Skin (44 Chapters #1)

by B. B. Easton

  “That’s because you’re a pussy,” Knight said with a mouthful of biscuit.

  I reached over and smacked him on the arm. “Oh really? Would a pussy get her nipples pierced?”

  “Shit!” Knight said, suddenly serious. “I didn’t give you any Bactine to put on them last night. Have you looked at them today?”

  “Uh, yeah, dude. It’s not pretty.”

  “Let me see.”

  My face flushed for real that time. “I…uh…okay.”

  Knight was a professional, right? It was just like going to the doctor’s office. Not weird. At all. Nope. Totally normal.

  I reached up under the back of my shirt and unclasped my bra, then lifted my shirt and both five-pound liquid-filled cups up at the same time. Knight’s lips parted and he leaned forward in his chair, fascinated, like I had a pair of two-headed frogs under my shirt.

  “Welcome to the freak show, everybody! Step right up and see the Tit-less Wonder! What she lacks in breasts she makes up for in nipple crust!”

  Holding my shirt and bra up with one hand, I covered my tomato-red face with the other. One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

  “Oh my God! Are you done, yet? This is so humiliating!”

  Knight said, “Stay right there,” then hopped up and left the room.

  He’s probably going to barf.

  When he came back he was wearing a pair of latex gloves and had a plastic baggie full of gel packets and cotton swabs in one hand. I stayed frozen in mortification while he sat back down and went to work methodically cleaning my piercings. When he was done he explained that I would need to apply that goo every morning and night and then slide the jewelry side to side to work the antiseptic all the way through.

  “Like this,” Knight said, as I peeked out from between my fingers. He cupped my tiny breasts in his gloved hands and gently slid both barbells back and forth between his thumbs and forefingers at the same time. The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever felt. My panties were suddenly soaked, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from moaning out loud.

  I guess I didn’t hide my arousal as well as I thought, because Knight said with a smirk, “Or I can just do it for you.”

  I slammed my bra and shirt back down and jumped up from my seat. Turning and opening random cabinets behind me I rambled, “Do you need, like, cream or sugar or something for your coffee? I fucking hate coffee, so I don’t really know how the whole thing works, but I know most people—”

  “Nah. I’m good,” Knight said as he slipped off his gloves. “I usually just take it black.”

  “You would,” I muttered under my breath.

  Knight and I finished our breakfast and cleaned up like a couple of domesticated little bitches. He made sure his tattoo station was tidy while I straightened up the breakroom. Then we sat on the fire escape and laced up our boots together before setting out on our little field trip to Boots & Braces—or as I called it, in my head—The Skinhead Store.

  Since it was still early, Knight suggested that we walk there to kill time.

  I had assumed it would be in Little Five Points somewhere.

  I was wrong.

  Boots & Braces was located at least a mile outside of Little Five, in a goddamn metal warehouse that looked like a high school gymnasium, inside a barbed wire fence, inside an industrial park, on the wrong side of the tracks, with absolutely no signage.

  When Knight opened the gate and walked up to the door I seriously expected to be asked for ID or a password or a secret handshake or something.

  What the fuck, Knight? All this for a pair of skinny suspenders?

  He opened the door for me, but I just stared at him. There was no fucking way I was going in there first. I may have been naïve, but I wasn’t stupid. That place had rape shack written all over it.

  Knight laughed and said, “I thought we were girlfriends. Do you want to see where I shop or not?”

  I peeked my head in and, sure as shit, the place was filled with racks of clothes, just like any other clothing store. The back wall supported shelf after shelf full of combat boots, and the far side of the warehouse was walled off with a ten foot high chain-link fence that guarded what appeared to be the surplus inventory.

  I wandered in like Alice after she’d hit the bottom of the rabbit hole. What was this place? Was I dreaming? Were those band T-shirts really only $8.99? An entire wall of Grinders and Doc Martens in every size and color?

  A voice from behind us broke my reverie. “You little bitch. Get over here and give me some sugar.”

  I turned and saw a big dude, dressed just like Knight, standing behind a makeshift checkout counter. He must have been in his late twenties, maybe thirty, and he was obviously no stranger to the gym. His neck was as big around as a tree trunk, but his face was kinder than Knight’s.

  When Knight walked up to do the whole handshake-slap-on-the-back thing that guys do, the beefcake pulled him into a headlock and gave him a noogie just like an older brother would have done. It made me smile to see somebody treat Knight like family.

  Knight shoved him off and jerked a thumb in my direction. “Leo, this is Punk. Punk, meet Leonard. He owns the place. And he’s a fucking dick.”

  Leonard raised an eyebrow at me and said, “Punk?”

  “BB,” I corrected, walking over to…I don’t know…shake his hand? That’s what grown-ups did, right?

  But Leonard decided to make it less cordial and way more awkward by shoving Knight’s shoulder and saying, “Damn, son! Where the fuck did you wrestle up this piece of ass? I guess you gotta grab ‘em while they’re young, huh? How old are you, Punkin’?”

  Knight shoved Leonard back a few steps and yelled, “Her name isn’t fucking Pumpkin, old man. It’s Punk. Does she look like a fucking vegetable to you?” His deep voice echoed off the sheet metal walls.

  Leo grinned like the Cheshire cat and clapped a hand down on Knight’s shoulder. “Oooooh! He likes you, Punkin’ Pie! I’ve never been able to rile this motherfucker up. He’s usually Stone Cold Steve Austin up in here.”

  I didn’t want to like Leonard, but his smile was infectious.

  “Any shirt you want is on me, Punkin’ Spice.” He gestured to the $8.99 rack I noticed earlier. “I think I got some punk shit over there. Mostly for profiling purposes, but have at it.”

  Eager to get the fuck away from their pissing contest I squeaked out a, “Thank you,” and made a beeline for the T-shirt rack. Knight and Leonard kept talking and laughing and smacking each other like a couple of old war veterans while I dug up a Dead Kennedy’s tank top, size extra-small.

  Score!

  When Knight was done shooting the shit with Leo he walked me around and explained to me where every brand and label originated. I felt like I was peering through the looking glass into a whole different lifestyle. Most of the clothing companies were based out of the UK, and evidently there were two different styles of skinhead. “Working-class skins” wore jeans and T-shirts, while “smart skins” wore nicer clothes—Fred Perry polo shirts and Ben Sherman button-ups—but they all wore boots and braces. Hence the name of the shop.

  I’d seen Knight wear both styles. In fact, I think I’d seen Knight wear every single thing in that store. Except for one rack. It was completely devoted to T-shirts with various logos on them that all said SHARP in capital letters. Knight explained that SHARP stood for Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. I think I laughed out loud when he told me what the acronym stood for, but he claimed that it wasn’t a joke.

  He said the whole skinhead culture originated in Europe as this working-class pride movement. It had nothing to do with white supremacy. They even listened to Jamaican ska and reggae music instead of the European music that was popular back then. The modern day SHARP skins wanted to take the subculture back from the Neo-Nazis, who they felt had hijacked their style to give their fascist cause a more distinctive look.

  “So, does that make you a SHARP skin?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Nah. I don�
�t give a shit if people think I fucking jerk off to a picture of Hitler every night. Fuck ‘em.”

  Oh, right. Of course he wasn’t out there trying to convince people he was a good guy. He wanted them to think he was a Neo-Nazi. He wanted them to hate him. Because Knight had a motherfucking death wish.

  I left with my prized tank top, no bag or anything, and a half-assed apology from Leonard for “being a dick.” The noon sun had me tying Knight’s flight jacket around my waist as we hiked past the dilapidated bungalows and overgrown lots back to his truck. A pang of sadness struck me as he hoisted me up into the cab. I didn’t want to leave.

  Knight made me choose a fast food restaurant to stop at on the way to work, so I chose McDonald’s because I’d heard that their plain hamburgers only had like a hundred and fifty calories. Of course, Knight ordered a whole Happy Meal and made me eat it in front of him right there in the Pier 1 Imports parking lot.

  Fucker.

  While I chewed, Knight said, “The next time I have you in my chair, I think I’m going to pierce your clit.”

  I choked and gasped for air. “What the fuck, Knight? Why can’t I just get my belly button pierced like a normal girl? Why does it have to be my clit?! Jesus!”

  “Because you’re not a normal girl. And also because it needs to be in a place where your parents won’t see. Mrs. Bradley would beat my ass if she found out I’d pierced her precious daughter.”

  I laughed at the thought. “She would, too! When I was little she used to spank me with a fucking meter stick. Not just a regular ruler. A three foot long strip of wood.” I spread my hands apart to illustrate the length. “That shit stung like hell.”

  Knight laughed and said, “Any time you wanna play house you just let me know. I’ll spank you with whatever you want.”

  “So you want to play the mommy?” I teased back. “Damn, Knight, you really are fucked up.”

  Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. Our jovial banter died, and Knight’s jaw clenched shut.

  Note to self: Do not call Knight “fucked up.”

  “I…I’m sorry,” I said. “You don’t like it when I say that, do you?”

  Knight didn’t respond. He just stared at me with those glacial eyes—pupils like pinpricks from the afternoon sun, jaw muscles working overtime.

  “Hey,” I said, placing my hand on top of his in the seat between us. Knight glanced down at the place where we touched and I could almost feel the skin on the back of my hand get colder under his stare.

  Fuck. Okay…what now?

  “Thanks for last night,” I stuttered. “For the piercings, and for letting me stay. I…”

  …wish I didn’t have to go to work…wish we could hang out all day…wish I hadn’t ruined the mood…wish I could make you smile again…

  Knight squeezed my hand, hard, and looked back up at me with the intensity of a laser beam.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he said.

  It was direct and honest and not at all what I was expecting.

  And neither was my reaction, which was to smile like a fucking idiot and smash my lips into his cheek.

  Then leap from the cab of the truck as if it were on fire.

  I wish I could say that after that weekend I began talking to Knight in front of other people. That I finally accepted him as a friend and didn’t care what people thought of me. But I didn’t. Because I was an asshole teenager with a crush on someone else.

  So, we resumed our routine like nothing had happened. Like Knight hadn’t touched my tits. Like I hadn’t kissed him on the cheek. Like the jacket I was wearing didn’t belong to him. And like we hadn’t spent the night together twice. For the next month we talked in the morning. We gave each other tiny nods in the church parking lot and at lunch, and we spoke in the truck on the way to Colton’s. Meanwhile, I was all but throwing myself at Lance.

  Okay, I was full-on throwing myself at Lance.

  One afternoon in late October, Lance, Colton, August and I were all watching Jerry Springer on Colton’s woolen couch, shooting the shit and ignoring Knight who had just come in from feeding the dog. Colton was telling us a riveting story about how he’d just tried to get a job at a haunted house.

  “And then the owner said, ‘I can’t hire you. You’re too pretty to be a zombie!’ I told him I could just wear a mask, but he said he wouldn’t feel right asking me to cover up a face this handsome.”

  Fucking Colton. That boy couldn’t pretend to be humble if his sack depended on it.

  “So that got me thinking,” he continued. “What kind of a job could I get with a face like this? And then it hit me—male model!”

  We all died laughing and Lance shoved Colton’s oh so beautiful face with his open palm.

  “I’m serious, you guys! I called my dad and he got me an agent, just like he did for my brother! I’m moving back to Vegas! Tomorrow!”

  Lance crossed his arms over his chest and looked pissed. “What the fuck, dude. You just got back.”

  I pressed my hand to Lance’s mouth to shush him, then leaned around his body and squealed, “That’s awesome, Colton!”

  Okay, I maaaay have been excited about Colton leaving for selfish reasons, but I was genuinely happy for him too.

  “Maybe we can be roommates one day,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to be a showgirl in Las Vegas. You know, the kind with the giant feathered head—”

  “Fuck that,” Knight interrupted me from his spot over on the recliner.

  “What?” I asked, turning toward the man whom I had honestly forgotten was even in the room.

  Knight leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and pointed a finger directly toward my chest. “Fuck. That. You need to get a new fucking career goal, Punk.”

  I looked at his finger, shining an invisible spotlight on my nonexistent breasts, and an angry pink shame exploded in my neck and cheeks.

  “Oh, you don’t think I can be a showgirl?” I asked. “Because I have no tits? Well, fuck you, Knight! They make these magical things called breast implants now—”

  Knight leapt out of his seat and crossed the room in milliseconds, grabbing my face in his right hand, and smooshing my cheeks until I made an involuntary kissy face. He planted his knee on the couch next to my hip and shoved my head back into the cushion behind me. Looming over me, Knight brought his face within inches of mine. My eyes went wide in shock, partly because Knight just attacked me and partly because none of the other boys made a move to stop him.

  “You’re not gonna be a fucking showgirl,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “because I will fucking follow you to Las Vegas, and I will fucking kill every single motherfucker who thinks he has the right to look at your perfect fucking tits.”

  Bathroom. Space. Air. Now.

  I pushed Knight off of me and ran to the “powder room,” as Peg called it, before anyone could tell how flattered I was by Knight’s twisted complimentary threat.

  Perfect? Did he really just say “perfect tits” about me? In front of everyone?

  I glanced in the mirror to see if I could see what he could see, but all I noticed was that my face and neck were covered in dark pink blotches.

  Shit. I better wait a few minutes.

  I sat on the toilet to pee and kill time until my skin returned to its normal color, realizing quickly that the thin bathroom walls did little to muffle the words being exchanged in the living room.

  One of the voices belonged to Colton. I pressed my ear to the wall to hear him better, which was only about a foot away from the toilet in that tiny half-bath.

  “Well, technically,” Colton said, “she’s still my girlfriend.”

  Oh no. Colton, shut up! I screamed to him telepathically. Don’t be a hero! What are you doing?

  “Well, technically,” I heard Knight answer back in a voice deep and laced with malice, “I’m gonna fuck your girlfriend before you do.”

  Now, I’m not a religious person—never have been—but upon hearing those words I crossed myself, just
like my Irish Catholic mother did whenever she drove through a yellow traffic light—and whispered the only prayer she’d ever taught me.

  Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses

  As we forgive those who trespass against us.

  Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil fucking skinheads.

  Amen.

  I needed a friend. And not another confusing guy friend. I needed Juliet.

  That afternoon, as soon as I got home, I ran upstairs and called my girl. I knew things were probably irreparably fucked between us—thanks to her gang-affiliated, drug-dealing, money-extorting boyfriend and my...whatever he was—but I missed her.

  Juliet answered on the first ring and said, “BB?” on a broken sob.

  “Oh my God! Juliet, what’s wrong?”

  Crying.

  More crying.

  “Sweetie, where are you?”

  “At hoooome,” she wailed.

  “Did something bad happen? Do you want my mom to come get you?”

  Sniffle. “I just…I just—”

  “Juliet! Tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  “I’m pregnant!” she screamed. “I just took a test, and I’m fucking pregnant, okay?!”

  Pregnant?

  My mind immediately filled with images of Juliet with a big belly, Juliet holding a little baby, me holding the little baby…Tony holding the little baby (shudder).

  “BB, say something!” she screamed.

  “You are going to be the cutest pregnant lady ever,” I blurted out.

  “I’m not a lady! I’m only f-f-fucking fifteeeeeeen!” she sobbed.

  “Yeah, but by the time you have the baby you’ll be sixteen, and that’s practically an adult. And your mom will totally help you out. And I’ll help too. I fucking love babies. And you can go to that alternative high school that has a daycare on site.” I was rambling, vomiting out every positive scenario I could think of, hoping that one of them might cheer her up.