Skin
Kyle, a young newcomer to New Orleans, is haunted by the memory of his first lover, brutally murdered just outside the French Quarter.
Marc, a young Quarter hustler, is haunted by an eccentric spirit that shares his dreams, and by the handsome but vicious lover who shares his bed.
When the barrier between these men comes down, it will prove thinner than the veil between the living and the dead…or between justice and revenge.
Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Christian Baines’s Work
By the Author
Acknowledgments
ANTOINE
MARC
KYLE
MARC
KYLE
MARC
KYLE
MARC
KYLE
MARC
KYLE
MARC
KYLE
KYLE
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
What Reviewers Say About Christian Baines’s Work
Advance Praise for Skin
“Believable characters and rich settings pulled me into this world, and I didn’t want to leave it. I was sorry to reach the end.”—Greg Herren, author of Murder in the Rue Dauphine and Bourbon Street Blues.
“Christian Baines is a writer with a bold, original vision, a vision not beholden to the limits of conventional genre tropes. This is a writer who knows his own voice, and a writer to watch.” —Michael Rowe, author of ;Enter, Night,and Wild Fell.
The Orchard of Flesh
“Oh wow; I really have to give it to the author with this one! After how much I enjoyed the previous book, I was thrilled to dive back into this universe with the sequel and, let me tell you, it did not disappoint.…The story…was just fantastic! I’m just amazed by the imagination the author put into this, from the culprit to the resolution I just couldn’t put it down.”—Love Bytes Reviews
Puppet Boy
“Right from the start, I was gripped by this story. …I liked that Eric’s bisexuality is understated, yet unrepentant. I also appreciated the stellar writing which easily elevates this book into the literary realm. This is the type of book best read without knowing any specifics, so I’m not going to spoil it for you. Just know that you’ll laugh your head off, be horrified, and question your sanity…or Eric’s. A total mindfuck and one of the more creative books I’ve read in a while.”—Outlaw Reviews
Skin
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Skin
© 2017 By Christian Baines. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13:978-1-63555-083-2
This Electronic Original is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: November 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler
Production Design: Bold Strokes Graphics
Cover Design by Melody Pond
By the Author
Puppet Boy
The Orchard of Flesh
Skin
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my writing family at Bold Strokes and beyond for all your support, encouragement, and enthusiasm on this project and others. Special thanks to Canadian writing peeps ’Nathan Burgoine, Stephen Graham King, Jeffrey Round, and James Moran among others for all your encouragement, practical advice, and for adopting me as one of your own.
Huge thank you to my beta readers, Avylinn for keeping me focused; Lynn, my NOLA expert for keeping me honest; and Dean for keeping me motivated.
Thanks to the many friends, close family, and readers who’ve cheered me on, come to signings or launches, or just let me rave about whatever idea has got me excited in that moment. I am deeply privileged to have you all.
ANTOINE
He kissed the cold surface of the mirror, feeling it peel away the excess dark paint that announced his otherwise thin, unremarkable lips to the world. A simple ritual that would protect his boyfriend from wearing a thickly smeared Kryolan grin, just as it protected his own confidence. No doubt about it. Tonight, he was one highly kissable bitch.
He didn’t say it aloud. The thought was enough to boost his ego as he smoothed the lapels of his favorite navy blazer and checked the seams of stockings that emerged perpendicular to the low, well-cut hem of his pants. Heels sensible enough to make him feel powerful, yet playful enough to suggest mischief housed his perfectly shaped size ten feet.
It had to be perfect. Almost a week had passed since he’d last seen Kyle. They’d never gone that long before, and Kyle had been cagey in his texts in the past few days. He’d decided not to read too much into it. Kyle wasn’t the most emotional or demonstrative guy to begin with. It just meant that tonight, everything had to be on point.
The stockings were the only feminine indulgence beneath his pants-suit facade. No frilly silk prison for breasts that would never round out his flat, dark chest, its skin disappearing smoothly behind the shiny buttons of his red satin shirt. On a scene crammed with wannabe queens, baby Ru-girls, and Masc4Mascs, the line he walked between male and female ensured he would always be his own man.
He turned to the image of Saint Grace that had adorned his wall since he was eight years old. The one that had survived regular threats of burning from his mother, who insisted that under her roof, even slaves to the rhythm would adhere to their designated bed time.
Saint Grace never smiled back at him, but that didn’t matter. He smoothed his tightly buzzed hair, knowing he had her blessing.
Slay all those bitches, Mama. Slay. Them. All.
* * *
The click of his shoes seemed louder than normal, echoing off the fronts of long houses that lined the street. This corner of the Tremé, an uncharacteristic bubble of money near Esplanade and Rampart, wore the area’s heritage in name only, kept afloat by cutesy couples, a lot of them queer, ageing gracefully into domesticity in their elegantly revived double shotguns and occasional camel-backs. He couldn’t see himself ever growing old like that, nor Kyle ever wanting to live like that, not that he’d ever be able to afford it. “White trash,” his folks would doubtless say before laying into worse slurs if Kyle ever rubbed them the wrong way, which he inevitably would. This left no doubt in his mind. His family only grudgingly turned a blind eye to his…particular interests. They sure as hell did not need to know he’d been dating some newly blown-in white hayseed he’d picked up in a Quarter bar.
He forced his shoulders back, ignoring the cool wind as it swept down Rampart. The area was deserted, while the faint lights of Bourbon Street’s unending party glowed above the Quarter’s rooftops. Where were they meeting again? Oz? No, Lafitte’s. He quickly remembered. That preppy bartender at Oz had gotten some bug up his ass about Kyle of late. Most likely because that bug was as close to his ass as Kyle would ever venture.
The silence broke just as he approached the far side of Rampart.
“Hey Princess! Love the look!”
Catcallers. Nothing unusual. Nor was the inevitable question of how to respond, if at all.
Tonight, however, the very thought had taken too long.
“Where you goin’?” the voice continued. “I said, ‘love the look.’”
“Thank you, kind sir!” he shot back. He adjusted his path, turning toward the streetlights and brightly lit facades of Esplanade, only to have one of the assholes step right out into his way. He discreetly scanned the streets for a cab, knowing too damn well and too damn late that he should have gotten one from home. But the walk into the Quarter was so short and the nights had been so nice out this past week, he hadn’t given it a single thought. He knew better than to stroll down Rampart after dark, but since the creeps had positioned themselves right on the same corner he’d crossed hundreds of times before, he had no choice.
“What’s the hurry?” the guy continued. “Slow down some, I want to ask you something.”
“Sorry, I’m already late.” He tried to keep an earnest, bouncy flirtatiousness in his voice as his heels clopped neatly on the pavement.
The three were in front of him before he could take another step.
“Jee-zus H Christ,” muttered one of them. “What kind of beat-up, half-assed faggot queen are you?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” the first one scolded, shrugging off the insult with a broad grin that was anything but sincere. “He don’t mean nothing. Say sorry to the lady.”
“I ain’t no lady,” he replied without thinking, stiffening his back to emphasize the flatness of his chest.
“Well then,” the first one continued. “Apologize to this...most unique individual.”
The one with the nasty mouth looked him over with undisguised contempt. “I’m sorry,” he spat out, drawling as if each syllable caused him physical pain.
He offered them a stiff, cold nod before trying to go around.
“Hey wait a sec. I said I want to ask you something. We need you to settle this.”
I told you, I’m late.
Sorry. Excuse me.
Go fuck yourself, redneck.
All these thoughts rose on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back. Better to let the asshole talk. Better to let him make a fool of his damn self rather than think he was being made fun of.
“Trannies...”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Trannies. Like you.”
“Wait, wait, wait. No. You are way off base there, mister. You need to ask somebody else.”
“Well, what the fuck are you, then?”
“Awww, Jesus! You gotta be rude like that?” the first one sneered again at his burly wingman.
The other guy, thin, weedy, and the smallest of the three, grinned.
“One question,” pressed the one in the middle. “Come on. Don’t tell me you ain’t got time for one little question.”
He looked the leader up and down one more time, taking in his wiry frame. Colorful tattoos disappeared up the man’s sleeve, ending in the tail of a snake, poking out of the guy’s collar, licking at his neck. Ratty blond hair framed a face not so hard on the eyes, otherwise. In fact, the guy was kind of pretty, now he noticed, with a strong nose, delicate, well-cut jawline, and high cheekbones, spoiled only by a chipped lower tooth, plus a malformed one upstairs. Total white trash. But cute white trash. The same pedigree as Kyle.
No. Scratch that. Kyle was a gentleman. This jackass had just lucked out on genetics.
“Go ahead,” he conceded. “Ask.”
The punk widened his sarcastic grin, making a show of the bastard tooth. “So, if a trannie—which I know you ain’t, so don’t go gettin’ all agitated—but if a trannie blows you, right? I don’t mean, like, love making and shit, just straight up suckin’. And let’s say you drop your load down his—”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Her throat. Let’s say you dump your jizz down her throat. I got you. Go on.”
“Right. Sorry. Her throat. Exactly. Her goddamn throat. That wouldn’t make you a faggot now, would it?”
Weedy guy was in a fit of wheezing laughter as Burly piped up.
“Bullshit! Of course it fuckin’ would. If the guy’s still got his johnson—”
“Girl, Lou. Girl.” The leader was grinning like a fool, a sincere grin in all its nastiness.
He shook his head, heart beating way too fast for some bullshit ‘teachable’ moment. “I really gotta go.”
“Oh, sure, sure. Didn’t mean to hold you up. Hey, where you going? I’ll walk you.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” he replied, trying to step around.
“You never did answer his question,” the big one said, stepping in his path.
“No, no, you did not.”
He flinched as the leader put a hand on his shoulder.
“Woah! Ease up on the attitude, some. It’s just a question. I’ll ask again. If a trannie’s giving you head and you—”
He threw himself between the leader and the thin, wiry looking one, barging his way through with his slim shoulders and catching Weedy off guard. He was soon clear of the trio, only to hear the thundering of their feet behind him. But even in heels, low and modest as his might be, he was faster, just as he always had been. He rounded a corner and powered down Barracks, veering off as he reached the Cabrini Playground. He turned a sharp left, then another right, toward a bar he remembered. It was no sure thing. It wasn’t a tourist place, and the owners seemed downright arbitrary about when they’d open and for whom. But it was his best chance. Besides, if he’d already managed to lose the creeps, what did it matter? Still, he wasn’t about to turn his nose up at safe walls and extra time up his sleeve.
There it was. Up on his left. He silently prayed as his feet pounded the cracked pavement…don’t be dark. Don’t be dark. Don’t be—
Far from it. The sudden eruption of cheers from the place would have been loud enough to blow out the windows, had they not been open already. Never in his life had he been so grateful for game night.
He slowed just enough to compose himself before ducking inside. Still, the door slammed a little too loud behind him as the cheers subsided. A half dozen guys decked out in the instantly recognizable Saints’ black, white, and gold turned and stared at the unexpected fusion of power-suited corporate bitch and Quarter fabulousness that now stood panting in the midst of their sacred shrine to the pastimes of manly America. Another intercept by the despised Falcons diverted any slow-rising fury. He may have been black. He may have been queerer than a three-dollar bill, fully decked out in makeup and heels. But in a French Quarter bar on the first game night of the season, even the smallest-minded bigot would wrap all these things up in a big bear hug before they’d drink with a fucking Falcons fan.
He tried to find a spot near the bar, far from the prying eyes of any rubber-necking asshole at the window before taking out his phone. Two new texts from Kyle. And he was late.
Where u at? This guy in my face won’t take a hint.
He couldn’t resist a faint smile. He’d always told Kyle he was too good looking to sit around in bars hoping nobody would come bothering him. He swiped over to the second message.
Fuck, this guy! I’m heading to Phoenix. Meet me there?
This time he didn’t smile. Phoenix? Phoenix??? Goddamn it! His gaze involuntarily landed on his black stockinged feet and heeled shoes. Oh sure. A bunch of straight Saints fans who’d been drinking since three in the afternoon was one thing, but the manly men of Phoenix? Would they even let him in? Did he have time to at least wash his make-up—No. No, goddamn it! They let women in, to the ground floor at least. They let drag queens in. And after the night he’d had, just let any asshole ‘no fems’ queen try to get up in his face.
Sure. On my way. Xx
He hit send and brought up… Damn it. Of course Uber was charging surge rates for game night. Fuck.
“Hey, buddy! Get you something?” the bartender called to him through the din.
He shook his head. The cabs would be just as nuts as Uber. Besides, if the fucks who’d disrespected him on Rampart
hadn’t found him by now, they’d probably moved on to stir shit with some other poor bastard. Maybe a big Saints fan who’d lay one or two of them out. He smiled at the thought, pocketing his phone. He hadn’t hung out in the Marigny for a long while, but he knew it well enough. It couldn’t have been more than a ten-minute walk.
He silently let himself out of the bar and strode back toward Esplanade. He tossed a glance up toward the corner of Rampart as he crossed the neutral ground. He flinched as a loud WHODAT? came at him from the window of a passing flatbed. No sign of his laugh-a-minute friends. He could cut along Burgundy… No, Dauphine was closer. The clop of his heels echoed off the surrounding houses once more. Everybody knew the Marigny had been gentrified to all hell, but damn! Every fourth, maybe third house had something going on. Renovating, landscaping, construction of a sacrificial altar, who the fuck knew what these hipsters did to their yards? He heard an outraged roar from one of the houses. Obviously, a taste for craft beer at pricey brunches and a fervent devotion to football were not mutually exclusive.
“Hey, Princess. You get lost?”
Startled, he whipped around to see the trio’s leader behind him.
The man shoved him hard against the concrete fence of a vacant corner lot. He winced as his head hit a ‘Keep Out’ sign with a loud clatter. Once he’d regained his feet and his senses, he realized the wingmen were nowhere to be seen. It was just the cute, tatted up hick, staring him down with a smirk he didn’t like one bit.
“What’s your problem, man? Why you running? We scare you?”
“Look, I told you, I got—”
Skin Page 1
