by BB Easton
The left side of Knight’s face was purple. And blue. And greenish. And yellow. His eye was almost swollen shut, and there was a nasty gash just below his eyebrow that looked like it could use a few stitches.
Knight looked tired. Beaten. And, for possibly the first time in his life, utterly defeated.
“Why the fuck are you crying?”
“I’m not cry—” As soon as I heard my voice break, I realized he was right.
Holy shit. I am crying.
Wiping my nose on the back of my hand, I remembered the wad of paper still tucked inside my fist. “I got your fucking letter.”
Knight stared at me, his usually crystalline eyes cloudy from exhaustion.
“And…”
“And? And you’re fucking here! Again!” I waved the folded piece of paper in the air. “You said you were staying in North Carolina! You said you had nothing to come back to!”
Knight didn’t yell back. He simply took a deep breath and replied, “I changed my mind.”
“Yeah? No shit! Funny how you keep doing that!”
“Why are you here, Punk? Shouldn’t you be off blowing your boyfriend somewhere?”
“Why are you here, Knight? Why the fuck do you keep coming back? You’re not going to stay! All you do is tell me that we can’t be together, so why the fuck do you keep showing up? Why are you doing this to me?”
Knight took a step forward and braced his hands on the doorframe. “Because I fucking need you! Okay? Because you’re all I fucking think about! Because you’re the only person I can fucking stand on this planet, and I fucking miss you. Okay? I miss every-goddamn-thing about you!”
Knight reached across the invisible plane separating us and jammed a finger into the side of my nose, causing me to wince and turn my head. “I miss that fucking heart-shaped freckle on your nose.”
Then he stepped across the plane completely, crowding me in.
I took a step back but found myself teetering on the edge of the top stair. With nowhere to go but down, I stood there and let Knight cup my cheek in his blazing hot hand.
He swiped a thumb over the imperfection he found there. “I miss that fucking dog-bite scar that looks like a dimple when you smile.” Sliding his rough hand from my cheek to my neck, Knight grasped the zipper he found at the base of my throat and tugged. “And I miss the way you looked in my fucking jacket. Not this bullshit.” Pulling the zipper down, Knight yanked my new coat off over my shoulders and threw it down the stairs behind me.
The sound of my own sobs alerted me to the fact that I was still crying, even harder than before. Trying to get a grip on my erratic emotions, I concentrated on what I was feeling.
Why was I crying? Was it because I was afraid Knight was going to hurt me?
No.
Was it because Knight was touching me?
No.
Was it because I wanted him to touch me?
Yes.
Was it because he was hurting?
Yes.
Was it because I wanted to tell him that I missed him too, but that would make me a shitty person because I already had a new boyfriend?
Fuck yes.
When Knight grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me inside the house, I didn’t fight him. When he led me upstairs to his room, I went willingly. And when he shut and locked the door, I felt the outside world disappear behind it.
That room had always been our safe place. Sure, I’d been cut, bitten, handcuffed, and painted with my own blood in there, but what Knight had said to Harley was true. I’d loved every minute of it. In that room, with its tiny, dated furniture and complete lack of decor, I’d been closer to Knight than I ever thought two humans were capable of being. In that room, Knight had shed his skinhead persona for me—only me—and turned into the fuzzy-headed, freckle-faced boy who stole my heart. The boy who had the smile of an angel, if only I could coax it out of him. For a moment, nothing beyond those four walls mattered.
We were home.
Knight stepped toward me, but that time, I didn’t back away.
I reached up and gently touched his face. Gazing into the tiny sliver of glacier blue peeking out from beneath his swollen, blackened lid, I whispered, “We need to get some ice on this.”
We.
Goddamn it.
Knight ignored my concern and pulled me close. When his mouth sealed over mine, I pictured his teeth smeared scarlet the day before.
I wonder if it hurts him to kiss me.
When he parted my lips and swept his tongue into my mouth, he didn’t taste like cigarettes and Winterfresh gum, like he usually did. He tasted like coppery blood and brown liquor.
Has he been up all night, like me?
As Knight laid me down on the bed and pulled off my boots and jeans, I wondered how Harley was doing.
Has he been up all night, too?
As I lifted my arms to let Knight tug my Pixies T-shirt off, I was busy cataloging every injury Harley had sustained during their fight.
I wonder if his arm is okay. Knight bit him pretty bad. He might have a concussion from that head-butt.
And, as Knight stepped out of his jeans and boxers, all I could hear was the echo of his voice.
“If you knew shit about BB, you’d know that she’s still fucking me.”
Had Harley believed him? Was he mad at me? Did he think I was cheating on him?
Oh my God.
I am cheating on him.
I didn’t realize the gravity of my situation until Knight’s hard, naked body was hovering over me on the bed. The outside world did still exist. And there was a man out there in it who’d risked his life to defend me. And he was hurt. And, even worse, he might be mad at me.
When Knight kissed me, I froze. When his eager mouth moved down my neck to my breasts, to the nipples he’d pierced himself, I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. And when his fuzzy blond head disappeared between my legs, I felt twin tears roll down my cheeks.
I didn’t have to check in with myself to know why I was crying that time.
I was crying because I was a selfish fucking asshole.
Even through my guilt-paralysis, Knight knew exactly how to get me off. He’d trained my body to like what he did to it, to bend when he pushed, to come when he wanted. And I did.
As the guiltgasm seized me, causing muscles I hadn’t even known I had to tense and contract, Knight rolled onto his back next to me and jerked himself off. I watched in agonizing impotence as he forced an ending to our ill-fated reunion. Knight came with a strangled cry, spurting ribbons of cum all over his stomach and hand. Then, he sat up without a word, walked to the door, unlocked it, and left.
I was relieved that he hadn’t expected me to reciprocate, but my lack of participation only added more rapids to the river of remorse I was drowning in. Somehow, I’d managed to cheat on Harley and reject the man I was cheating on him with, all at the same time.
When Knight didn’t come back right away, I tiptoed over to the doorway and spotted him across the hall in the bathroom. He was standing in front of the still-running sink with his head down, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. The sight of him stopped me dead in my tracks. His broad, muscular back bore the exquisitely detailed McKnight coat-of-arms tattoo that had taken Bobbi months to complete, but his posture was far from regal. Knight was a picture of both physical strength and emotional fragility.
I padded across the hall and wrapped my arms around his torso from behind, resting my cheek between his shoulder blades.
“I shouldn’t have come back,” Knight said, his voice sounding hoarse.
“No,” I corrected, feeling his body relax in my arms and his heart rate slow beneath my cheek, “you shouldn’t have left.”
But he had.
And now it was my turn.
As I crossed over Peg’s rotten, splintered threshold for what I suspected might be the last time, I found the wadded-up piece of paper that had dragged me there, lying face up on the front porch.
AUGUST 18, 1998
PUNK,
I KNOW YOU PROBABLY DON’T WANT TO HEAR FROM ME SINCE YOU NEVER WROTE ME BACK, BUT I’M GRADUATING FROM BASIC TRAINING NEXT FRIDAY. I JUST THOUGHT YOU MIGHT WANT TO KNOW. YOU MIGHT FUCKING HATE ME, BUT I KNOW YOU CARE ABOUT SHIT LIKE THAT.
I GET TEN DAYS OF LEAVE AFTER GRADUATION. THEN, I GO TO INFANTRY SCHOOL AND SHIP OUT TO IRAQ. I THOUGHT ABOUT COMING HOME DURING MY LEAVE, BUT WHAT WOULD BE THE FUCKING POINT? THERE’S NOTHING WAITING FOR ME THERE. YOU WON’T EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME.
I KNOW I’M AN ASSHOLE. I KNOW THE ONLY THING I’M GOOD AT IS HURTING PEOPLE. BUT I’M FUCKING TRYING. I SPENT THE LAST TWELVE WEEKS BEING SCREAMED AT, HAVING MY IDENTITY TAKEN AWAY FROM ME, EATING SHITTY FOOD, SLEEPING ON A COT, AND WORKING MY ASS OFF BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO—FOR BOTH OF US.
I’M SORRY I CAN’T FUCKING SHOW IT LIKE A NORMAL PERSON, BUT I DO LOVE YOU. MORE THAN ANYTHING IN MY SHITTY FUCKING LIFE. I ALWAYS WILL.
LOVE,
KNIGHT
P.S. IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, FUCKING ANYTHING, THIS IS WHERE I’LL BE TRAINING FOR THE NEXT TWO MONTHS BEFORE I SHIP OUT.
PVT. RONALD MCKNIGHT
ALPHA CO. CLASS 10-98 4TH PLT.
ITB BN. SOI MCB
PSC BOX 20166
CAMP LEJEUNE, NC 28542-0166
“Fuck you, letter,” I muttered, snatching it off the ground and tearing it to pieces. “This is all your fault.”
I tossed the guilt-trip confetti into the air, then stomped down the stairs to pull my brand-new—but significantly less shiny—jacket out of the mud. As I shrugged it on, Knight’s serial-killer handwriting flitted around me like Satan’s snowflakes, sticking to every wet patch of fabric they could find. Mocking me. Telling me that, although I might be able to walk away from that house, pieces of the man inside were coming with me whether I liked it or not.
“I’m not fucking him!” The words shot from my mouth the moment Harley’s battered face appeared in the doorway.
Really, BB? That’s what you’re going to lead with? Not a, Hey, how are you? Or a, Hey, here’s your gun back. Not even a, Hey, thanks for taking on a bodybuilding skinhead Marine for me.
Evidently, my guilt was going to have to be absolved before any semblance of a normal conversation could take place.
The whole way over, I’d told myself it wasn’t that bad. That I wasn’t like, a cheater, cheater. I was just a passive cheater—a peater, if you will. A peater, peater pumpkin eater. It wasn’t like I’d reverse-cowgirled Knight or anything. I’d just lain there and tried not to cry while his mouth was on me. That wasn’t real cheating. Nope. No, sir. That was…peating. It’s a totally different thing.
Harley gave me a sleepy-eyed smile and pulled me in for one of his all-is-right-with-the-world hugs.
Anytime I was worrying or obsessing about something, Harley would simply smash me into his chest, wrap his arms around my shoulders, and rest his chin on the top of my head. I think it was his way of shutting me up, but whatever, it fucking worked. It was like being back in the womb. If wombs smelled like marijuana and gasoline.
“You’re not mad at me?” I squeaked, wrapping my arms around his waist and nuzzling my face into his bare chest.
“It’s not your fault that motherfucker’s psycho.”
And that was it. Water under the bridge. Relief rushed through my body like a tsunami, relaxing my tensed muscles, washing the adrenaline out of my bloodstream, and overflowing from the corners of my eyes.
“Hey? Are you crying?” Harley tilted my chin up and looked at me.
I smiled at him and nodded, overcome by my feelings for that man. “Thank you”—I sniffled—“for believing me. And for standing up for me yesterday. I”—love you—“was so worried you were gonna be mad at me.”
Harley’s jaw was swollen on one side, and he had a nasty purple lump forming in the middle of his forehead, but his heavy-lidded azure eyes still sparkled like sapphires.
“You’re my lady.” He shrugged. “Somebody wants to fuck with you, they gotta go through me. Besides”—Harley lifted one hand and plucked at a few of my crescent-moon-shaped curls—“how could anybody be mad at somebody this cute?”
“Oh my God, don’t even look at my hair,” I squealed, shielding my eyes from his gaze with my hand.
“I like it. Makes you look like Drew Barrymore in Mad Love.”
I giggled. “You saw Mad Love?”
“Saw it? Woman, I fuckin’ own it.”
And, with that, Harley popped the movie in and proceeded to do what he did best. He made me forget. As Drew Barrymore and Chris O’Donnell flew down the highway in a fit of young runaway love, Harley and I floated away on a cloud of pot and cigarette smoke, making lazy midday love on the sofa. Time ceased to exist. The previous twenty-four hours felt as far away as another lifetime. All I could process were happy hands and friendly fingers and smiling, sucking lips and generous, gyrating hips and fuzzy, light-headed bliss and that click of completeness once my empty places were finally full again.
Harley also made me forget the fact that he had a nasty bite wound on his forearm. The pained hiss he let out when I rolled over onto it made me remember.
Sitting up, I grabbed Harley’s wrist and turned his right arm over. “Jesus Christ, Harley!”
His arm looked like it had been caught in a fucking bear trap. Two parentheses-shaped channels were laid open, oozing pus and coagulated blood, the skin red and raised all around.
“This is bad. I think you might need to go to the hospital, baby.”
“Nah. Just needs a couple of stitches,” Harley said, sitting up and reaching for his pack of smokes.
“You can’t stitch bites. It traps the bacteria inside and causes infection. You have to clean it really well and just pull the skin shut with a butterfly bandage.”
“How do you know so much, smarty-pants?” Harley teased, exhaling a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth.
I turned my face and pointed to my cheek. “Dog bite.”
“No shit? I just thought that was a dimple.”
The fact that Knight knew about my scar and not Harley made me even angrier with him for some reason. I didn’t want him to know things about me that my own boyfriend didn’t know. It wasn’t fair.
I pulled Harley into the bathroom and rummaged through what limited storage they had. All I could find in terms of first aid was a half-empty box of Band-Aids. I wondered who had used the ones that were gone. Obviously, not Harley. Motherfucker would die of gangrene first.
As I washed out his wounds with soap and water—trying not to think about the fact that, just that morning, my tongue had grazed the teeth that had left those marks—I decided to bring up Harley’s transgressions instead.
“So,” I began, keeping my eyes on his forearm as I rinsed away the grime, “you never told me your trunk had a fucking arsenal in it.”
“No, I didn’t.” Harley’s tone was serious.
Harley didn’t do serious.
I looked up and searched his face for that glimmer of mischief, but it wasn’t there. All I found was the swollen purple, greenish evidence of what had transpired the day before, which had also been very serious.
“Harley, whatever it is, I don’t care. Besides, if I wanted to turn you in, I think I would have by now.”
Harley gazed at me with an unreadable expression. He was thinking—no, he was deciding whether or not I was trustworthy.
Based on my behavior that morning, even I had my doubts.
“This shit goes a lot deeper than just me, lady. If I tell you, I’m putting people I love at risk.”
“Dave.” His brother’s name fell from my lips innocently—an answer to a riddle—but Harley’s face told me he wasn’t happy that I’d solved it.
“That’s already more than you oughta know.”
Patting his wounds dry with the one cleanish towel I could find, I asked, “Does it have to do with the pawnshop owner? The guy you got my ring f
rom?”
I was afraid I was overstepping, but for some reason, my question made Harley crack a smile.
“What?”
“You called it your ring.”
“It will be my ring if you ever learn how to propose right,” I teased. “And don’t change the subject.”
I don’t know if Harley decided he could trust me or if he just realized that I already knew too much, but he finally started talking, “You remember when you first came over here, and we were jokin’ about damaging stuff at work?”
I nodded, pulling a few Band-Aids out of the box.
“Well, Dave does that at the Army/Navy store…but with guns.”
My jaw dropped open.
“He marks a couple here and there as being damaged, which takes them off the inventory. Then he files off their serial numbers and sells them to the pawnshop owner next door. Larry.” Harley sneered when he said his name. “That greasy motherfucker moves ’em quick. Usually, sells ’em under the table the same day.”
“So why are you involved?” I asked, cutting notches out of the sides of a regular bandage to make it a butterfly shape—just like my mom had done all those years ago when our family dog tried to take a chunk out of my face.
“Let’s just say, Dirty Larry is even shadier than we thought, so Dave has me moving this batch for him myself.”
“So”—I pinched Harley’s wound shut where it was gaping open the most and applied one of my makeshift butterfly bandages to it, holding it shut—“you’re a gunrunner.”
Harley didn’t respond, but I could feel his eyes boring into the top of my head as I put him back together. I could also feel the tension rolling off his body. It was as if he was readying himself to tackle me to the ground if I decided to run screaming to the authorities.
I shrugged, applying the last bandage, then finally met his worried stare with a small smile. “At least you’re not a drug dealer.”
Harley’s battered baby face broke into a grin. “You think pushin’ guns is better than drugs?”
“No.” I laughed. “I just fucking hate drug dealers.”