, and King brushed past me, making sure to shove me hard with his shoulder.
Four
Vert Skateboarding: Skating on ramps and other vertical structures.
TWEETIE
“Tickets! Get your tickets!” echoed into the crisp morning air as I made my way to the back yard, excited to test the new ramp. Sparky was perched behind a crudely made lemonade-style stand with a friend I didn’t know. He was bigger than Sparky in every way, taller than me—though that wasn’t much of a feat.
I readjusted my board, stopping to speak with Sparky. “What for?”
“Bacon is going to eat three ghost peppers.”
“Bacon?” I looked at his friend.
“He’s one of them vegans,” Sparky answered for him. Of course. Almost everyone at Patchwork came from a broken family, so the first thing they got when they arrived was a name. Even if they only stayed a night, they knew they belonged somewhere.
I bought a “ticket” then headed for the ramp. I had a qualifier coming up and I had to focus, which meant no thinking about enigmatic, famous boys who dripped sexuality from their wicked, wolfish smiles. Boys who may or may not have starred in my diary were especially out.
I’d been trying to win a comp since I was a kid, and I was coming up on my last chance. When you reach a certain age, going pro just isn’t an option anymore.
I climbed the ladder into a lemon sun. I’d been working on a new move lately, something special and just…different. It was harder, but it was going to be worth it. A trick so amazing, so breathtaking they’d have to accept me, even if I came without a penis.
As I dove, I tried not to think about Flip.
I had a checklist, anyway, a foolproof list of must-nots and must-haves if I was ever to fall in love again. It protected my heart, which tended to make bad decisions.
But all I could think was, Thank god I took down the posters of him.
Then my skateboard flew up and I landed on my shoulder—hard.
Note to self: don’t think about boys when skating. I lifted my shirt to wipe my sweaty forehead, then gasped. Said must-not stood at the top of the ramp, sunlight creating a halo, shirtless. His jeans hung low on his hips, boxers clinging indecently to his muscles.
Tattoos crawled up his right arm and along his right pectoral, inky and metallic in the sun. There was a new one that hadn’t been on his poster, Chinese characters stretching down his ribcage to the edge of his boxers.
He was a fallen angel. A god.
His eyes traveled to my naked stomach and I quickly dropped my shirt. Deliberately, like he was memorizing my body, his stare came to my eyes, and his lips curved. “Your feet are still wrong.”
What did he mean still?
He slid down the ramp until suddenly he was in front of me. The morning sun was warm and loving on his olive skin. Hair wavy and wild, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and milk chocolate in the sun.
“And your hair is still wild.” It sounded like a compliment. He pushed a strand out of my face like he had the night before. Again, I let him. He touched me like he had the right to touch me, and it threw me off balance.
Flip looked my face up and down, settling on my cap. “I’d like to see you without your hat sometime.”
Stupid. Breathless. Brain not working. A shirtless poster was one thing; Flip in person was enough to fry my neurons.
When I’d gone too long without responding, he gave me another wolfish, panty-melting grin, the kind that made my legs jelly.
His touch came to my collarbone, warm and gentle and soft. “You’re bleeding.” The way he spoke ignited shivers up and down my spine. Cold and hot, snow melting down my marrow.
“It’s nothing.” I tried to shrug him off, but Flip wouldn’t move. The protective look in his eyes made my gut jackrabbit.
His eyes settled on my board. This morning when I woke, it was fixed. Magically. I assumed it was King like always, but I’d yet to find him to thank him.
“Aren’t you, uh…” I swallowed, trying to think of anything except his hand on my shoulder. I had never been someone who stuttered. I actually considered myself pretty fearless, but Flip made my tongue tingle. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I run hot.”
Oh.
Those three words were enough to make me run hot too.
“Um…are you…you want to join me?”
Flip made it impossible to think, so I said and did stupid things, like inviting him to skateboard, when I should have been inviting him to leave.
His touch fell from my shoulder and he speared both hands into black jean pockets, face a mask. “Pass.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“I don’t skateboard.”
A stalemate of silence passed. I knew Flip wasn’t doing it professionally, but at all? How the hell had that happened? Questions flipped through my mind, but the wall in his eyes said it wasn’t up for debate.
Flip had been the world’s hottest skater until he just wasn’t. Girls who wouldn’t normally give skateboarding a second look lined up to see him, going nuts for his boyish, cocky charm. Boys worshipped him as a god for the way he reinvented skateboarding. He was the first Asian-American skater so he hit it big in Asia. Everyone was rooting for him. He was a worldwide phenomenon.
There was so much speculation around why he stopped. Some said the pressure got to his head. Others said he had a secret injury. In the end, no one really knew why.
The rumor about his comeback came up at least once every year, but it never happened.
“Is there a reason you don’t skate?”
His gaze fell back to my shoulder. “You need to clean that up.”
“I’m fine. Happens all the time.”
His eyes settled back on mine with an intensity that hadn’t been there before. “Maybe you need someone to catch you.”
My breath caught on a hiccup. A pause followed his words. A heady, hazy pause where all I saw were his lips. Smooth and unfairly full, with a sheen over the rosy hue that made me want to lick them. I wanted to fall into it, into him. His arched brow said he knew, like me coming to him was predetermined.
His eyelids dropped, my heartbeat thrummed.
And a violent scream erupted in the yard.
Followed by Bacon running and ripping off his shirt, tossing it between us. Flip jumped back. Sparky ran after him, holding a pitcher of water splashing over the sides.
I used the distraction to break from Fl
ip, running inside. Still feeling his eyes on me. Everywhere. On my skin. Inside my lungs.
When the door opened, I assumed it was King bringing me gauze—it wouldn’t have been the first time. He always opened the door a slice, placed it on the dresser, and shut it without coming in.
It was our ritual.
I figured he’d seen me grab the first aid kit.
“Thanks. I could’ve—” gotten it myself. I stopped short when the door was fully open, and a boy stood there, a boy not King.
Flip leaned against the frame.
At least he’d put on a shirt.
I quickly scrambled, holding my shirt close. How much had he seen?
“I’m…I’m changing,” I said, stating the obvious. I held my tee to my chest. This was the most exposed I’d ever been.
He raised a brow. “I can see that.” He leaned against the frame like he had every right to be there, watching—no, studying me. He wasn’t looking below my neck and somehow that made it worse. Heat crept up my cheeks, a blazing fire.
I swallowed. “Why are you here?”
“Is this not my room?” he asked lazily.
“Obviously not.” Instead of going back out, he shut the door. I swallowed with the snick.
“Look, if you’re…” I searched for my voice. My room was suddenly too small. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” Or anyone else. I gave my heart away a long, long time ago. “I don’t date skaters.”
But the way my voice wavered made it sound like a lie.
The way my throat ached made me know it was.
He laughed. Hard. I tried to ignore the way it made my belly pancake. “Straight to the point.” Yeah, being raised by three unapologetic rebels meant I didn’t really know any other way. “I like that,” he said with a wink. “It’s a good thing I’m not a skater anymore.”
A wash of sadness rushed through me. Flip had been my favorite skateboarder—not because he was hot, but because watching him was magnetic and inspiring. I know years had passed and the hope of a comeback was probably futile, but hearing him say it was so tragic.
He stepped closer. I immediately put my hand out.
“Stay there. Just…stay right there.” As long as there were a few feet of distance between us, I was safe from the swirling, drunk emotions in my gut. From the wolfish glint in his grin.
“I like someone else,” I said. “I’m just not going to go for you. Sorry.”
Nate. The boy I’d spent the last two years trying to find. The boy who met nearly all of the items on my checklist. The boy who’d showed me how to skate street style, who’d given me my first real kiss, then vanished without a trace.
I thought that would be the end of it, but Flip’s brow arched over a sharp, confident look that made me feel unsteady on my feet. Then his eyes landed on my shoulder, where I knew blood trickled.
“You need help.” It wasn’t a question.
“I…” I rolled my lips. “I have King.” A harsh narrow of his eyes, but in an instant they slid back into impassive amusement, and I was sure I’d imagined it.
“You and King are really fucking close.” He said it like it was some kind of hilarious joke, but there was more behind his words. A darkness.
King was my savior. At one time, he was my everything. The reason for food on my table, for a house over my head. Of course we were close.
Another long minute passed, one where I was painfully aware the only thing between Flip and me was my shirt. I tugged off my hat, suddenly too hot. I exhaled, blowing a strand of blonde hair out of my face.
His gaze darkened.
And suddenly he was on me. My lower back biting into my cold dresser. He smoothed a finger along my bare shoulder, stopping before the new wound at the dip in my collarbone. I shivered at the touch and pain, breath held captive in my chest.
“I told you to stay away,” I whispered. I knew I could call out for King and he would come. Kick down the door. Nothing had ever stood between King and my safety. Between King and me.
“Sit,” he said, angling me toward my bed.
I did.
He pulled out the first aid kit I’d grabbed and sat beside me. The bed dipped with his weight in a way that made me all too aware of his presence. I’d never had a boy in my room, not beyond the three surrogate brothers who’d raised me. Now Flip had been here twice in the last two days.
His hand hovered over the painkillers and my heart jackrabbited.
“Oh, I can’t—” But I broke off, as he was already reaching for something else. No matter the pain level, I couldn’t use them.
“I’m not a fan of them either,” he said simply.
We shared a look, and once again I got the feeling we shared something pivotal.
Then his hand was cool on my neck, my collarbone. There was a clinical interest in his gaze, something that said he was touching just to make sure I was okay.
It made me feel all the more vulnerable.
Because my heart pounded, fluttered so loud in my chest. Even if he was touching me like a doctor would, my skin registered his touch as a lover’s. I wondered if he could hear my heartbeat because the silence surrounding us was so great.
I noticed his lips were moving, but I heard nothing.
I blinked, noise rushing in like a wave.
“Hmm?”
“I asked if you have any more wounds.”
“Oh. Right.” I cleared my throat. “No. Just this one.”
He quickly applied the gauze.
I waited for him to go, for his hands to leave my body, but his eyes slowly traveled over me. I gripped my shirt tighter, but it was useless, like the fire in his eyes could burn up the fabric into nothing save ashes.
“You should be more careful,” he said, voice in his throat, eyes still burning holes into my clothes.
“Tweetie?” King called outside my door. “I brought the gauze.”
Instinctively I went to stand, but Flip’s hand shot out, reflexes faster, and gripped my chin. I waited, breath pulled, eyes locked with his burning embers.
“Be more careful, Tweetie.” He tilted my neck up. “I’m the only one who should be putting marks on your body.” His grip tightened on my skin, voice hoarse like he’d had one too many drinks. All that, just as much as his words, dried my throat, made my legs ache and thighs clench. I found myself leaning toward him.
Then all at once he released me.
Threw the gauze away.
And left without another word.
I fell to the bed on a sigh.
FLIP
I shut the door to Tweetie’s room, meeting King’s stunned face. Years ago when she’d first moved in, Romeo broke the lock on her bedroom door when he kicked it in after she slammed it shut in his face.
Good thing it was still broken.
King's jaw clenched, eyes going from the door to me. “What’s your goal here, Flip?”
To make Tweetie unequivocally mine.
Simple.
I was in too deep. I couldn’t stop until I knew how the flesh that had trembled against my touch reacted against my lips.
As if he could read my mind, he scoffed. “I’ll tell her everything.”
I released an incredulous laugh, pulling out a joint. “I don’t know when I became the villain in our story, but if it means I get Tweetie, I’ll gladly play the part, King.”
A noise sounded and we shared a look, an unspoken agreement not to have this play out within earshot of Tweetie. We went to my room.
It was only a few seconds after King shut my door that Tweetie climbed out onto the roof. Only the glass panel separated us like it had for years.
Always watching. Always the shadow at her back.
King came to stand in front of me, blocking my view.
“You aren’t the villain in our story. You’re the villain in her story.” I tore my stare from Tweetie, meeting King's. “Stay away from her,” he continued. “Tweetie isn’t like us. She’s not from this world. We agreed on that.”
King, the god of all other gods—at least, that was what people said about him. Going from the most powerful family in town, to here, Patchwork. The outcasts. He could take any hit thrown at him, and because of that, he never lost. His family was always trying to tear us down, and he was like Zeus against the Titans.
But he had lost once. He couldn't have his girl.
And now he was like a goddamn golem guarding my girl, acting all self-righteous. Did he forget? If not for me, he would have left her under the overpass. If not for me, she would be some forgotten street kid.
But I swallowed that.
Tweetie and I were destiny.
I don’t know who the fuck this other guy was she thought she liked, but it boiled down to that simple truth. We were destiny.
I couldn’t control it. I’d tried damn hard to fight it, but since the day she came to me, board slipping from her small fingers, and oversized helmet falling over her too blue eyes, Tweetie cemented her place in my life.
“I gotta say, white knight doesn’t look good on you man.”
He laughed, disbelief lodged in his throat. “No argument here, but I’m not the one who begged for this goddamn suit, am I, Flip?” My smile dropped. His followed.
“So you gonna guard her door or some shit?”
He folded his arms. “If I have to.”
I ran a thumb across my lip, looking to the girl whose room had posters of me. Whose cheeks stained crimson at my simple presence. Whose diary had my name.
“How about I make you a promise?” I said, stepping to him “I’ll only go as far as she lets me.”
Five
Punk: A troublemaker.
TWEETIE
Eye fucking.
That’s what this was.
I never understood the term until now, until Flip. After he left my room, I was alone for hours. I thought maybe he’d come to his senses. Realized I wasn’t worth it. But as a party roared around us, he watched me shamelessly.
I’d heard him and King arguing the night before, but could only make out one word: Tweetie. My name. What kind of argument could include me? It kept me up all night until my glow-in-the-dark stars became blurry.
Skater Boy (Patchwork House Book 1) Page 4