She doesn't back away at the implication. "Every guy?"
I nod. "Yep."
"Even you?"
I laugh. "Most definitely me." Our eyes meet, and I hate, for her sake, the gleam of interest I see in her gaze.
"But you haven't tried anything."
I shake my head. "No, I haven't. You're my friend, Kylie. Maybe you've noticed that I don't have a lot of friends in my life, so there's no way I'm going to screw up the one friend I've got in all of Nashville. Plus, you're not even eighteen."
She's thinking hard about that. When she speaks again, it's slow and hesitant. "What if I want--"
I put two fingers over her lips, which is a temptation unlike anything. "No. You don't. You don't know the half of what makes me the way I am."
"I'd like to learn."
"No, Kylie. There's a reason I keep my bullshit to myself, okay? It's not about keeping secrets, or because I'm ashamed. It's because someone like you shouldn't know about the shit I've done. My life ain't pretty, sweetness. I wouldn't be doing you any favors by dragging you through the mud of my messy-ass life. You'd get dirty, and you're way too clean, way too gorgeous, and way too innocent for me to be willing to soil you like that. So no. For your own good, no. We're just friends, and that's all we'll ever be."
She turns on her heel and strides away, shoulders hunched, head down. I'm not sure if she's hurt by my outright rejection, or just angry. Both, maybe. It's for the best, though. I stand up, and place the guitar back on the rack.
"Keep it," she says.
"What?"
"That's my guitar. Keep it. We've got others I can use." She slips through a door leading deeper into the basement, comes back with a basic hard-sided guitar case, sets it on end near my foot. "Here."
I back away. "I'm not taking your guitar."
Her head snaps up, eyes blazing. "Take it, goddammit. It's just a cheap guitar. It's what friends do."
"Why?"
She shrugs, a tiny, defeated gesture. "Like I said, friends give each other gifts. That's a gift. It's not charity, because I'm sure that's gonna be your next excuse." Her eyes meet mine, and I see hurt, confusion, sadness. "You're still playing the mic night with me. I signed us up already. So...you need a guitar to practice on."
"What are we playing?" I lay the case on the floor and put the Yamaha in it, snap it closed.
"If you're up for it, I'd like to try a couple of songs I wrote." She's turned away again, her hand on top of the piano, rubbing idly at the polished wood.
"Sure. I'm game."
"Cool. I'll show them to you tomorrow."
"Why not now?"
"Because I'm about to cry, and I want you to leave."
Well, how's that for honesty? I move behind her but don't touch her. "I don't want to hurt you, Kylie."
"You already did."
I groan. "You really don't know what you're asking for, with a guy like me."
"Shouldn't I get to be the judge of that?"
"Yeah, maybe. But I've got a choice, too," I say.
"And you choose to reject me."
My eyes slide closed, and I feel the welling up of pain, guilt, regret. I hate that I've put hurt in this girl's life. I don't see a way around it, though. Her folks saw my scars, and they knew what they are. There's no way in hell they'd let their only child date a hood-rat nobody punk like me. And they'd be right.
"Not reject. Protect."
She spins around, suddenly a lot closer, almost touching, the round tips of her tits a hair's breadth away from my chest, looking up at me. "I think you're just scared."
I nod. "Yeah. For you."
"I'm not scared."
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because you can do better than me, Kylie. Look across the street, for starters." I gesture in the direction of Ben's house. "Boy's got it bad for you."
She steps toward me, shoves me. "He's my best friend. He's like a brother to me. And that's how he sees me. He's had our entire life to say if he felt otherwise, and he never has."
I shrug. "Maybe he's got his reasons." I rub my face. "Fuck. Look, Kylie. I'm sorry if I've hurt you. I'm sorry if you don't understand my reasons. But it's all you're gonna get from me."
I'm up the stairs before she can say anything else, trying to be calm and nonchalant as I wave at Colt and Nell, tossing a polite "see ya'll later" at them. Shit, I've got to get out of here. Out of Nashville. Away from the temptation that is Kylie Calloway.
The roar of my motorcycle fills my ears, and I'm ripping around corners, zipping through traffic and running lights and generally driving like an asshole, but I need distance from her. She'd drag my shit out of me, and she'd want to fix me, and she'd say she didn't care. But she would, and she should. I'm nobody's project, and I'm not about to risk the innocence of someone as pure as Kylie. She's a virgin, I can all but guarantee it. The way she looked at me when we were so close, eyes wide and a little scared, like she wanted to get closer and wanted me to kiss her, but was secretly afraid. The way her nostrils flared and her chest swelled with nervous breaths....god, so seductively innocent.
I'm inside my apartment without any memory of arriving. I slam my door closed and crack my window, toss my backpack to the floor and dig my tin out. Roll a joint with shaky fingers, spilling weed everywhere. Scoop up the spilled green, dump it back in the bag and light the joint. Connect my phone to the dock and blast the hardest, darkest metal I have in my library of music. I don't even know what it is, who it is, it's just grinding and brutal and what I need. Hit after hit, hold it deep, slow exhalations.
I did the right thing. Right?
The doubt is killer. Like a knife, slowly slicing away at the foundation of my certainty, like a rushing flow of water undercutting the riverbank. I lie back and fight the doubts, float on my high.
I hear a faint noise. "No, please..." I sit up, because the voice sounds familiar. It's late evening, maybe seven, and since it's early December, it's dark outside. I pause the music and listen: "NO! Leave me alone! Let go! Please!" Fuck, that's Kylie.
I scramble up and out, the door slamming and shivering, cracking the drywall, tear through the front door and down the steps. I see her in the shadows, pinned against the driver's side door of the BMW. Jesus fuck, she followed me. It's the same three guys we saw when I brought her here last time. One of them has his hands on her, holding her by the arm, leaning into her, mock-thrusting against her, laughing. And now he's pulling at her, dragging her toward the nearest door. The other two are standing back and watching, laughing, egging their buddy on.
I don't even hesitate to think or to plan my attack. I'm lunging across the sidewalk, pivoting on the ball of my left foot and swinging my fist up into his kidney, putting all my weight and force into it. They never even saw me. He stumbles back and I strike again, same spot, three short sharp jabs to his kidney. If nothing else, he'll piss blood later. But I'm not done. Jack him in the jaw, knee to the gut, wrap my palm over the back of his head and slam his face down into my rising knee. He falls back, gagging on blood and teeth.
I feel a blow to my side, grunt, spin, lash out blindly, connect with bone and flesh. Stumble back, find the attacker, half-dodge a punch, catching part of it on my cheek. The skin rips, and I feel blood sluice down, salty and hot on my lips. Another hit to my skull, just above my ear. My head rings, and I see stars. I shake my head, twist to find a target. There he is. My high is gone, replaced by adrenaline and now pain. I kick out, a snap-kick to the knee. He lurches, and I fling myself forward, head-butt him. His nose crunches, and I feel his blood coat my forehead.
Slide-click. "Best step off, mothafucka." Cold metal against my forehead.
"Go, Ky." I don't look at her, but I hear her hyperventilating. "Go!" She goes. Good girl. I hear a door slam, then tires squeal, and I hear the smooth roar of the finely tuned German engine, and she's gone.
I turn, glaring hard into cold brown eyes. "Shoot, bitch." It's all bluff. I'm fucking terrified, kne
es knocking, about to piss myself.
His eyes narrow, and he twists his wrist so the pistol is held on a diagonal. "You wanna die? Huh, white boy? You got a death wish?"
"No. But if you don't shoot me right the fuck now, you're gonna regret it." I'm tensed, ready.
He licks his lips, debating. Hesitating. Hesitation is deadly. I feel the barrel slip, tilt down, and I'm in motion. My hand snaps out, pushing the barrel to the side and down. My fist is flying, connecting with his throat.
I hear the gun go off, and burning pain slices through my leg. It registers as heat and pressure and pain, but it's not enough to stop me. I grab his wrist, twist, wrap his arm under mine and pivot my body so he's bent over and his arm is over-extended. He's moaning and trying to gasp for breath. No fucking mercy here, bitch. I tilt forward and lean down, hard and fast, and his elbow joint cracks. The gun drops from his hand, and I step on it. Throw him forward. He topples, and his face smashes into the ground.
Blood drips from my face, my leg. My fists ache and burn, the skin on my knuckles split.
I don't even register the sound of the approaching engine, or the door opening. I'm limping to stand over the gun owner. "She's mine. Got it? Next time you fuck with her, you die."
He can only moan an acknowledgment. I bend and scoop up the gun, eject the clip and the cartridge in the chamber. Shuffle-limp to the dumpster across the parking lot and toss it in. When I turn around, she's there, standing in the open door of her car, staring at me.
"You okay?" I ask, from thirty feet away.
She rushes toward me. "Am I okay? You're bleeding. I heard...I heard a gunshot, and I thought you'd...I thought he'd...I thought you were dead."
I hear a groan, and I push Kylie toward the building. "Let's go in. I'm fine."
She grabs my arm and drags me toward the car. "No, you need to see a doctor."
I pull away. "I said I'm fine."
"You were shot. Your leg--"
My leg does hurt, so I glance at it. Didn't go through; it looks like just a graze. I limp toward the door, not waiting for her. "It's not bad. I'm going in. You should go home."
She follows, though, shutting her car off and locking it. It'll be a miracle if it's intact when she leaves, but I can't worry about that. I'm adrenaline-crashing and in pain and shaking with the onset of fear, now that it's over. I slam the front door of my apartment closed, lock it, and lurch awkwardly into the kitchen. Pull a length of paper towel from the roll and press it to my leg. Hiss at the pressure and the pain. I feel dizzy. My head aches. My cheek hurts. That glancing blow hurt worse than I'd thought. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the microwave; my face is a mask of blood. Kylie is pressed against the wall near the fridge, shaking, staring at me, horrified and terrified and about to collapse.
I gesture at the hand towel hanging off the handle of the oven. "Hand me that." She does, and I replace the now-sodden paper towel with the cotton one, tossing the blood-soaked wad into the sink. "Kylie, relax. I'm fine. I've been hurt worse. This is no big deal."
She shakes her head. "There were--there were three of them. They shot you. They could've killed you. Because of me." She shudders, wraps her arms around herself. "You're a bloody mess. You're hurt."
"C'mere." I hold out my arm, and she rushes to me. Judging by the twinge of pain in my side when she slams into me, I've got a bruised rib. I ignore it, breathe through it, and hold her against me. "It was worth it, as long as you're okay. They didn't hurt you, did they?"
She shakes her head. "No. Just scared me. They...he was telling me what he wanted to--to do to me. It was so awful. And he was going to. I couldn't get away. And I knew he was going to--"
"But he didn't." I rub her back. "Breathe, sweetness. Just breathe. Everything's fine now."
She pulls away. "Um, no. You're hurt."
I wipe my forearm along my chin, smearing the dripping blood away to keep it off her. "Cuts to the head or face bleed a lot. It's just a split cheek. For real, I'll be fine. Like I said, I've had worse."
She tugs me by the hand, and I follow her reluctantly, limping behind her. She leads me to the couch, helps me sit. Brings back a few dampened squares of paper towel and wipes gingerly at my face, folding the paper towel over and over until it's a pink-red wet wad. This goes on for several minutes, until the bleeding finally stops. She touches my cheek, and then my forehead, which I realize belatedly stings, too.
"You've got two cuts." She touches near each of them. "Here, and here. They don't look deep, though."
"Like I said, I'm fine." I'm dizzy, though, and reeling. Aching, hurting. Shit, it hurts.
Kylie leans over me and oh-so-gently pries at the edges of the cut to my thigh. "This is pretty bad. It needs stitches."
"Not happening."
She looks up at me, confused. "Why not?"
"Don't have the money, don't want the attention. It'll heal." I point at the bathroom. "There's a roll of bandages and some Neosporin in the medicine cabinet. Can you grab it for me?" She nods and gets up, and it's not until she's back that I realize I can't bandage it with my jeans on. I struggle to my feet. "Need to change into shorts. I'll be right back."
"Oz, you should go the ER. I'll pay for it."
"The fuck you will." I shouldn't be so harsh, but I'm in pain and frustrated and confused. Why'd she come here? This complicates things. She's gonna feel like she owes me something now.
"Then let me help you. Please. You can barely walk." She's behind me, following my slow progress to my room. I can barely move my leg for the deep throbbing ache that seems to originate in the bones of my thigh.
I make it, and fall back onto my bed. "What, you're gonna take my pants off me?"
She blushes, but enters, sinks to her knees by my feet. "Yes." She's tugging on the laces of my boots, slipping them off my feet.
Resistance is futile. Shut up, yes, I did just make a Star Trek joke. But seriously, I don't know how to stop her, because it hurts and I've never had anyone take care of me. Mom's not the cuddly, huggy, baby-me type of mom. She's more my friend than anything else. So this is new, and I don't know how to deal with it, especially because pushing Kylie away earlier today was seriously fucking painfully difficult, the diametric opposite of what I wanted. I let her take off my shoes, and my socks. The sock on my wounded leg is sopping wet with my blood, and she makes a face as she peels it off me. She looks around for somewhere to put it.
"Garbage in the kitchen," I tell her.
She leaves, and I fumble with the button and zipper of my jeans, fight to get them off, but shitfuckdamn it hurts so bad, the edges of the denim stick to my skin and to the open wound, the blood clotting now. I've only got my jeans halfway off before she comes back.
"Goddamn it, Oz. You stubborn asshole."
"Finally got something figured out," I say, relinquishing my pride and letting her finish tugging the jeans off my legs.
I'm wearing boxers, thank god. I do sometimes go commando, if it's been awhile since I've done any laundry.
My side aches, throbs. The rib is definitely bruised at the least, possibly cracked. That was a good hard hit he got in. And my head, god, my head is throbbing from the head butt, on top of the two punches I took. Public service announcement for you, kids: Head-butting someone hurts you, too. Don't be fooled by the movies.
"Holy fuck, Oz, this is really bad. Please, please let me take you to the hospital." She's near tears, and looking pale, like she might puke.
I sit forward and give my leg a good look. It is pretty deep. Not to the bone, but it's a pretty harsh gash on the outside of my thigh. It'll heal on its own. I know this from experience. Not from a gunshot wound, but from similar injuries. I shake my head. "It looks worse than it is, Kylie. It's just a cut. Gimme the gauze."
She swallows and blinks, presses her lips together, hands me the roll of gauze, the Neosporin, a bottle of peroxide, medical tape, a pair of scissors. I realize the Neosporin probably won't do much good, so I set that aside. I take the
towel I used to sop up the blood and hold it beneath my leg.
"Dump the peroxide on that bitch," I say to her. "A whole bunch."
She blanches. "Won't that hurt?"
"Like a motherfucker. But it's better than getting an infection. Do it quick." I grit my teeth and watch. She twists the little white cap off the brown bottle, glances at me. I nod, and she pours peroxide over the wound. I can't help a groan from escaping. "F-fffffuck that hurts. Goddamn." I suck in a deep breath for courage. "All right, do it again."
She's near tears still, but she does it. And fuck me running, the raw agony is nearly unbearable. The wound bubbles crazily, and I dab at it with the corner of the towel.
"Once more."
I can't watch this time. I stare at Kylie instead, at the fall of her reddish-blonde hair draped in loose waves across one shoulder, her downcast electric eyes intent on my legs. Her T-shirt is tight and gray, her boobs round mountains that I want to explore with my hands and my mouth and my eyes. That thought doesn't help, especially since I'm only in my boxers, and if I pop a woody, she'll know. I go back to looking at her hair. Thick, lustrous, copper. Waves and waves, with a slight curling twist at the ends.
"You're staring at me." She caps the peroxide, and then looks at me.
I shrug. "Yeah."
"I thought we were just friends."
I cut a long ribbon of gauze, fold it over a few times, and then place it against the wound. "Wrap it." I watch as she winds the gauze around my leg, passing the roll from hand to hand. "We are."
"Then why are you staring at me like you could eat me?" She snips the bandage and tapes it in place, then sinks back to sit cross-legged.
"Because what's right and what I want are not necessarily the same thing." I point at a pair of loose cut-off khakis. "Can I have those?" She tosses me the frayed shorts and I slip them on, wiggling them past my hips.
Kylie's frowning at my answer. "What about what I want?"
I button the khakis and draw the zipper up, then wiggle backward and reach into my bag for my cigarettes and lighter. "Same answer applies." I light up and take a deep drag, closing my eyes as the bliss of a nicotine rush hits me. "What you want and what's best for you are not the same thing. You just saw why. My life isn't safe. I'm not safe."
She crawls on the bed and sits next to me, watches me smoke. Her fingers slide against my palm, and she takes the filter from me, puts it to her lips, takes a small draw, holds in her mouth, and then inhales. She coughs a little, but not as bad as the first time. I watch her eyes dilate, and her head thumps against the wall as the dizziness of the rush hits her.
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