BONE DEEP

by Brooklyn Skye

  “Seems like enough to make a big brother crazy,” I say, nudging her short, black boot with my shoe.

  She nods. “Yeah…he’s not really in a healthy place right now.”

  Because he’s protecting her from more than a stupid tattoo. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he doesn’t want to lose her, like he did his mom. Their mom.

  She doesn’t explain, and by her puckered expression it’s obvious she’s hoping I won’t ask any more about it. I point to her wrist.

  “The famous runaway tattoo?”

  “One and only,” she says, holding her arm out to me. I take her wrist in my hand and trace the tip of my finger in a circle around the three solid-black rabbits.

  “Rabbits are usually white. I doubt you’re the type to make them a color for no reason.”

  Her grin grows. “And I doubt you’re the type not to have a theory.”

  “Maybe.” My finger stills, and the soft beat of her pulse thumps into it. “A white rabbit could symbolize safety or peace or, I don’t know, suppleness? But—”

  She laughs. “They’re bunnies, not boobs.”

  “Boobs would be far more interesting,” I deadpan, and she gives me a you’re such a guy look.

  “What kind of girl do you think I am?” Her arm relaxes into my hand. Warmth spreads across my palm, and I bite my lip against a smile. Other than one who hooks up with strangers, I have no clue what kind of girl she is. Regardless, she’s one I’m happy to be sitting next to right now.

  “So why black?”

  Her expression suddenly falls flat. Black is the symbol of death. Or the color of charred metal. Either way it likely has to do with her mom. Jesus, I’m such an idiot.

  Gently, she pulls her arm free, sets it in her lap, and it takes everything in me to not lean in close, caress her cheek, tell her I know what it’s like to lose someone.

  “It does mean something,” Cam says, her shoulders ever so slightly curling forward. Sequins from her shirt glint in the sun’s light. Her legs come to her chest, cheek rests on the top of her knee. I can’t watch this; her closing down because of something I said. The station bell rings out over us followed by a train’s arrival. The light rush of air lifts the hem of her skirt an inch, revealing a sliver more of her thigh. She looks up at me, her chest now expanding and deflating faster than it should. “I lost—”

  “C’mon,” I blurt, just as the train doors slide open. I tug her feather-light body off the bench and tow her toward the gaping hole in the side of the train.

  “Wait!” Her boots dig into the cement deck, eyes bulging like water balloons. “I don’t…” She stops, closes her eyes for a beat of a second. “I mean, we can’t get on. We don’t have tickets.”

  “Fare inspectors don’t usually work on Saturdays,” I say just as a few forty-somethings exit the train carrying handfuls of shopping bags. I coax Cam a step farther, and her face pales. Squeezing her hand, I squint down at her and add, “We’ll be fine without a ticket,” even though I’m not entirely sure this is true. It used to be, years ago when I’d ride during Dad’s shifts. Cam swallows hard. It takes a few seconds, but she finally says the words written all over her face.

  “Krister, I’m scared. I…” Her voice fades to nothing. Careening into another speeding train… I wonder if those images plague her mind at night, too.

  Softly, I cup her face and lean down to her level, peering into her eyes as I run the pads of my thumbs over her cheeks. “I’ll let you in on a secret no one else knows. I don’t like trains, either. But I’m willing to place a bet that I can distract you long enough to stomach one stop.” Or maybe she’ll have to distract me this time, because what I left out was that I really fucking hate trains.

  We stare at each other for what feels like a full minute, and then she resigns, letting out a stiff sigh and the mumbled word “check”. I don’t ask her what it means, but instead cradle my hand around her shoulders and guide her over the yellow line into the train. Only a pair of women in the front and a lonely man in the middle occupy the train, so we find a seat tucked into the back corner near a window. The brown leather moans with our weight, and before we have a chance to change our minds the bell shrills, doors slither shut, and we jerk forward.

  A train. Shit, every muscle in my body clenches tight, veins in my arms protruding like worms under my skin. Beside me, Cam is trembling. Over my other shoulder the station slides out of view and is replaced with a parallel view of Fair Drive and then the freeway, cars matching our speed. Our bodies sway back and forth with the rocking of the train, and all I can picture is being here one minute and not the next with absolutely no warning of another train flying toward us. The crunching metal. Screams. Then blackness. At least, I hope all those people didn’t have to go through more.

  “Hey,” I take her tiny hand and say. “Let’s play a game. You pick it.”

  She stares at the seatback in front of her. “A game?” Her voice is raspy, as if she’s trying really hard not to cry. It sort of kills my insides to see her like this.

  I nod, lightening my tone. “Why not? How about I Spy? You know where you—”

  “If you don’t like trains, either, why did you drag us on here, Krister?”

  “What about that alphabet one? I’ll start. A is for…” My eyes skim the train’s interior, spotting some writing on the leather seat a few rows up. “April,” I say, pointing. “Apparently she loves Rick.”

  Thin muscles tense in her arm. “Please answer me.”

  I’m acting like an idiot. Ever since finding out who she is, it’s like my insides are playing tug-of-war. I don’t want to be near her. I do. Being the distraction I now know why she needs would be insane, but leaving her to figure it out all alone would make my stomach scream.

  “I have no idea why I pulled you on here,” I shake my head and say. “I just, um, didn’t want to lose you back there, and if you spend any time with me at all, you’ll realize I suck at thinking on my feet.” I hold out my hands, gesturing to the musty train around us.

  “Lose me?”

  I nod. “You got this really sad look on your face. Sort of like your soul was being sucked out of you, if that makes any sense.” I expect a look of horror, telling her in so many words that she comes off dead and all, but she just crosses her ankles and bobs her head solemnly for a moment.

  “Yeah,” she finally whispers, staring at the folds in her skirt. “Listen, about back there—”

  I shift in my seat. “I don’t want to know.” The words come out fast and much too flat because I know why she freaked, and I don’t want to have to explain that I’m related to the person who made her feel this emptiness.

  “You don’t? But…”

  Gently, I press my extended finger over her lips. “Sometimes it’s easier to keep things inside.”

  Unexpectedly, she lifts a scant smile, gripping my wrist and lifting my hand away from her mouth. “My therapist would have a field day with that.”

  My arm, where her fingers rest, starts to buzz. Like vibrating metal. “Mine would, too.”

  Our eyes connect, a strange, invisible knowing passing between us. We’re both messed up in the head, and she seems comforted by this new piece of knowledge. The buzzing feeling sinks to my elbow with the sudden urge to take her hand in mine.

  I recline back a tad, shoving my hands to my sides. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” I give her a wink, and as she starts to giggle with the word “Deal,” the train rocks, and she reaches for my hand, her eyes bulging once again.

  “Truth or dare,” I say without thinking. “You go first.”

  She cocks her head. “Seriously?”

  “Ask anything you want. Or dare me. Just no streaking ’cause that guy looks like a cop.” I nod with my chin to the dude ten rows up. Hair military short, arms as thick as my leg. Cam smiles.

  “Okay.” She thinks for a moment. “Truth. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?”

  I raise an ey
ebrow. “Clearly, you’ve never played Truth or Dare before. You’re supposed to ask me something scandalous, like how many times did I wet the bed when I was little or have I ever slept with my best friend’s mom. You know, uncomfortable shit. The stuff to turn my face red.”

  She stares at me blankly.

  “And no, I haven’t slept with my best friend’s mom.” I make a face and she laughs. “Or wet the bed.”

  “A question to make your face red. Hmm,” she says with a nod. Her gaze slips over my shoulder for a moment—the window, the freeway, then back to me with pink blotting her cheeks. “Why did you come home with me the other night?” Something sparks in her hollow, brown eyes. Hope. Desire. A plea, maybe, for one good thing in her life. I can’t let it go.

  “Because you asked me to.” The words are smooth, coming from the part of me that cringes at the thought of seeing the look of rejection on her face. “My turn. Truth: Do you always ask guys to come home with you?”

  Fast like lightning, her eyes dart from mine. Down to her knees. “I don’t know.”

  A clinking sound rings from the front of the train car. The woman’s purse, coins raining out from the pocket. She lets out an exasperated sigh and reaches down. The man, definitely a cop by the gun-sized bulge at his waistband, gingerly with the wobble of the train makes his way over to help.

  Cam hasn’t moved.

  Jess used to do this. Use the words “I don’t know” to get attention. She liked others fussing about her, trying to figure out what was wrong. I’d get so pissed off, feeling required to care about whatever inconsequential thing she was “upset” about, that I’d end up ignoring her instead.

  With Cam it doesn’t feel like a game. Slowly, I take her chin in my hand and turn her to face me. “That’s a pass. And there are no passes allowed in this game.” I say it casually, even though my insides are burning to know if and who and how many.

  She sighs. “Maybe once. And not that it’s any of your business, but he didn’t…you know, do what you did.”

  “Because he was more of a gentleman than me?”

  Strands of hair fall across her forehead with a shake of her head. “Because I didn’t want him to.” Her eyes meet mine again, round and searching and a tad more determined. “There I answered it. My turn. Truth.” She leans back. “How’d you know where my family lived?”

  I can’t tell her. I can’t. Not yet—or, shit, more like never. “Dare—”

  “Wait!” She pokes my stomach with her finger. “You have to answer mine first!”

  Kill me now. I swallow, finding somewhat truthful words. “I didn’t actually know it was your house. I was…um, looking for someone. I guess it was just luck that I found you instead.” Her face twists with the ridiculous probability of this actually happening. Hell, next she’ll ask who I was looking for. I need to change the direction of this conversation. “I dare you,” I say quickly, my brain racing to find the rest of the sentence. My gaze floats to her mouth where her lower lip is caught between her teeth. I smile and finish, “To put your lips as close to mine without touching them.”

  “I thought you said you were wearing your stranger-kissing repellant.”

  “Pssht.” My brow lifts. “Who said anything about kissing?”

  She hesitates.

  “If you don’t do it,” I say teasingly, “the penalty is a dare much worse. It might involve streaking.”

  An eternity-like second passes, and then with a sigh she carefully scoots closer, turning so her body’s facing mine. “I’m starting to understand your version of this game a little better.” Pink deepens to red across her cheeks the closer and closer she moves. Her hand steadies against the seatback. “Fair warning…” Brown eyes burn into mine. “Your next dare is going to be really, really uncomfortable.”

  Her knee bumps my thigh and a wave of something sweet crashes into me. She smells like a flower bouquet. The train lurches, and my hand instinctively shoots up to stop our foreheads from colliding, landing on her collarbone. Her eyes widen. This may have been a bad idea—I don’t want to make her do anything she doesn’t want to. I start to reconsider, but then I feel it under my palm. Small swells in her chest.

  “Your breaths…”

  Her lips inch closer. “Yeah.”

  “They’re shallow.”

  “I know,” she says lowly. Wisps of brown hair flutter with her words, tickling the side of my face. I’m going to regret this later. But with her face this close to mine, nose bumping my cheek, and a very vivid memory of her tongue in my mouth, I don’t care about later.

  So I say in a whisper even lower than hers, “Dare me to take them away.”

  Five full seconds pass before her breath warms my skin. “Krister…” A slow blink. A lick of her lips. A small, crooked smile. Minutely, she tilts her chin and says with dramatic fashion, “I dare you to take my breath away.”

  And then we’re kissing.

  I lean in this time and she doesn’t back away. The air’s stuffy, and our heads are kinked, legs crammed together between the leather seats. I can’t get closer to her even though I want to because her knee is jammed against my nuts. But Jesus, when her lips drift apart and her candy-sweet breath enters my mouth, everything gets warmer and stuffier, and I probably taste like sour coffee but I don’t care. She kisses like a bashful puppy, all cute and soft, which has me desperate for more. I hold her face in my hands because I don’t know where to touch; I want all of her. I want to slide my fingers through her hair, wrap my hands around her tiny waist, trace my finger up her bare thigh, but we’re in the back of a train, and technically this is only our third kiss, and I can’t do things the same as with Jess.

  She pulls away first, but just enough to say, “Your version of this game is by far my favorite.”

  And the warmth of her hands on my neck is by far making it impossible to break the contact I know I should. I tilt my head, press my lips to hers again. “For the record,” I say in between kisses, “I would’ve asked you out if you hadn’t—”

  The rest of my sentence is cut off by the sound of the train’s bell to signal the next stop, the fact that I can’t be any more than a distraction to her right now. “Let’s get out of here,” I say instead and pull her to the yawning doors. Warm air sweeps over us as we step out onto the platform.

  “Do you even know where we are?”

  This station is much grander than the others. A building made of tinted glass, Concord reflecting back, looking more like a quiet, faded photo found in some old chest than the vibrant, bustling city that greets us as we turn. Palm trees shoot up in the distance, rustling with the warm breeze. Concord always smells funny to me. Like an old-lady Bunco group in a movie theater. We shimmy through the crowd, and I hold tight to Cam’s hand to keep her from being swallowed up into the smiling, camera-toting horde. This is where all the tourists come, to inundate their brains with images of prehistoric creatures and fancy paintings and whatever else they can find at the overabundance of museums around the district.

  This is also the station where Dad used to start and end his shifts; where trains switched out drivers. I wish I would’ve remembered this before pulling Cam from the train—we could’ve gone one more stop to Parlough. My body starts to clench, muscles protesting to set foot in the very building he did. We approach the glass doors to the station, and I fight to push it away, this feeling, think of something—anything—to repel the hatred pulsing through me.

  I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, and there it is: the flush in her cheeks, the timid smile, the look that makes me want to stab my leg with Ditty’s keys because those eyes are driving me fucking crazy.

  Glass doors swish closed behind us. It’s a straight shot through the station, under a handful of grand archways and twenty-foot-tall, copper-laid ceilings. Cam starts to glance around like she’s looking for somebody. Or…more like she’s worried someone will recognize her. Her eyes dart from bench to bench. Door to door.

  “Have you
ever been here?” I ask, and she shakes her head. I don’t know what’d make her nervous—it’s just a bunch of old people with heads buried in newspapers or fingers lazily tapping keys of laptops. A scrawny security guard stands over in the corner near the restrooms, pulling at the collar of his too-loose shirt. He looks about twelve, and harmless.

  “You’ve lived in Chanton since you were eight and you’ve never been to Concord before?”

  Her eyes follow the gold crisscrossing design on the floor, coated with so much lacquer it looks slippery and wet, and the words murderous filigree float through my mind. A laugh almost bubbles up from my throat because it is quite fitting.

  “I’ve been to Concord,” she says. “Just not this station. It’s much better than our rickety old building.” Something’s in her voice. Fear? Anger? Nervousness? I can’t tell.

  Outside the throng of tourists disperses, and Cam and I make our way to the street. She looks up at me.

  “You hungry?” Her eyes, in the sunlight, shimmer like gold flecks stuck in the mud. She seems better out here, her voice steady, standing a little taller.

  “A little. You?”

  She nods. “There’s a donut shop not too far. Down off Highland.”

  “Lead the way.” I swoop my arm in front of us. She takes one more glance back at the station and steps into the street. Without my hand on hers, I wouldn’t have felt her shiver, and I’m so distracted with that thought for the next few blocks that I don’t realize she’s led us straight to Alessi’s studio on Beverly Glen. Quickly I start to guide her across the street, but she grabs my arm and—

  “Glassblowing!” Cam announces, smashing her face up to the window.

  Fuck.