SPEED (A 44 Chapters Novel Book 2)

by BB Easton

  “What the fuck, dude? I was just getting to the good part!” Dave called after us with a chuckle.

  Harley didn’t even respond. He stomped into his bedroom, kicked the door shut behind us, and tossed me onto his mattress. I flopped onto my back, lime still between my teeth, and tried to focus on him in the dark. Tiny blades of light sliced through the cracks between the door and the wall, turning Harley into a backlit shadow man. One of the slivers cut through the bottle of amber liquid in his hand just before he tipped it up to his mouth.

  After a long chug, Harley’s voice rumbled through the darkness. “You wanna fuck him, don’t you? You were just gonna stand there and let him suck on your neck like a whore!”

  Note to self: Cocaine and tequila make Harley a fucking asshole.

  I pulled the lime out of my mouth and spat back, emboldened by the asshole powder coursing through my own bloodstream, “I’m a whore? You’re the whore! You probably don’t even know how many girls you’ve slept with. I bet it’s in the hundreds. I’m just another one of your little fuck buddies, aren’t I?”

  Note to self: Cocaine makes you an asshole, too.

  Harley set the bottle next to the mattress and crouched over me on all fours. I could feel his hot, tequila-and-lime-scented breath on my face just before five callous fingers wrapped around my jaw. “This is different, and you fucking know it.”

  “What’s so goddamn different about it?”

  Tell me! Tell me I’m special! Tell me you love me!

  “Nobody fucking touches you but me!”

  “Oh, you don’t want Dave to touch me? Well, too fucking late,” I chided, pointing to the side of my neck with the hand holding the lime.

  I guess Harley’s eyes had adjusted to the light enough to see my gesture because he snatched the lime out of my hand and rubbed the wet wedge along the same trail that Dave’s tongue had traveled. Taking another swig of tequila, Harley then dragged his rough tongue over my salty, sour flesh, erasing any evidence that his brother had ever been there.

  Shoving the lime wedge back between my teeth, Harley pulled the bottom of my Boys Don’t Cry T-shirt up to my neck and unclasped the front of my heavily padded black bra. Grazing one of my winged nipples with his thumb, Harley asked, “He ever touch you here?”

  I shook my head and held my breath as Harley splashed tequila into the hollow between my almost nonexistent breasts. He lapped it up, then found my mouth with his and sucked on the sour fruit between my lips. Excess alcohol slid down my rib cage and pooled in my belly button. Excess lime juice cascaded down my jaw and disappeared into the flips of wavy strawberry-blonde hair at the nape of my neck. And excess fluid of an entirely different kind pooled between my legs.

  I didn’t know who this person was. Harley had never been aggressive with me before. He’d never shown any sign of jealousy or possessiveness. Yet it felt familiar. I’d been spoken to that way before. I’d been handled roughly. And I’d liked it.

  In fact, I’d missed it.

  There, in the dark, high on cocaine and face-to-face with my demons, I let myself pretend. I let Harley tear at my clothes and grip me too tight and curse at me—all while picturing someone even rougher. Someone even needier. Someone who wasn’t satisfied until he’d opened me up and sucked the blood from my veins.

  Following the trail of tequila down my torso, Harley swirled his tongue inside my navel as he hastily unbuckled my studded belt. In yet another eerily familiar move, Harley yanked my jeans and panties down to my ankles and left them there, not bothering to take off my combat boots. Knight used to fuck me with my ankles bound the exact same way. He lived life, as if he could hear the seconds ticking away. Every minute was precious, and he’d rather spend them buried between my legs than taking off my boots.

  Harley spread my knees apart as far as they would go, considering my bindings, and grabbed the bottle off the floor next to him. As he leaned forward, I felt his warm, wet tongue first, followed by the burning trickle of tequila as it cascaded through my folds and into his waiting mouth. I squirmed and hissed and bit down on the lime harder as the stinging intensified. Harley licked and sucked the tender places until the singe dulled to a tingle. Then, climbing back up my body, he chomped down on the lime and tore it from my mouth. Dripping sour citrus onto my chin, Harley turned his head and spit the rind onto the carpet.

  Flame-blue eyes found mine in the dark as Harley slid a finger inside me. I gasped at the unexpected burn. His hand must have been soaked in tequila from all the body shots. My eyes watered as he cupped my sex, stinging my delicate skin like salt in a wound. He probably had no idea that it hurt at all, but then again, it was Harley. That motherfucker always seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

  “He ever touch you here?” Harley’s tone was deep and smug.

  He expected me to shake my head like a good little girl and say, No, sir. Never. Well, fuck that. Harley wasn’t the only one who wanted to fuck and fight. I’d snorted the same powdered insanity that he had, and I was ready to throw down. Besides, coked-up, pissed-off Harley was the closest I’d ever get to having Knight back, and I realized that I wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.

  Licking the lime juice from my lips, I smiled and slowly nodded.

  Harley’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “What?” His voice was so deep it shook me to my core, but there was no going back. The crazy train had left the station.

  I left him hanging while I slipped his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a condom. As I concentrated on unwrapping it, I finally said, “Dave licked my pussy while you fucked me on the couch. He’s good, too. Made me come in five seconds flat.”

  Harley reared back. His fist flew. I squeezed my eyes shut just before a crunch sounded above my head, and something sprinkled all over my face. Drywall.

  “That motherfucker!”

  I brushed off my face, laughing like a goddamn lunatic.

  “Why are you so mad? I thought you liked to share.”

  Eat me alive.

  “I told him not to fucking touch you!” Harley growled, gripping a handful of splintered Sheetrock and ripping it away from the wall.

  “Why don’t you want to share with your brother, Harley?”

  Make me bleed.

  Harley snarled and hurled a chunk of drywall across the room.

  “Why?”

  Tell me you fucking love me! Tell me this means something! Knight fucking meant something! Who the fuck are you?

  In less than ten seconds, Harley tore his shirt off over his head, unbuckled his belt, freed his punishing erection, snatched the condom out of my hand, and rolled it on. Closing my legs and pushing them over to one side, Harley pinned my bent knees together against the mattress and plunged into me as far as my unprepared body would allow. The sudden stretching caused the alcohol burn to intensify, and I cried out. Harley retreated and entered again and again, punctuating each thrust with a different word.

  “Because.

  You’re.

  Fucking.

  Mine.”

  Mine.

  Knight used to call me his.

  I closed my eyes and let the pleasure-pain I never thought I’d feel again wash over me. It was almost the way I’d remembered it—the intensity, the mania, the passion. The pain. If I couldn’t have Knight, at least I knew that Harley was just a few lines of blow, a few shots of tequila, and a lick from his brother away from playing him for the night.

  I was a whopping three hours late getting home that night. I tiptoed in, hoping my dad had fallen asleep on the couch but no such luck. He was waiting up for me, polishing his guns at the kitchen table. Never a good sign. I apologized profusely and made up some stupid lie about falling asleep at Goth Girl’s house, but it didn’t matter. I was grounded as fuck.

  I spent the next day hiding in my room from my parents’ disapproval, smoking cigarettes and checking my phone every five minutes out of boredom. Harley never called to make sure I got home okay or to ask if I was
in trouble for breaking curfew. He probably forgot that I had a curfew even though I reminded him literally every time we hung out. Or maybe he was sleeping off a hangover. He’d drunk a lot of tequila the night before. Maybe, if I were lucky, he wouldn’t even remember what had happened.

  Saturday afternoons were shit for TV, so I decided to listen to The Cure and draw. That would help pass the time until I had to go to work. But as Robert Smith crooned about a girl who was always falling down, I didn’t doodle on the blank page I was staring at. I tumbled into it.

  In my mind, I was back at Terminus City Tattoo, after-hours, flipping through the pages of a notebook filled with intricate sketches of dragons and knights and medieval iconography. Knight’s breath was hot on my neck as he watched me admiring his work. His talent was far superior to mine. Always had been.

  Knight and I had attended the same elementary school, only he was a few grades ahead of me. My mom had been the art teacher there, and I remembered her giving extra attention to a “special little boy” who didn’t “get along with the other kids.” I hadn’t known him back then, but I’d seen his drawings on the bulletin board behind her desk, right next to mine. Our art was like night and day. Mine was every bit as colorful and happy as Knight’s was dark and violent. But even still, his was more beautiful.

  My Cure-induced flashback was shattered by the distinct metallic clanging of a mailbox being opened and shut. I stared out my second-story window at the simple black mailbox at the end of our long, wooded driveway, and I could almost hear the psychotic, all-caps handwriting shouting at me from inside.

  I’d gotten a letter.

  I could feel it.

  OCTOBER 23, 1998

  DEAR BB,

  I JUST GOT TO IRAQ.

  I’VE KNOWN MY WHOLE LIFE THAT I’M NOT GOING TO LIVE TO SEE THIRTY, BUT NOW THAT I’M HERE, I’M STARTING TO THINK I MIGHT NOT EVEN MAKE IT TO TWENTY.

  IT’S A FUCKING SHITSHOW. OUR CARAVAN WAS UNDER FIRE AS SOON AS WE LEFT THE FUCKING AIRPORT. OH, AND I SAW A FUCKING HAND ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. A HAND. I THINK IT WAS A WOMAN’S.

  ANYWAY, IT MADE ME REALIZE THAT THE SHIT I NEED TO SAY TO YOU CAN’T WAIT. ESPECIALLY SINCE MAIL CAN SOMETIMES TAKE UP TO THREE WEEKS TO GET BACK AND FORTH FROM HERE.

  I JUST WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I’M SORRY I WAS SUCH AN ASSHOLE IN MY LAST LETTER. I KNOW I SAID IT WAS BETTER WHEN I DIDN’T TALK TO YOU, BUT THAT WAS FUCKING BULLSHIT. NO MATTER WHAT THE FUCK I SAY, NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, NO MATTER WHO YOU’RE FUCKING, I WILL NEVER NOT WANT TO TALK TO YOU. DON’T EVER QUESTION THAT. IF I DIE TOMORROW, YOU NEED TO KNOW THAT THE ONLY DAYS THAT FUCKING MATTERED IN MY WHOLE PATHETIC FUCKING LIFE WERE THE ONES WHERE I GOT TO TALK TO YOU.

  I LOVE YOU, PUNK. ALWAYS WILL.

  YOU CAN GO BACK TO MOVING ON NOW.

  KNIGHT

  I suddenly knew exactly what to put on that blank page I’d been staring at—the apology I should have written two months ago.

  NOVEMBER 11, 1998

  DEAR BB,

  I JUST GOT YOUR LETTER. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE FUCKING SORRY. JUST KEEP WRITING ME, OKAY? YOUR LETTER WAS THE FIRST CONTACT I’VE HAD WITH MY OLD LIFE SINCE I GOT HERE.

  TELL ME ABOUT SCHOOL. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PARENTS. TELL ME WHAT COLOR YOUR HAIR IS NOW. ARE YOU STILL GROWING IT OUT?

  BEING HERE IS SO FUCKING STRANGE. NOTHING IS THE SAME. I DON’T EVEN FEEL LIKE I’M ON THE SAME PLANET. THIS PLACE LOOKS LIKE FUCKING MARS. AND ALL THE MARTIANS HAVE GUNS.

  THE FOOD IS DIFFERENT. THE LANGUAGE IS DIFFERENT. MY CLOTHES ARE DIFFERENT. AND MY PROBLEMS ARE REAL FUCKING DIFFERENT. I USED TO HAVE TO SUPPRESS THE URGE TO KILL PEOPLE. NOW, IT’S HOW I EARN A FUCKING PAYCHECK.

  I WANT TO REMEMBER WHAT IT’S LIKE TO HAVE AN IDENTITY. TO HAVE STUPID SHIT TO WORRY ABOUT THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE BEING BLOWN UP BY AN IED. I WANT TO REMEMBER WHAT IT’S LIKE TO FALL ASLEEP WITH YOU ON MY CHEST INSTEAD OF A TWENTY-POUND FLAK JACKET.

  SHIT, I HAVE TO GO. PLEASE WRITE BACK.

  I LOVE YOU.

  KNIGHT

  November 25, 1998

  Dear Knight,

  So, you just want to hear about my life? That seems pretty fucking boring, but okay. Um, let’s see…I am still growing my hair out. My bangs are almost down to my nose now, and the shaved part is, like, two inches long. I just bleached it all platinum blonde, which it doesn’t seem to be very happy about. The shit feels like pine straw now.

  School is still going great. I’m out right now for Thanksgiving break. It looks like I’m going to get straight As again this semester, so I’m still on track to graduate early and get a scholarship to UGA or GSU. I’m leaning toward GSU. I don’t even think UGA would let me in. I’m pretty sure you have to submit photographic evidence that you own at least five red-and-black dresses and shake a pom-pom while doing a keg stand as part of the entrance application process.

  Let’s see…what else? Juliet’s baby’s first word was BB! You have no idea how bad that shit pissed her off. I fucking love it. It’s no wonder he likes me better. Juliet’s a total bitch. Of course, I probably would be too if I had a fucking six-month-old. Better her than me, man.

  My parents are fine. My dad still isn’t working. He just moves from the couch to the kitchen table a few times a day and mutters about how the government is coming to take his guns away. My mom is still teaching art at Peach State Elementary and trying to stay high every minute that she’s not there. I’m still working at Pier One, and they’re still threatening to fire me at least once a week. Same old, same old.

  That’s about it. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the rest.

  I probably shouldn’t say this, but…I miss you. I don’t even know why. You’re such an asshole. Hey, there’s some of your old identity for you. You’re an asshole named Knight. Ronald McKnight actually. You have no middle name. You’re nineteen years old. Your mom is a fucking cunt. Your dad is some big-shot businessman in Chicago who knocked her up and never looked back. You used to dress like a skinhead to keep people away even though you’re not even racist. You love animals. You used to leave food out for the stray cats in Little Five Points, and you took care of Peg’s German shepherd every day after school.

  You also took my virginity on my ex-boyfriend’s bed, which became your bed when he moved out. Handcuffs and honey were involved. Because you’re kinky as shit.

  You’re also an amazing tattoo artist and body piercer. You pierced all my private places and tattooed a knight on the inside of my finger. You wouldn’t do it on the outside, like I wanted, because you didn’t want it to be permanent. You didn’t want us to be permanent. You thought I deserved better.

  But you were wrong.

  And now here we are.

  Be safe, Knight. I’ll write again soon.

  Love,

  BB

  P.S. Instead of trying to hang on to who you used to be, maybe try to figure out who you are now. Because that guy I just told you about…you didn’t like him very much. And he didn’t fucking like anything.

  DECEMBER 17, 1998

  DEAR BB,

  HE LIKED YOU.

  LOVE,

  KNIGHT

  P.S. MERRY CHRISTMAS.

  Knight’s note was written on a scrap of brown paper inside of a small cardboard box that looked like it had been hit by a Hummer in transit. When I lifted the note out of the box, I found more brown paper underneath, wadded into a ball.

  The fuck?

  Pulling it out, I unraveled the baseball-sized hunk of parchment and stared at the contents. My eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t blink. I didn’t want to take my eyes off it for a second. Knight had sent me a skinny silver bracelet, coiled to look like a delicate snake wrapping around the wearer’s arm. Arabic characters, boats, palm trees, and even a tiny reptilian face had been painstakingly etched onto the surface and painted black.

  Although the bracelet’s story was written in a language that my mind didn’t understand, my heart read every word fluently. The snake was on a journey. Its serpentine hea
d had reached its final destination, but the rest of its body stretched across the ocean, bridging the gap to another time and place.

  I slid the bracelet onto my spindly arm and held it under the lamp next to my bed, committing every etching and imperfection to memory. I used to think of Knight as a rattlesnake. Lethal. Irrational. Ready to strike at the first snap of a twig. And he was—with everyone else. But looking at the length of Iraqi silver coiling up my arm, I realized that Knight was an entirely different breed of snake where I was concerned. He wasn’t going to kill me with his fangs—his guns, his knives, his baseball bat. He was going to wrap himself around my heart and squeeze until it simply couldn’t beat anymore.

  Knight was a boa constrictor who’d fallen in love with a mouse.

  I took the brown paper the bracelet had been wrapped in and smoothed it out on my bed. Christmas was less than a week away, but maybe, if I paid for expedited shipping, I could get a gift to him in time. It didn’t matter how much it cost. The idea of Knight spending Christmas in a war zone without a single fucking present to open made my chest ache. I’d pay anything to make that feeling go away.

  The year before, I’d had Knight over to my house for Christmas. I hadn’t been ready to introduce him to my parents yet, but what could I do? His stepfather had a restraining order against him, and I couldn’t let him sit at Peg’s house all alone while she visited relatives. Knight had shown up with his jeans unrolled and a Lonsdale hoodie covering his braces, which I appreciated, and he’d stayed on his best behavior the whole day. I don’t think he dropped a single F-bomb, which is more than I can say for myself.