by B. B. Easton
Juliet put a hand next to her mouth and whispered loud enough for the entire salon to hear, “She just went through a bad breakup.”
“Say no more.” He winked. “Revenge hair. I love it.”
I turned back toward Juliet, remembering her initial question. “Yeah, it was super weird being back. Seeing my old apartment…but then Ken showed up, and—”
“I know! What about a Gwyneth Paltrow/Sliding Doors thing?” my stylist asked, gripping the hair on the back of my head in both hands. “We could take all this off”—he tugged—“and do a long, swoopy side bang in the front.”
“I had that cut, too,” I said with a shrug. “I was thinking I might want to keep some length this time.”
André—I don’t remember his name, but he looked like an André—grimaced at my request.
“You should go darker,” Juliet’s stylist suggested. She was rocking some effortlessly messy dreadlocks that had been dyed a deep reddish purple.
“Ooh, I like your color!”
“Oh my God, yes!” André exclaimed. “Burgundy. It would be perfect with your redheaded complexion. I’m seeing a sleek, angled burgundy bob. Like a sexy secret agent.”
“I don’t think her hair does sleek.” Juliet snickered.
“Oh, it’ll do whatever I tell it to, honey.”
I glanced from stylist to stylist and then shrugged. “Okay.”
André went to go mix the color, and Juliet pinned me with a knowing grin.
“What?” I snapped.
“You called him Ken.”
“So? That’s his name.”
“You used to call him Pajama Guy.”
“Well, that was back when he wore pajamas all the time.”
Juliet laughed through her nose. “Those were workout clothes, dumbass.”
If Jason was the brother I never had, then Juliet was definitely the bitchy, older sister.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Whatever. I have pants with drawstring waistbands, too. I got them in the pajama section at Target because they’re fucking pajamas.”
Now Juliet and her stylist were both snickering. “So, if he’s not Pajama Guy anymore, what does he wear now?”
I huffed and glanced at the mirror in front of me, telepathically imploring my stylist to hurry up at the color-mixing station. “I don’t know. Not pajamas. Like…a tie.”
Juliet’s face flipped from amused to confused in an instant. “A tie? Since when are you into guys in ties? You only like guys who look like they rob guys in ties. At gunpoint.”
I didn’t want to, but I laughed. “I know, okay? I know! But you didn’t see him. It wasn’t like a normal tie ensemble. It was…I don’t know…edgy.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“He could be your rebound guy!”
“No. Ken? He’s so not my type. He doesn’t drink or smoke or have tattoos or anything. He’s probably never even been arrested.”
Juliet’s stylist chuckled. “Girrrl, you need a new type.”
Juliet looked up at her. “What she needs is a rebound. Everybody knows the best way to get over a man is to get a new man.”
“And new haaaair!” André returned with a bowl full of purple goo and abruptly swiveled my chair away from Juliet, severing our conversation.
As he worked his magic, my thoughts kept drifting to Ken. I had to admit, the only time in the last six weeks that I hadn’t spent reliving every traumatic detail of my breakup with Hans were the few moments I spent with Ken the night before.
But could I actually date him? I mean, it was Pajama Guy. We had nothing in common. And besides, I barely knew him. Okay, so I knew most of his friends and where he worked and that he had gone to the same high school as me and that he’d quit the football team because he refused to be yelled at by the coaches. I also knew that he’d been backpacking through Europe and been to all my bucket-list museums and already knew more about Egyptian art history than I did when he offered to help me study for my midterms. And I was very aware of the fact that Kenneth Easton didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs or eat chocolate or celebrate holidays or acknowledge birthdays or hug or do committed relationships or even say, God bless you, when someone sneezed because he was a stubborn, joyless atheist.
So, why couldn’t I stop thinking about him?
Three hours later, Juliet had a headful of long, tight black braids; I had a sleek, angled burgundy bob; and everyone in the salon was probably dying of cancer, thanks to the number of chemicals it had taken to tame my frizz.
Juliet and I hugged goodbye in the parking lot and hopped into our separate cars—mine a ten-year-old black Mustang hatchback that I used to race for money before I was even old enough to buy cigarettes, hers a hand-me-down minivan her mom had given her when she got knocked up by her drug-dealing boyfriend at the age of sixteen.
Ah, the good old days.
Now, we were just a couple of stressed-out, single women who spent all our free time working to put ourselves through college.
But at least our hair looked amazing.
Juliet and I pulled out of the salon parking lot in unison, matching smiles on our faces and Camel Lights between our fingertips. She turned right onto the highway, heading back toward her mom’s house where she lived with her four-year-old son. I turned left, heading back toward the opium den my hippie parents called home.
With every passing mile, I could feel the depression I’d been battling since my breakup with Hans beginning to gnaw at the periphery of my mind.
Look at BB, all gussied up with nowhere to go, it taunted.
I turned on the radio.
What a waste of money.
I changed the station from pop to hard rock.
Who are you trying to look pretty for, huh?
I turned up the volume.
Your parents? They’re the only ones you’re going to see tonight.
Just as I was debating whether to crank the volume knob all the way to the right or yank the steering wheel instead, the universe intervened.
“Cirque du Soleil has announced that its trademark blue-and-yellow Grand Chapiteau will return to Atlanta this spring with Varekai, its latest live production. Deep within a forest, at the summit of a volcano, exists an extraordinary world—a world where anything is possible. A world called…Varekai. Varekai will premiere on March 6, but tickets are on sale now.”
Before I had time to formulate a plan or so much as a thought, I had my cell phone out of my purse and pressed against the side of my head.
“What’s u—”
“Jason!” I squealed. “I need you to call Ken right now and give him my number and tell him that he’s taking me to Cirque du Soleil!”
“Your haaaair!” my mom yelled as soon as I walked through her front door. Waving me into the kitchen, she proceeded to pet and smooth my new purplish bob with her hands. “Oh, it’s so pretty and shiny and straight. Promise me you won’t shave it all off again.”
I laughed. “If I can keep it looking like this? Yeah, I promise.”
I could hear my father playing a Jimi Hendrix song on one of his Fender Strats in the living room. The music stopped just before he shouted in agreement, “Looks good, Scooter!” He must have seen me walk by.
“Thanks, Dad!” I yelled back, dropping my purse on the kitchen island, which was really just a wobbly white particleboard nightmare my mom had purchased from Kmart. With wobbly stools to match.
“Ooh, these are pretty,” I said, admiring a fresh vase of Stargazer lilies on the island. “When did you get—”
“They’re from Hans.” My mom’s tone dropped, just like my face when I heard his name.
Giving her a look that could sear the chrome off a bumper, I picked up the entire crystal vase, walked over to the trash can, and stepped on the pedal to open the lid.
“No!” she shouted, snatching the vase out of my hands at the last second. “They’re so pretty. At least let me take them to school. Maybe I’ll use them for a still-life lesson b
efore they die. The kids will love them.”
I sighed and let the lid fall shut. “Fine.”
“Baby…”
Doodle-oodle-oodle-oo, my cell phone sang from my purse.
My heart skipped a beat as I snatched my purse back off the table and began rummaging through it for my glittery little Nokia.
Doodle-oodle-oodle-oo!
Grasping the device, I pulled it out and read the name on the screen. For the second time in as many minutes, my face fell.
I silenced the ringer and shoved it back into my bag. Flowers from Hans, never-ending phone calls from Knight…all I needed was for Harley to get out of jail, and the Terrible Trio would be complete.
Looking up at my mom with an expression that I hoped said, That was absolutely not Ronald McKnight who I just sent to voicemail, I tried to remember what we’d been talking about.
“That was him, wasn’t it?”
“Who?” I smiled innocently.
“You know who.” She wouldn’t even say his name. It was as if Knight was so evil that my mom was afraid he could be conjured, like a demon or a ghost. “When are you going to change your number?”
“Mom…” I scoffed. “It’s fine. I don’t even answer.”
Anymore.
“It’s not fine. I saw him parked in the cul-de-sac on his motorcycle just last week, staring at the house!” She threw her hand in the direction of the front door and street beyond. “You know, your father and I watched a Dateline episode about guys like this. They called them lurkers. No…stalkers. They called them stalkers, and they said that they are dangerous and have no boundaries and will stop at nothing to get what they want.”
I wanted to laugh so bad. If she only fucking knew. Knight had been terrorizing me for a quarter of my life. At fifteen, he’d isolated me from my friends, threatened anyone who so much as spoke to me, introduced me to a world of bondage and bloodplay, intimidated and humiliated me at every turn, then shattered my heart when he left for the Marines. I had gotten a brief reprieve during his two tours of Iraq, but both times, he’d come back more aggressive and volatile than ever.
Knight’s new favorite pastime was leaving irrationally angry, obscenity-filled voicemails on my phone, but no matter how bad it got, I couldn’t change my number. I just…couldn’t.
Knight wasn’t a stalker.
He was worse.
He was my first love.
My mom opened the kitchen junk drawer and pulled something out. “Here,” she said, turning and presenting me with a small black pouch on a key ring.
I accepted the canister, my fingers grazing the word Mace embossed on the side of the leather carrying case.
“Your father wanted to give you one of his guns, but I think you have to be twenty-one to carry a concealed weapon. So…maybe for your birthday.”
“Mom”—I rolled my eyes, dropping the poison dispenser into my bag—“I am not carrying a gun.”
“Well, I’d feel a lot better if you did. Look at you. You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag.”
Here we go again.
“Welp, thanks for the mace. I’m going upstairs now.” I stood up and grabbed my purse, trying to make an exit before the issue of my weight, or lack thereof, came up. That was how these conversations went. No matter how they started, they always ended with a—
“Have you eaten today?”
“Uh-huh,” I lied, backing out of the kitchen.
“Good,” she called after me as I turned and practically sprinted up the stairs. “And be sure to take that pepper spray to school. You know, fourteen people get mugged downtown every day!”
That night, I dreamed of circus tents and acrobats and a mysterious prince dressed all in black. He was wearing a mask, so he could go out among the commoners without being recognized, but I knew it was him. I followed him through the crowd of spectators inside the big top, popcorn kernels and peanut shells crunching under my feet.
Every time I caught a glimpse of his intense aqua eyes peering out from behind that wide swath of black fabric, he would disappear again into the crowd. I had just found him, standing in the shadows beside the sawdust-covered stage, and was about to reach for his mask when a circus clown grabbed me from behind. He covered my mouth with his sweaty palm and chuckled as he dragged me away from my prince. I struggled against him, throwing my elbows and kicking my feet, but it was no use. He was so strong, and I was so light.
Too light, the doctors had said.
As the plump clown carried me onstage over his shoulder, a parade of dancers in white lab coats and white masks pranced out in a chorus line, shaking their fingers at me.
Doodle-oodle-oodle-oo, a series of cascading digital beeps sang out, ripping me from one nightmare into another.
I’d chosen the most cheerful ringtone I could find, but it didn’t matter. The sound still hit my brain like an atom bomb every time.
Opening my eyes, I squinted at the clock on my nightstand. It was after midnight.
Fuck.
Knight was the only one who ever called that late. Usually after being thrown out of a bar for almost killing someone with a broken beer bottle in a blackout fit of rage. I couldn’t talk to him like that. I couldn’t talk to him at all anymore. Not only because he was irrational and irate, but also because I knew why.
I was the only one who knew why.
My cell phone rang again in my hand as I carried it across my childhood bedroom, its illuminated screen lighting my way with an ominous green glow. I don’t know how, but even in my semiconscious condition, I could sense his presence, smell the notes of cinnamon in his musky cologne, and feel the heat and hatred radiating off his hulking body. I knew, even before I parted my nicotine-stained blinds, what I would find parked beneath the streetlight outside.
But that didn’t prepare me for the sheer terror of actually seeing it.
My fingers released the blinds, letting them fall closed as my hand flew to my gasping mouth. Even though our driveway was long and flanked by woods on both sides, I would know the shadowy figure standing at the end of it anywhere. He was the thing that went bump in the night. He was the monster under my bed. And the last time he’d shown up where I was, he’d crossed a line I swore I’d never let him get close enough to cross again.
“What’s the matter, Punk?” Knight’s voice was sinister as he approached. Predatory.
I always parked on a run-down side street near the concert venue where Hans’s band played. But that night, after the show, my car wasn’t the only familiar thing waiting for me on Mable Drive.
“You don’t look very happy,” he sneered.
I took a step backward and flinched when my lower back collided with the tailgate of his jacked-up monster truck.
“That is what you said, isn’t it? That you’re so much happier now?” Knight threw my earlier words back in my face as he came to a stop right in front of me.
I saw his hand shoot out, but all I had time to do was wince before he wrapped his meaty palm around my jaw.
Knight dug his thumb and fingers into the corners of my mouth and pushed them up into a forced grin. “Smile, Punk. Show me how fucking happy he makes you.”
Hot tears slid down my mortified face as I tried to slap Knight’s hand away. “Fuck you!” I mumbled through my misshapen mouth, shoving his hard chest with both hands.
Knight shook his head from side to side. “Tsk-tsk. That’s not very ladylike, princess.”
“Don’t call me that!” I yelled, kicking him in the shin.
“But you like being his little princess. You said he made you happy.” Knight’s grip on my mouth tightened, pushing the corners of my mouth up even higher.
I closed my eyes, causing more tears to spill down my cheeks, and whispered through my clenched teeth, “I hate you.”
Knight leaned in and pressed his forehead against mine. He smelled like Southern Comfort and Camel Lights.
Just like me.
“Good,” Knight whispered.
Without releasing my distorted smile, he slammed his mouth against the upturned seam of my lips.
I waited for the spark. The zap of electricity that coursed from my head to my feet like a lightning bolt seeking the earth whenever Knight’s lips touched mine.
But it never came.
Instead, all I felt was humiliated. Violated. Powerless. I felt Knight’s rough hands shove my vinyl pants down to my ankles. I felt my nipple rings snag when he yanked my bra and tank top up under my armpits. But I didn’t feel him enter me. My mind went somewhere else for that part. Somewhere happier.
The phone in my hand, which had gone silent, began to ring again. My heart slammed against my protruding ribs.
Don’t look, BB. Just go back to bed. Maybe it’s not him. Please, don’t—
Without my consent, my fingers crept forward and lifted one of the filthy plastic slats again, just a fraction of an inch. Knight’s chopper was still parked beneath the streetlight outside, but he wasn’t standing next to it anymore.
Doodle-oodle-oodle-oo!
In a panic, I opened the blinds a little wider, scanning the expanse of darkness between the street and my second-story window. Knight wasn’t in the driveway. He wasn’t at the front door. My eyes darted across the almost-pitch-black front yard, ping-ponging between the pine trees until a familiar pair of almost-colorless blue eyes emerged from the shadows.
Knight’s pale skin seemed to glow in the dark. His once-baby-soft blond buzz cut was grown out and slicked back. And his camouflage cargo pants had been traded in for a pair of black Levi’s and a leather cut. Knight’s new biker persona was just as intimidating as his military look, but unlike his dog tags and fatigues, it didn’t even give the illusion that he was a good guy.
Knight was the motherfucking boogeyman.
He shouldn’t have been able to see me. My light was off, and my blinds were only cracked wide enough for one of my thoroughly dilated pupils to peek through, but Knight stared at that crack anyway. It was as if he could smell my fear.
Don’t fucking move. He can’t see you. You’re fine. He can’t see you.
I held my breath as Knight narrowed his eyes at my window and growled something into his cell phone. I couldn’t read his lips in the dark, but I didn’t have to. My phone dinged in my hand a second later, indicating that I had a voicemail.