In the end, I broke my promise.
We didn’t become legitimate.
We became Corrupt.
“How’s skateboarding?” Daniel asked.
I shrugged. “Working on it.”
“You’ve been working on it for a year,” King said.
I tried skateboarding, but I couldn’t.
I just…couldn’t.
My body revolted. Every time I tried I remembered that day. Daniel understood, but that was Daniel—understanding to the point of sainthood.
“So if you’re not here to tell us you’ve finally started skating again and you’re not coming inside, what the hell do you want?” King asked.
I’d been thinking about that since the day I saw her leave the same orphanage they’d tried to shove me in when my parents left. Knew the answer was insane, but I had no other choice.
“You need to take in Tweetie.” Stunned silence followed. Romeo pulled a cigarette from behind his pierced ear, prepping for the shitstorm.
It was a blazing copper day. The sun, the leaves, the sky—everything was golden. The rain was starting, though. Tweetie couldn’t sleep in the fucking rain. She might die in the snow.
Even though both Daniel and Romeo would have to take her in as well, this was a task specifically for King. Romeo lived more on the edge than any of us, was just one windblow from falling off it.
I knew Daniel would say yes, but I couldn’t put the burden on him. I had a feeling there was shit he didn’t tell us and was already up to his limit. Daniel also had his own babysitting gig as well, was making sure King’s sister was good. Even if King couldn’t go back to Heaven’s Court, he couldn’t fully abandon those he’d left behind.
Since King had a sister before Patchwork, he would know what to do.
He would hate it, he would hate me, but he wouldn’t say no. Because at his core, King was a protector. We all were. It was the reason four very different people could make something like Patchwork. At our core, we matched.
King let out a breath halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He dropped a shaking head.
“I would do it myself but…” I trailed off. When King decided he was going to take the fall it meant I could never be there for Tweetie, not in the light, anyway. If Tweetie recognized me, all the months of pain King went through would be for nothing. Even if I never wanted it, I couldn’t make his sacrifice worthless.
“You and her have a relationship, King,” I continued.
He startled. “The fuck we do.”
“You do. She likes you.”
“She hates my guts. She thinks I killed her dad.”
“She waits for you.” I looked down the street, to where I knew Tweetie sat below the underpass, arms around her knees, staring out to where King always came with a bag of cheap burgers and fries I’d bought for her. She would perk up then quickly apply her frown and glare, like lipstick and eyeshadow.
It was cute.
“Who’s going to pay for her food? The clothes she needs? It’s not just bringing her in. She’ll need shit—girly shit.”
“Me,” I said without hesitation. I had money saved up from my magazine spreads, from winning my comps. Since I’d stopped skating at the height of my popularity, I’d just become more popular.
More magazines printed my name. I was even on TV.
It had always been my dream to see myself on TV. Careful what you wish for, right?
The money had been going toward Patchwork; why couldn’t some of it go to the little girl whose life we fucked?
King shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. “So I’m what, daddy now? Where the fuck is she going to sleep? At Patchwork with all of us?” He gestured behind him, where a bevy of men and boys ranging anywhere from twelve to almost-twenty lay in various angles of sleep on the porch and steps. I shrugged again because I had no good answer.
“Four rules, Flip,” King said. “Four.”
I exhaled, long and hard. “Really? Now?” When we founded Patchwork we decreed four rules to live by, four rules everyone would follow. We all chose our rule and it worked in creating harmony—before. Before I wrecked a girl’s life and made her homeless.
“I’m not doing this,” I said.
“You obviously forgot.” King turned to Romeo. “Number one?”
“Number one, no rules.” Romeo raised shirtless, tanned and inked arms above his head, stretching. “Still the best and only one we need, I think.”
“Number two, do good,” Daniel continued. “Even if they say we’re the worst, we do good. We help, we fix up the neighborhood, we do good in any way we can.” All eyes turned to me. King’s light brown brow arched, waiting.
“Number three, we accept anyone,” I bit out, glare matching King’s.
“Number four, no chicks,” King countered.
I threw up my hands. “She’s not a chick—she’s a helpless little girl.”
King released a breath. “And Romeo can’t walk naked through the house around a helpless little girl.” Romeo cocked his head, plumping his red lips like Fair point. Silence followed. I knew what everyone was thinking: where would she fit in among the shirtless, messy boys and near-men?
I didn’t have the answer, but I knew she couldn’t keep sleeping in the street, and neither could she go back to that awful excuse for a group home.
I raked both hands through my hair. “I never wanted you to take the fall.”
“Oh really? Because you accepted it pretty goddam quick.”
King stepped to me.
I met him.
Daniel threw his arms between us. “We can’t let this break us. After everything?” King and I looked at each other, then looked away.
“Friends forever or some shit, yeah?” Romeo added.
“Yeah,” we mumbled, but it was weak, like the bond between us. I looked down to my black and white checkered sneakers. Beneath them, emerald moss and violets overgrew on the cobblestone.
Tweetie saw trash beneath her sneakers. Because of me, Tweetie was sleeping on the street. Because of me, Tweetie had no bed. I took that from her.
“We’re all she has, King. We took everything else from her.”
His face shifted, the hard stone cracking, and he let out a curse.
I breathed. It wasn’t a win, but it wasn’t another loss.
“You owe me. Big.” He jabbed his pointer finger at me. “Don’t think I won’t collect.”
I nodded. “Just take care of her.”
TWEETIE
“Stand up. Get your shit. You’re coming with me.”
I scrambled to my feet at the sight of King. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to react, let alone ask questions. Come with him? To Patchwork?
He didn’t sound the least bit happy about it, but I quickly grabbed all my stuff before he changed his mind. It wasn’t hard; I only had a few small mementos. Everything else could be left with the rest of the trash.
He was already walking away when I gathered everything.
My heart thumped against my ribs. Fear, of course, but really an overwhelming sense of debt. How could I ever repay him? The silhouette of him grew smaller, trash bag dangling from my hand as I tried to form words.
Thank you. Thank you for saving me again.
“I still hate you,” I yelled to his back.
He paused. “And I still think you’re annoying.”
I followed King out of the overpass, and to my surprise, two more boys were waiting at the mouth. King kept walking, but I paused. The smaller of the two came and took my trash bag of stuff. He dressed normally, in simple, distressed light blue jeans and a faded denim jacket-hoodie combo. He told me his name in a soft, quiet voice. Daniel.
The other lit a cigarette and grinned at me. His face was lovely, almost pretty like a girl’s. However, the flame lit him aglow in a sinful way, and like his wolfish smile, there was nothing lovely or pretty about it.
“You going to stare all day, luv?�
�� He had a thick British accent with long, and luxurious brown hair and crystal blue eyes.
“No.” I quickly scrambled after them.
When we reached Patchwork, nerves wrapped around my legs. The sun fell behind the steep, sloping Victorian, lighting it on fire. It was otherworldly. Demonic. Decadent. Like Hade’s house incarnate. I’d only been inside once before, briefly.
Now I was going to see what Patchwork was really about.
I wasn’t just entering the home I’d been thrown out of over and over again, I was going to live in it. King was at the door, Daniel and the British guy walking up the steps, and I couldn’t move.
Swallow. Hide my rapidly beating heart.
I have every right to be here.
Inside, not one section was untouched by something elegant and old. Everything from the ceiling molding to the purple and gold wallpaper was ornate. The mantle dripped intricate carvings like melted dark chocolate, a large mirror stood proudly over the fireplace, the pane graffitied, like most of the house. It wasn’t like the walls of the underpass—sloppy and without purpose; this was art. It reminded me of an old castle, a home to some ancient vampire who’d given his life up to rebellion.
Someone dashed across my field of vision, a mummy wrapped in toilet paper, their cotton cape floating elegantly on the wind as they disappeared out the door I’d just come in. Then the whole scene unfolded.
Chaos.
That’s what Patchwork House was—a quilt of chaos and debauchery like the graffiti painting the outside and inside. Like the boys who ruled over it.
I tried to look past the party like last time, but I couldn’t focus on just one thing. One guy shoved another so hard he fell into a stack of records. Another jumped on a box and did a karate kick only to have the box pulled out from under him.
I stuck a finger in my ear. The music was so loud it actually hurt. Then all at once, it stopped. Their attention turned to us, specifically me. Some looked close to my age, while others were nearer to King’s.
I stepped behind King, and instinct had me grabbing his hand. The biggest, most powerful vampire.
“What the fuck?” a guy with an indigo mohawk said, eyes on me.
“This is Tweetie,” King said, authority lacing his tongue. “She’s with us now.”
Another long, stagnant pause. The only sound a record scratching.
“No, seriously,” a shirtless guy said on a laugh. “What the fuck?”
Daniel stepped up, grabbing a pile of clothes, and threw it at the shirtless one. “Put some clothes on.” The guy caught them, nonplussed. He looked from the shirt and jeans to Daniel, then to me, finally back at the shirt.
“It’s a prank!” someone piped up. There was a collective ohhh.
“It’s not a fucking prank,” King growled.
Another long pause then someone said, “I didn’t sign on to be a babysitter.” There was a murmur of agreement.
One by one they all filed past us, sparing me a puzzled look, a shake of the head. A few stragglers remained, floating in the living room like a crowded beach just cleared after a shark warning.
In their wake, a mess was left, the likes of which I’d never seen before. I had never been clean by any standards. My dad used to call me Hurricane Rae. But this was next level. Cigarette butts. Food wrappers. Empty soda cans and even fireworks.
When my three guardians stepped farther inside, I didn’t want to follow. I couldn’t let go of King's hand either, so we created a bridge of arms and hands, of my reluctance to acknowledge just how much my life had changed.
I was already grateful to King for saving my life, now he was offering to give me a home. I didn’t understand why. These boys had decreed they were my new guardians. What did it mean when three boys who lived their life by a code of not giving a fuck suddenly cared about you?
I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
King looked over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. Then, as if realizing my internal struggle, he tugged me inside. I tripped and he steadied me with his other hand.
“This is your life now, Tweetie.”
Eight
Coping: Any material attached to an obstacle for easier grinds and slides.
FLIP
Some time ago
Tweetie is 10, Flip is 15
“You put her in the fucking attic?” Tweetie’s cries were heard all the way downstairs as my eyes traveled between King, Daniel, and Romeo. The attic was dark, uninsulated, and filled with spiders.
A few days had passed since Tweetie had officially moved into Patchwork House and all she did was cry. She refused the food the remaining boys brought up to her. She hadn’t asked for help of any kind. I don’t think she wanted attention, and I was certain she didn’t think we could hear her at all.
But sounds carried in this big Victorian, and they were at their wits’ ends.
Which was why I met with them that evening in the hazy, marigold light of the kitchen. It was my fault she was there, after all.
“Where would you have had us put her?” King growled. “We don’t have any rooms left. The guys all sleep where they can.” The house was deceptively big. Though it was three stories and on a great plot of land, it was only a four-bedroom. The rooms themselves were large, with every other square foot dedicated to drawing rooms, dining rooms, a great hall, a solarium, a music room—fancy, rich people shit that was of no use to us.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Anywhere else would have been a good start.” King looked ready to step to me and I was just tired enough, just ready enough to feel anything other than guilt and shame, to meet him.
Daniel intervened before anything could start. “Hey. We moved her.”
“Temporarily,” King amended. “We temporarily moved her into my room.” I settled back against the cupboards as King repositioned himself on the brick wall mural of Bill Murray some kids had painted a few months back when Caddyshack was big, shoulder to shoulder with Romeo and Daniel.
“And she’s still crying?”
King and Daniel shared a look. “There was an issue—” Daniel started.
“She fucking slammed the door in my face,” Romeo said before he could finish. “Brat.”
That still didn’t explain her recent bout of tears. The way they all looked at one another, I knew there was more to it. I threw my hands out, waiting.
Daniel pulled back his hoodie, exposing springy dreads with a sigh. “He kicked it in.”
I turned to Romeo, exasperated. “You kicked it in?”
“I’m not going to let a seven-year-old get the best of me,” he said primly, adjusting his leather jacket like he was wearing suspenders and a tuxedo, not worked leather over a bare chest.
“She’s ten,” Daniel said, and Romeo shrugged like Same thing.
“You could’ve put her in my room,” I said, only to be met with an awkward, stiff silence. Daniel and Romeo looked anywhere else but me. King adjusted his folded arms.
I sighed.
“We moved her from the attic,” Romeo said, pushing past the elephant in the room. “We gave her a bed. I fuckin’ let her touch my hair, and nobody touches my hair.” Romeo put his pointer finger to his long, bronze-hued hair, eyes wide and crazy.
We all exhaled at the same time as her cries grew louder, like the house was haunted.
“We’ve got to fuckin’ shut her up. It’s like…” Romeo fluttered his hands, searching for the right word. Finally he jammed his chest. “It’s doing something here, you know? It’s not good.”
“You feel bad for her,” I said simply.
He shook his head with a laugh. “No. No, it’s not that.”
“Have any of you tried talking to her?”
All three shared a look.
“We sent the kids up with food,” Daniel said. “The ones closest in age.”
“So no one’s talked to her?”
“And say what?” King lifted his arms. “Sorry we killed your dad and ruined your entire life, wanna play
Jenga?”
“Or we could…” I searched for an idea, trying to find inspiration in the kitchen, when my eyes landed above the stove. Graffiti was starlight against the dark wood pantry, a cow jumping over the moon. A smile came to my lips. “Tell her a bedtime story.”
All three of them looked at me like I was crazy, but no one had any better ideas.
When we got upstairs, King put a hand to my chest. “Stay outside.” As if I wasn’t planning on that already. “She remembers you, even if she can’t put it together. The clothes you were wearing, your hat, your eyes. We tell her it’s us she remembers but, it’s playing with fire, Flip. You’re her living nightmare.”
TWEETIE
“I don’t need bedtime stories,” I said, wiping my nose and rubbing my eyes, getting rid of the evidence. I needed them to think I was tough. Tough meant no tears, right?
I only cried when they weren’t around, when nightmares of that night came back. The only thing that made the dreams bearable was him. I wasn’t sure who he was. Everyone told me he didn’t exist, but he felt so real. His checkered shoes, his snapback cap. The eyes I remember most, warm and brown. His presence made me feel guarded.
It’s weird.
He keeps me safe, yet he visits me in nightmares.
“It’s for me,” the big one said, King. “I need ‘em, can’t sleep without ‘em.”
I squinted. “Really?”
The thought that they saw me as some little girl who needed a bedtime story…that was worse than the nightmares, worse than the cold, masculine room that was nothing like my old bedroom with stuffed animals and fluffy pillows and glow-in-the-dark stars.
“We all do,” the smaller one with the exciting, extravagant hair said—Daniel. Disbelief grew suspicious weeds in my stomach. Someone hung in the doorway but I couldn’t make him out, just his arm. Long and toned and silky, like sepia-colored moonlight.
“I’m telling it, yeah?” said the one with the funny accent, Romeo. “I’m more creative than all three—err, two, of you put together. Plus I have the best voice.” He stretched his arms in front of his chest, cracking his knuckles.
Skater Boy (Patchwork House Book 1) Page 7