Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One)

by Rachel Dunning

  “You talk so much bullshit.” So much true bullshit.

  “Say what you will, but I’ve known you almost all my life, homes. And all I’m saying is it’s different with Blaze. I can see it. I’ve seen you with babes—flirting, acting cool, trying to get in their pants. And I know that a week ago you woulda thrown the payment out the window and done this Tatiana Watkins three times in the bedroom while I waited in the car!”

  “You woulda beat me to it. And I would’ve been the one in the car waiting!”

  “Damn straight I would! But: ‘Oh, Trev, she’s married!’ Damn, nigga, like you ever gave a shit! You’re smitten. Smitten as a motherfucker.” When Trev gets into his cool-ass street-talk mode, motherfucker comes out as muhfucka. And he calls me—his whiteboy friend—nigga.

  I clear my throat. “Fine. Whatever. What’s your point?”

  “My point is: If she does mean what I think she means to you, you’re gonna have to watch out for her. They’ll come for her. It’s happening already—online. And she is gonna make it. I know it. She’s clean—doesn’t do drugs—and she’s more than talented, so she will make it. She won’t be found ODed in some bathroom instead. So, just keep your eyes open, ’cause she ain’t got no teeth from what I can see. Neither did I before that Ohio game. It took you and Coach to make me face the field again, and when I did, then the teeth grew. And then I started being able to face it on my own. But I couldn’t have done it without that initial support.

  “Deck, I been talkin my lungs out here. I can’t explain this to you any more simply. And you ain’t no stupid dude, so stop acting it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No, it’s cool. I get it. I get it.” Pause. “And, uhm, thanks. I appreciate it. You’re right.

  “Now, while we’re on the subject of advice...” I look over at him, ready for the inevitable explosion to what I’m about to say. “How’s your brother?”

  Trev’s face darkens instantly. He clenches his teeth. “Fucking asshole. I could break his damn neck he’s so far into that shit now.”

  “Maybe I could talk to him? You know him and me were tight once.”

  He does a raspberry. “Deck, forget that shit. You guys were tight when he wasn’t so far deep. Nah, fuckit, Tramone don’t listen to fucking no one. Fuckin nigga’s packing again as well. Illegal firearm while on parole, damnit.” Trev runs a hand over his short hair. “Fuck him. He’s had his chances. His business, not mine.”

  We might as well be talkin about my pops. But Trev and I have always had similar ideas about people we don’t like. Even when they’re family. “He still gangbanging?” I ask, not quite ready to let it go.

  “Deck, you never stop gangbanging. It just isn’t how it’s done. Blood in, blood out.”

  “I’ve never understood that.”

  “Huh?”

  I look over at him. “What does that mean? Blood in, blood out. I’ve never understood it.”

  “It means you get into the gang by blood—murder on your part, or a beating, or something. And the only way to get out is with your own blood. Spilled on the floor. I can only pray to god that Tramone didn’t kill nobody, bro.”

  “Damn. How long’s he been out now? Of jail, I mean.”

  “Three months or so. Momma ain’t too happy to have him around the house doin’ nothing there all day. Tells him to go out and get a job. Truth is, Deck, I think he wants to get out of it all. I mean, a part of me really believes that. But...whatever. What can a brother do? Anyway, two out of three. Momma did alright on her own. Jacinta also came out alright, I guess. Tramone’s the only fucking loser of us all.”

  “She still cool?”

  He looks over at me. “If being in Cali is considered cool, yeah.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He laughs. “Don’t I. Yeah, that punk never even looked in her direction after we paid him a visit. Probably the swollen eyes had something to do with it, but, hey, that’s what you get for getting frisky with my sister.”

  I look at the street, not caring to remember our vigilante days. The punk we beat up on—the one who’d laid a hand on Jacinta—had some trouble walking for a few days. And it had felt good to do that to him. But was it right? You don’t think of consequences when you’re young and hot-headed. I still don’t. Not even since pops and I had it on—fists and kicks and all.

  “She says hi by the way. Every time I talk to her, she tells me to say hi to you. I swear she’s still got a fuckin crush on you, Declan Cox.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever my ass! Every fucking chick at Lincoln had the damn hots for you.” Then he gives me the evil eye. “You swear you never went near my older sister, don’t you?”

  “And have my neck broken by you?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “For the gazillionth time: I. Did. Not. Screw. Your. Sister!”

  He smiles. “I know you didn’t. I just like seeing you sweat.”

  The imp in me rears its head. “Now...if she wasn’t your sister... Hm-hm-hmmpf!”

  “Nigga, you know I don’t care that you drivin, right? I’ll fuckin whip yo ass if you talk about her like that again.”

  I fix an eye on him, roll my eyes back, and say mischievously: “MMPF!”

  “Fuckin white boys, always startin up shit.”

  Silence for a while.

  “Hey, Deck, thanks again. For...this. You know I can use the dough—”

  I put my hand up to stop him. “Don’t go getting emo on me now.”

  “Fine, I won’t. But thank you.”

  “No sweat.” We touch fists.

  After a while, he says, “You wish I was emo. You’re the emo one. Always have been.”

  That’s my man.

  NINE

  TEETH AND CLAWS

  -1-

  Declan Cox. Again.

  There’s a palpable chasm between us when I walk into Blaze’s loft at six. Too much time apart. Too many traffic lights. Too many cardboard signs saying SPARE A BUCK, GIVE A FUCK. Too many presses of the gas pedal. Too many clouds, too much cold.

  Too little Blaze...

  Too many alloys, maneuvering themselves into that magical feeling I had for her the night before, and before that. And before that, when she played at House Market.

  But quickly, now, when I see her making a sandwich behind the counter. When I see her cheek pink up as I close the door gently behind me. When I look at the cascade of her golden hair, counterpointed by the riot grrrl buzz cut on her right... When I see all that, the chasm disappears. Gone. Vanished.

  And my arms go weak.

  “Good day?” she asks.

  For a second, I’m too stunned to speak. “Uhm, yeah, made more than usual money.”

  “Oh, good. How was your workout?”

  “Grueling. Trev’s a monster. I can’t keep up with him.”

  “You want a sandwich before we head out to meet them?”

  “Sure. I’m...actually...starving.”

  “I can see it.” She licks sauce off her finger. Damn! “How’s peanut butter and jelly sound? I was just making myself one.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  I planned on sitting down. But plans change. I stroll around the counter and wrap her in my arms. Then I breathe of her scent. And all the tension I didn’t realize I was feeling, disappears.

  She stretches her arms up around my neck and places her head on my chest like she always does. This woman’s going to be the undoing of me.

  On my way to my seat, she says, “Meet anyone interesting?”

  I pause for a second, not really wanting to get into “Mizz Watkins.” Because she isn’t worth it. “Uhm, every day.”

  I turn and face Blaze. She looks at me for a bit, expecting more, but then goes back to the sandwich.

  “And you?”

  She stops spreading peanut butter. And she tells me about the wolves. Her face is a mass of anxiety as she does it.

  “Or vampires,” I say, “waiting to suck of
your blood just to extend their own lives.”

  “Thanks, you’re making me feel a lot more secure.”

  “But Randy’s a good guy. I can vouch for him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he was just there to make sure these other fools didn’t dig their teeth into you.”

  “But he uses, doesn’t he?”

  “Only casually.” I bite my sandwich. “Damn, this is good! Why do you ask?”

  “People are different when they use.”

  “He doesn’t use any hard shit. Only a bit of E, some weed.”

  “You don’t consider E ‘hard shit’?”

  I pause the chewing for a second. “Good point. Wow. It’s crazy. You get into the scene and what you once thought was the hardest drug in the world is suddenly the equivalent of a beer to you or something.”

  Absently, almost as if saying it to no one, she says quietly, “I know...”

  “Look, I’m just saying—Randy aside—all that talk about ‘needing friends’ and shit... I dunno, it sounds like something out of an old mafia movie with Robert DeNiro or Al Pacino or something. And when they’re through with you, they’ll stick you in the trunk of a car. You’re good Blaze. You’re...like...an incredible artist. I’m sure you can make it without these bozos.”

  She’s silent.

  “Blaze?”

  “I’ve been trying to make it for three years. Actually longer, but I’ve been on my own for the last three years. So...that’s when I really started trying, you know. Before that there was no threat. Now... Never mind. I’m gonna depress us.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  She puts her own sandwich down. Looks out her window. She always looks fixedly out that window, at the same spot—the same apartment—next door. “It just feels like a losing battle, you know? You wake up and you go out there and you put your heart into some goal and then...well...you wake up three years later. And nothing’s changed. Or it’s changed for the worse.”

  “I started my business a little over three years ago as well, Blaze. I had nothing. I printed flyers, handed them out. I canvassed the streets. Put up ads online. And, well, all I needed were a few good leads. Then word of mouth took over. Well, now I have a pretty decent apartment, a nice TV. I did it all alone. Skate and Trev helped spread the word out a little, I confess. Maybe that was the clincher.”

  “Friends,” she says.

  “Yeah, friends.”

  She looks down. “Yeah, well...anyway. I took the deal at Sacrament. I’m gonna go with the wolves for now, gonna do that first set. Two weeks from now. It’s eight hundred bucks guaranteed. And hopefully a foot in the door.”

  “Hm, that’s pretty good for a few hours’ work.”

  “Yeah. Better than I’ve ever made—except for House Market—but apparently the res DJs get even more.”

  “Damn, even I’d stick with the wolves for that cash. How’s the online buzz?”

  “Dying fast. I don’t know if it’s because everyone was too high to remember, or if they just have short attention spans.”

  “Nah, it’s just the nature of the beast—the internet. And you’d be amazed how few people actually roll at those parties. Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore. The online buzz is dying down because that’s what it does. We just gotta keep getting you out there, keep getting you heard. It’s good that you took that deal. The more known you are, the better ‘friends’ you’ll get. I mean...if it’s even possible to get real friends in this business.”

  She crosses her arms, her back facing me now. Her voice is cold. “I don’t need friends in the biz. I just need the business itself. Dillon did it like that, you know?”

  “Who?”

  “Dillon, EDM artist from Brazil, based in Germany. She gathered a following on YouTube, then got a concert in Cologne from it. There’s another dude—Mr. Probz. Not YouTube, but online also. Indie artist—Dutch. Released an album for free through SoundCloud. Even won an award for Best Artist and was the first unsigned artist to do that—some local awards ceremony or something, but a big deal anyway.”

  “See? So it’s possible!”

  “Just not probable. Look, I hear you. Just know that I’ve been trying all these years to break it through—I’ve put stuff on YouTube and MySpace and wherever else I could think of. But this gig, at Sacrament, this is something tangible. I’m not gonna throw that away.”

  “I hear you. So they really have a secret section to this Sacrament club? Do you think I could get in there? And hear your set?”

  She shrugs, turns back to me. “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “We gotta get you out there.”

  “You keep saying ‘we.’”

  I pause with the half-eaten sandwich to my lips. “I guess I do.”

  Her eyes betray what Trev noted: Heart of gold. But no teeth. No claws.

  No bite.

  I have some claws, I think.

  “I mean...” I run a hand through my hair. How to approach this without making her think I’m just another bloodsucker? “Blaze, see if you can get me in there. Maybe I can just check out the scene and get a feel for these guys.”

  “And what, protect this little mouse from the big bad wolf?”

  “I... No... Wow. Uhm, I’m just trying to help.”

  She bows her head. “I know you are. All I know is my name’s being trashed on the internet. I got some Mad-Ass threatening me because I ‘took his spot’ at Sacrament. I’m hanging out with my old dealer—”

  “What?”

  She stops, pupils quivering. “Xavier?”

  “Ah, right. I guess I didn’t put that together before.”

  “He got me the gig on Friday so it seems he thinks he can also get a piece of me. But not now—he wants that piece later. It’s like he’s savoring the flavor or something. Urgh. God.” She rubs the shaved side of her head.

  “Damn it, you really did have a rough fucking day.”

  “When I got home I was shaking. Like, really shaking. I felt like I’d just been gangbanged by these fucks. God. If I wasn’t so damn desperate— Whatever.”

  Blood boils under my skin. Suddenly, I wanna take Mr. Curly Smiles Xavier and crack his head against the nearest wall. I wanna put Randy in his place and tell him he should know better, tell him that he should be the one watching out for her here! That’s how it goes with these party dudes, they smile, they coo, they rub your back—but when it comes to their stash, or their music while smoking their stash, they’re spiders. Every one of them.

  I wanna grab this Gavin punk and stick my foot in his ass.

  I need to chill.

  “I can speak to Randy,” I say. “We go back. I don’t know about this Xavier dude, but Randy has some sense in him. It just needs to be re-awakened sometimes.”

  She shakes her head. “No, that would be mortifying. I mean, I’ve hardly met you. And even if I hadn’t... Let’s say we were dating. I mean, how would it come across? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there aren’t very many female players in this game. How many clubs have you been to where the spinner was a chick?”

  “Yeah, I see your point. It would be stupid for me to go there. And it was chauvinistic of me to think it.”

  “No, it was...sweet.” She smiles. It’s that girly, mousy smile of hers.

  No teeth.

  What kicked her down? I ask myself. Was it the friend? There has to be more there. What put its boot on her face to make her like this? Because I don’t see “no” teeth. I see broken teeth. Broken claws.

  And something broke them.

  “Blaze, it’s just that... I just wanna help. It pisses me off that guys wanna do this to you.” I tell her about Trev, and how they dragged his own name through the mud after that crappy Ohio game. “And, well, maybe it’s because I have some history on this. But it just pisses me off. Big guy stepping on the little guy, you know?”

  “Little girl,” she corrects.

  “You’re not so little.”

  “Yes I am. Look at me!” She stre
tches her tiny arms out. The beauty of the tatted one makes me want to lick it top to bottom.

  “I meant big in spirit. I loved that mix you made for me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I think I know you better because of it.”

  “How so?”

  I think of how best to answer this... “Sit,” I say.

  Let’s see if we can’t start those teeth and claws growing out again.

  -2-

  I stretch out to grab her arms to ease her to the chair, but when my hands touch her skin, I’m undone. Almost without will, I’ve clutched her to me and put her lips on mine.

  They burn like fire.

  “You smell smoky,” I say.

  “Sacrament stinks.”

  I ease her to the stool, lick her lower lip. “Close your eyes.” She does. I ease my hand over the wild skull on her arm, look at her. “Keep them closed.”

  Her left hand moves to my waist. Her partly opened lips make my manhood yearn. I’m bursting with need.

  I slide my hand over her left arm and her skin breaks out in goosebumps. “Keep your eyes closed.” Lightly, I lick her lower lip, left to right. Wetting it.

  She starts to smile. “Keep your lips open,” I say. “Don’t move them.”

  My hands are at her shoulders now. From the right of her lip, I lick along the top now, all the way left. Hot breaths burst from her, and her shoulders relax. Under her tee, I see her nipples tighten. No bra.

  I’m hard now. So hard for her.

  Her grip tightens on my waist. I start moving my hands, flat-palms, down above her chest, lower, pressing down on her soft body.

  As the heel of my palm reaches to just above her nipple, she clasps on my waist and pushes me back. “Declan Cox, don’t think I don’t want you. But you can’t start a conversation about my music and then expect me to be worry-free while kissing you.”