Skin (44 Chapters #1)

by B. B. Easton

  “Honk again, motherfucker! Honk one more fucking time!” I tugged on his arm, but he didn’t budge. Leaning over the hood Knight pointed directly at the driver and screamed, “Get the fuck out of the car! Right now! Let’s go, motherfucker!”

  The poor guy looked like he was about to shit himself. Or already had. I pulled as hard as I could, digging my nails into the soft flesh of Knight’s inner arm until I felt the skin give beneath them. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was like a rabid animal and nothing had even happened.

  I squeezed and pulled until my fingers were buried almost to the knuckle between his bicep and tricep muscles. I stabbed into his big hard arm even harder until the rest of his big hard body came with it. I twisted my nails in deeper just to make sure he kept moving, and I didn’t let up until we were back in the alleyway. Then, I shoved him away from me and stomped off in the direction of the stairs.

  I didn’t know why I was so angry. I never got angry. Ever. Normally someone raising their voice and causing a scene would have me rocking myself in tears, but for some reason Knight’s outburst made me want to attack him right back. It’s like his aggression was so big and so toxic that it seeped into my pores and made me crazy too.

  I pointed at him and yelled, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re going to get yourself fucking killed!”

  Knight didn’t look at me. He just paced back and forth between the buildings, rubbing his hands over his buzzed head.

  “What if that guy had had a gun, Knight?” I threw my hands in the air for emphasis. “Look at yourself! You can’t just attack random cars in the middle of the night dressed like a motherfucking Neo-Nazi!”

  More pacing. More head rubbing. Was he even listening?

  “Do you want someone to kill you?” I yelled. “Is that why you dress like that? Because I know for a fact that it has nothing to do with what you believe in. You don’t fucking believe in anything!”

  Knight continued ignoring me. Ugh! Needing something to do with my hands, I lit a cigarette and sat on the stairs that led up to Terminus City Tattoo. I filled my lungs with smoke and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. It was something I’d seen my dad do whenever he was stressed out—which wasn’t often now that he was unemployed—and it actually seemed to work.

  Feeling calmer once I had some nicotine in my blood and physical distance from the noxious anger cloud surrounding Knight, I looked into the alley and saw my words hanging heavy in the air between us. It felt like I might be able to just reach out and take them back. Just scoop them up in my arms and drop them into the dumpster behind the nightclub. But instead I stared at them—my ugly words—while Knight paced and pretended like he couldn’t see them too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said in a more soothing tone. “Knight, I’m sorry, okay? I just…I don’t want you to get hurt. Will you sit down? Please?”

  Knight didn’t reply, but he at least stopped pacing and sat next to me on the stairs. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his pack of Marlboro Reds and stuck one into his mouth. I extended my lighter to him before he could find his own, and the flame made his face look monstrous.

  I was sitting next to a ticking time bomb and had no idea which wire to clip.

  Keeping my voice low and even, I said, “Knight?”

  No response.

  “Did something…bad…happen to you?”

  Knight stared straight ahead and exhaled a puff of smoke through his nose. His jaw muscles flexed and his eyes narrowed.

  Shit. Okay, don’t clip the red wire.

  “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay,” I said, trying to figure out a different approach.

  Keep it light this time. Try the yellow one.

  “I’m sorry I asked about your clothes,” I said. “I didn’t realize it was such a sore subject. I…I just want to understand you better.”

  Knight flicked his gaze to me in warning, but I pressed on.

  “Where do you shop?”

  Bingo.

  Knight laughed—he fucking laughed—and in my head I pictured a little digital countdown timer stopping with only 00:03 left on the clock.

  We’re going to live! I silently cheered. WE’RE ALL GOING TO LIVE!

  “Where do I shop?” He coughed out another laugh. “What are we, fucking girlfriends now?”

  I pictured Knight with little blond pigtails and laughed too. “Well, we are having a sleepover, and you did pick out some killer accessories for me earlier.”

  “Well goddamn.” Knight flicked his cigarette ash into the abyss. “I guess I am your girlfriend.”

  I nudged his arm with my shoulder. “So spill it. Where do you shop? I know those boots didn’t come from Trash. That’s my store.”

  “How about I show you in the morning.”

  “Really?” My voice was an octave higher than usual.

  Knight’s features had softened so much it was hard to believe he was about to pummel a Rastafarian in the middle of the street just a few minutes before that.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You don’t have to be at work until noon, so we could swing by there after breakfast. The shop opens at ten, and if I’m still here when Bobby shows up she’ll put my ass to work.”

  “She?”

  Bobby’s a chick?

  Knight chuckled. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her—I still think she might have a dick under there somewhere—but according to her she was born without.”

  “Is she the one feeding the entire Atlanta stray cat population?” I gestured behind us at the bowls and saucers lining the landing at the top of the fire escape.

  “No. That would be me.” Knight’s voice lowered, and something unspoken passed between us.

  Oh.

  “So, am I like, one of your strays now? Is that why you’re always trying to feed me?” I smiled, but the thought that Knight might see me as some sort of charity case stung more than I wanted to admit.

  “Pssh. You’re a hell of a lot harder to feed than a cat.”

  I laughed at his gracious deflection, but then my face fell when realization struck me. “Oh shit! The food!”

  Knight and I both ran out of the alley and over to the intersection where we’d just been. A dirty, crumpled white bag lay on the side of the road closest to us. Knight picked it up and looked inside. His face said it all. The Hot Pockets hadn’t survived the altercation with the Honda.

  “Are they…dead?” I asked, unsure how he would respond to the bad news. I mean, we could easily just go buy more, but Knight’s reactions tended to be…erratic.

  Pulling one very unharmed box out of the bag Knight’s frown morphed into a sinister sneer. That motherfucker.

  “Looks like we’re getting drunk tonight after all, Punk.”

  Greeeat.

  Somewhere between getting up at five thirty a.m., going to school, going to work, getting my nipples pierced, being put through the emotional wringer by Knight, and generally being awake for twenty hours straight, my ass must have gotten worn out because the second that hammy, cheesy goodness hit my belly I curled up on the leather couch next to the microwave and passed the fuck out.

  When I woke up it was pitch black, except for an illuminated exit sign in the hallway, and for a few terrifying seconds I had no idea where I was. I was freezing, I knew that. And my face was stuck to a leather…armrest? Yes. I was on a couch.

  I glanced above my head, looking for the microwave I’d used just a few hours ago, and there it was. Red digital numbers informed me that it was 7:22 a.m. I tried to process that information.

  Was I late for something?

  No.

  Was that early?

  Fuck yes. Too early.

  I went to curl my arms and legs up to my chest in an attempt to get warm enough to go back to sleep and immediately regretted it. Slicing pain ripped through my chest, as the events of the night before came back in one big rush.

  Shit! My nipples!

  I sat up and felt my way over to the door, flipping on
the light switch so that I could assess the damage. I lifted the bottom of my T-shirt up to my neck and pulled one heavy bra cup away from my chest. Inside my nipple looked…crusty, but so fucking rad. I guess some blood had dried around the jewelry overnight, so when I changed positions on the couch the jewelry must have shifted and broken the scab. I would have to remember to ask Knight what I needed to do to take better care of them.

  Knight.

  I wondered where he was. I assumed the couch was probably his bed, unless the shop had some secret dungeon I didn’t know about. Leaving the break room light on, I poked my head into the hallway and looked both ways. On the floor, next to the fire escape door, were two pairs of black combat boots, lined up neatly and facing the wall. Knight must have taken my boots off after I’d fallen asleep. Why had he put them there? Next to his? It was such a domestic thing to do.

  I guess he does kind of live here.

  There was a door on either side of the doorway I was standing in. One that contained the restroom from hell, and one that was shut with a heavy duty looking deadbolt above the knob. I tiptoed past the restroom, which I desperately needed to visit, and peered into the shop. Light streamed in through the front windows, illuminating a heap of a human on the chair in the far back corner.

  I tiptoed back into the hallway, my striped tube socks silent against the matching black-and-white tile floor, and paused outside the restroom door. If I flushed, it might wake up the sleeping skinhead, but if I didn’t flush I ran the risk of Knight having to deal with a toilet full of my piss first thing in the morning.

  Fuck that. I’ll just pee at the gas station. I need to buy a toothbrush anyway.

  I grabbed my purse out of the break room and slipped my feet into my boots. I noticed, as I bent over to lace them up, that Knight’s boots were filled with all of his personal effects. I could see his wallet, his keys, his cigarettes, and what I assumed was his knife.

  Before I could think better of it I’d already pulled the metal handle out of his boot. I examined it like a magic wand that I didn’t know how to activate. It wasn’t like a switchblade—there was no button or anything—just two long, black pieces of metal, side by side, that were attached at the bottom with a hinge.

  A hinge! That’s how it works!

  Grasping the two pieces of metal in each hand, I slowly spread them apart, exposing a shiny blade tucked away inside. The two black pieces rotated all the way down and met again beneath the blade, forming a handle. I remembered the way Knight had flipped and twirled it in the parking lot that night. Almost like it was a pair of nunchucks. Holding the knife in my right hand, I attempted to flip the handle shut, but ended up flipping the blade over with it, right onto my knuckles.

  Fuck!

  Luckily, it was the dull side of the blade, but it was enough of a shock for me to remember why we’re not supposed to play with knives.

  When I dropped the knife back into Knight’s boot it clinked against his keys.

  Keys! Truck! My jacket! Fuck yeah!

  I snatched the key ring—which contained at least twenty-seven keys and one bottle opener—and headed out the back door, making sure to prop it open with a chunk of cement like Knight had done. A black cat eyed me wearily from the bottom of the stairs as I headed out into the parking lot to retrieve my, I mean, Knight’s jacket.

  Luckily, one of the keys had a Ford logo on it, otherwise I would have been out there trying to unlock his passenger door all morning. I guess when you live in three different places you end up with a lot of keys. My coat was freezing from being left outside all night, but as soon as I shrugged it on and zipped it up I could feel my bones begin to thaw. I slammed Knight’s passenger door shut and lit a cigarette as I walked over to the main intersection.

  The whole neighborhood looked so pretty in the daylight. It was like an outdoor art gallery. All the shops and bars in Little Five Points were (and still are) covered in murals and multi-textured mosaics and laughing skulls and dancing bears. On one corner of the central five-way intersection is a large patio area, dotted with an eclectic collection of benches shaded by potted trees with branches dripping in crystal mobiles and tinkling wind chimes.

  One of the benches caught my eye. It was tucked up under a purple crepe myrtle, made from heavy wrought iron that had been painted bright turquoise and lit by an errant streak of sunlight. I still had half a cigarette left, so—for possibly the first time in my short little life—I decided to stop and smell the roses.

  I was hyper. I was busy. I was always running late. But that morning I…wasn’t. Too tired from lack of sleep to rush and nowhere to be anyway, I sat on that fucking bench and snuggled into Knight’s downy jacket and watched pink clouds race like snails across the tree line.

  When the pink changed to white and my cigarette joined the hundreds of other discarded butts on the sidewalk, I made my way across the street to the gas station convenience store. There was a new cashier working the morning shift. I bought a toothbrush, a travel size stick of deodorant, and a box of frozen sausage biscuits from the man, then made my way straight to the door marked RESTROOM.

  I usually weighed myself after I peed every morning, but with no scale around I was forced to do a visual and tactile belly check instead. I lifted my shirt and looked in the mirror sideways, then pinched my fat, in the exact same spot I always did. The Chick-fil-A and Hot Pocket Knight had forced me to eat the night before didn’t appear to have done any immediate damage, but I’d have to rein it in for the next few days to make up for it.

  Thank God I’d decided to shave most of my head the week before. My naturally fluffy, wavy hair would only stay spiked or straightened for so long before it reverted back to its clown wig ways. With it shaved I only had my bangs to worry about. I washed my hands and wet my bangs quickly in the grimy sink, then blow dried them straight while kneeling under the hand drier. I found enough makeup in my purse to undo the damage that five hours of couch surfing had done to my face, so once I brushed my teeth and slapped on some deodorant I might actually be presentable again.

  When I slinked back into the tattoo shop Knight was still passed out, so I tiptoed into the break room to make him some coffee and a biscuit. I didn’t exactly know how to make coffee, but I’d seen my mom do it a few thousand times so I just winged it and hoped for the best.

  While it brewed, I hunted through the cabinets for a mug and some creamer. I found them, but I also found a little cardboard box that I assumed belonged to Knight. It containing a bottle of cologne—Obsession for Men, fitting—a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss, a toothbrush… and condoms.

  Condoms.

  I’d never thought about Knight having sex before, but he was eighteen. Most of the people I knew lost their virginity in middle school. I probably would have too if Lance hadn’t been playing so damn hard to get.

  That made me wonder if Lance was still a virgin. Surely not. He was so gorgeous, and funny, and tall. So who was he fucking? Maybe Juliet was right. Maybe he did have a girlfriend. Maybe I was just his play thing.

  I ripped my new toothbrush out of the packaging, slathered on some of Knight’s minty toothpaste, and angrily brushed my teeth as the image of Lance’s phantom big-tittied, pink-haired girlfriend taunted me.

  A shadow fell over the wall in front of me and I screamed, dropping my toothbrush into the sink as I brought my hand up to cover my foaming mouth. Knight leaned into the door frame and chuckled. “Jesus. Do I look that bad in the morning?”

  Actually, Knight didn’t look bad at all. He looked…cute. He was all squinty-eyed and barefoot, and his jeans were still rolled up at the bottom. His braces hung from his waist—instead of being up over his shoulders—and his T-shirt was half untucked. He kind of reminded me of a grown-up, hard-bodied Huckleberry Finn. He just needed a straw hat and a fishing pole. I giggled at the thought and quickly rinsed my mouth out in the sink.

  “You actually look less scary in the morning,” I said, as I tossed everything back into the
box.

  “Don’t tell anybody, okay.” Knight half-smiled and then said, “You look fucking hot in the morning, especially with that jacket on.” I hid my blush as I turned and tried to shove the box back into the cabinet where I’d found it.

  “You can just leave that out,” he said. “I need to brush my teeth too.”

  “Sorry, I just kind of helped myself to your toothpaste.” I handed Knight the box and felt the prickly heat in my cheeks intensify.

  Here, have some condoms, buddy.

  Thankfully, he just set the box on the counter and sniffed the air. “Goddamn, Punk. Are you making breakfast?”

  The microwave dinged right on cue. I pulled out a steaming biscuit wrapped in a paper towel and handed it to him with pride. Knight scowled at my outstretched hand, then gave me the look. The look that said, “You and I both know I’m going to make you eat that, so let’s just skip the theatrics, shall we?”

  I fucking hated that look.

  Without a word Knight walked around me, took another biscuit out of the mini fridge, and popped it into the microwave. Grabbing his box off the counter Knight left the room, and left me standing there holding the biscuit.

  I could smell him coming before he re-entered the room, and it made my newly pierced nipples ache. Something about the unique combination of shaving cream, toothpaste, deodorant, and the cologne he wore was like fucking catnip. I wanted to stick my head under his T-shirt as soon as he crested the doorway and just breathe for a while.

  I’d set his biscuit next to mine on the small glass table in the center of the room and poured him a cup of coffee. When Knight walked in and saw the little table—all set for breakfast like we were fucking grown-ups—he smiled. Really smiled. And it made me feel like the queen of the fucking universe.

  “Damn, Punk. I think I’m gonna like being your girlfriend. We should have a slumber party every weekend.” Knight sat down while I concentrated on trying not to blush. And failed. Miserably.

  “Only if you promise to get some better bedding,” I said as I took my seat next to him. “I froze my ass off last night.”