STRIPPED

by Brooklyn Skye

  I shrug and turn my back to him. This night will go much smoother if he doesn’t know I’m here.

  Nikki’s eyes search mine then narrow. “Your boyfriend is over there flirting with another girl and you’re not going to do anything?”

  I cringe at that word: boyfriend. “What do you want me to do? Go over there and make a scene, announce to the girl that he’s taken and to leave him alone?”

  “I would.”

  I swoop my hand in front of us. “Be my guest.”

  The line moves and we step forward. “I would…if I liked him as your boyfriend.” She draws up a smile. “But you’re better off without that horn-dog anyway.”

  After our cups are filled, and I successfully remain unnoticed by Derek’s beer-soaked gaze, Nikki and I make our way back to the stairs where Bellamy introduces us to her stocky friend, Sam, who explains in deep, drawled-out words how he’s transferring to Loyola next quarter.

  Bellamy grins. Oh goody. Another smitten girl living down the hall.

  A few minutes of polite conversation then I excuse myself from the circle and wander from room to room until I spot a familiar face hiding behind a camera. Torrin’s propped against the wall beneath a G-Phi-B sign, his fancy lens pointed at the window across the room.

  The urge to butt in is too much; I can’t resist. Staying close to the wall, I sneak up the side of him, lean in front of his camera, and stare into the lens.

  “I’m surprised no one’s made fun of you yet.”

  A tiny groan rumbles in his chest. The camera lowers. “For?”

  “Aside from the fact you’re wearing a Pacific Rim shirt at a Loyola party …bringing that thing here. It’s a little weird.”

  “Yeah, well, no one thinks it’s weird when I post shots like that in my school’s paper.” He gestures to the blackened window, a line of cars in the cul-de-sac forming a perfect letter P then lifts the camera up. At the same time, several more cars pull up, barricading the formation. “Damn.”

  I feign a frown. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Punching a few buttons on his camera, he pushes off the wall and walks away.

  “Wait,” I say. “Where’re you going?”

  “I don’t know.” He doesn’t stop. “Away from someone who might accuse me of trying to get in her pants.”

  Please.

  “I didn’t really think that,” I call after him.

  “I didn’t really want it.”

  I stare at his back growing smaller and smaller as he treks through the house. “Good!” I shout.

  “Great!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “That was rude.”

  I take a sip of beer and look down the cul-de-sac to where another clutch of party-hoppers is arriving, stumbling up the street like a group of ragdolls.

  “Actually,” I say, grinning against the cup’s rim, “it was one of my better moments.”

  “I mean of me.” Torrin sits beside me on the bench leaving a few feet between us. “Rude of me. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t sweat it.” I prop my feet on a large ceramic pot, the leafy plant inside looking wilted and rather sad. He rubs his face, knocking his camera with his elbow.

  “You just caught me on one of those days—”

  “Stop trying to explain yourself. I don’t care.” And I don’t.

  “I’m not—” His eyes meet mine. “I’m trying to say sorry. But you keep interrupting me.”

  I laugh. “Sorry.”

  “And now you beat me to it. I can’t win here, can I?”

  I point at him. “You catch on quickly.”

  For a few minutes we sit in silence, watching cars come and go. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable around him—I’m not—but I just can’t find a reason for the peculiar thought that keeps running through my head. Finally I stop worrying about why, point to his camera, and say it.

  “Will you show me how to use it now?”

  Torrin turns. “Huh? Are you talking to me?”

  I smile, making a show of looking at the nonexistence of people on the G-Phi-B front porch. “And you graduated high school?”

  He looks from me to his camera and back to me. Then shrugs.

  “I was getting ready to go up to the bluff to shoot the ocean. There’s a trail behind the house. You could come, I guess.”

  I stand and straighten my T-shirt. “Lead the way.”

  He starts to walk and gives me a look when I don’t. So I pick up my pace and he leads us around the side of the house, up the trail that snakes through the hills, past Pacific Rim’s east campus to the cliff. I know this path.

  Zoe skids to a stop, putting her hands on her hips.

  “I dare you to run to the cliff by yourself.” Her chest is heaving and I can’t stop staring at them. Boobs. Zoe has boobs now.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m scared. I don’t want to go by myself.”

  “Quinn, one of these days you’re gonna have to do things on your own. You can’t be a baby forever.” She pushes my shoulder. “Ready, go!”

  My beer sloshes onto my hand, tufts of Junegrass sail by along the hillside, and despite the cramp jabbing beneath my ribs, I’m speed-walking now in attempt to keep up with Torrin.

  Sometimes it hurts to remember Zoe’s smile.

  Squinting through the darkness, I dig my toes into the hard ground.

  “I might’ve reconsidered,” Torrin taunts from a few yards ahead, “if I’d have known you were this slow.”

  “Shut u—”

  Suddenly, my foot sinks into a hole. I tumble forward. Dirt. Skid. Stop.

  “Ow.” My knees ache and my palms are on fire and I’m breathing like I just ran a freaking marathon. Torrin kneels beside me and looks me over, breathing so evenly he may as well have been standing still.

  “If you wanted to dump your beer, there are less hazardous ways to do it.” He chuckles under his breath and I scowl at him. In return, he offers his hand. “You all right?”

  “Embarrassed, but fine.” My hands are scraped, but not bleeding, and my jeans have a rip in the knee. I reach for his hand and he pulls me up. “God, I’m a klutz.”

  “I was going to say that, but I didn’t want to offend you.” He picks up my empty cup, tucks it into his back pocket then points up the trail to a clearing. “We’re almost there.”

  Up ahead, the path spills onto the bluff. Below, the ocean glistens with the light of the moon, shimmering like Nikki’s lips when she cakes on the gloss. I lean against a wooden bench facing the water and steal a minute to take in the view. It’s beautiful. The coastline visible for miles and miles and miles in both directions. Jagged cliffs in some places, small local beaches in others.

  “Whoa,” I say, even though I’ve looked out from this exact spot hundreds of times before. Count three waves then make a wish, Zoe used to say.

  Suddenly, a bright white flash steals the memory. Immediately, my hand shoots up to block the circular lens. “No way. I did not agree to be your subject.”

  “Just testing the lighting.” Smirking, he pushes a few buttons. “But we do need something to photograph.” He drops the camera, letting it hang from his neck and reaches for my necklace. I step back and block his hand with mine.

  “Don’t use that.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Because it belonged to my dead sister.

  “It’s kind of sentimental.”

  His face brightens. “Even better.” I sink back as he reaches for it again, but this time he pauses, tipping his head to the side. His eyes slip down to my lips and I wonder if he can see how cold they are. “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t know you.” I shrug. “You could be a thief, ready to take off with it.”

  He puckers his lips, considering.

  “Could be.”

  “And we already know you’re much faster.”

  “True.” His stare narrows, piercing right into me. “But you won’t know
unless you take a chance.” He steps closer. “May I?”

  I’m not sure if trust is a psychological thing or an instinctive thing or where exactly it comes from, but I’ve learned over the years to recognize those little signals my body exudes. The way my skin prickles when something makes me uncomfortable, like whenever Derek enters the room; the feeling of calm I get when someone does something nice for me, like Nikki and her ridiculous habit of cleaning up after me.

  I look up at Torrin, at his kind smile and placid eyes and feel no creepy-crawlies on my skin. Then I tilt my chin upward.

  “It’s not worth anything…just a memory.”

  “Like I said…” His fingers fumble with the clasp, forearm brushes my jaw, and I try not to think about the weight of the owl and how—with it gone as he pulls away—my stomach dips into a familiar sinking feeling. “Even better.” He takes the necklace over to the cliff, wraps the chain around a pebble, and lets go—the owl dangling over the ledge.

  “For fuck’s sake!” I lurch forward. “Are you crazy? What’re you doing?”

  “Relax, Smokey.” Lying on the ground at the very edge of the overhang, he holds out his hand to stop me. “I’m not going to let anything happen to it.”

  My chest tightens.

  “What if it falls?”

  Camera to his face, he leans…leans…leans further over the edge.

  “I’ll be the first to climb down and get it.”

  Unable to watch, I look away and I swear it feels like ten minutes have passed when the camera clicks. Shoes shuffle against the dirt. Then he returns the chain to my neck.

  “Safe and sound.”

  I kick his foot, hands on my hips. “In the future, you need to put your own possessions on the plank, not mine.”

  He holds up the camera. “Want to see?”

  Only half of the owl made it into the frame, positioned perfectly flat against the edge of the cliff. Beneath, greenish-gray foliage cradles the owl. A wave, mid-crash, in the background. At first glance, the owl seems to be floating away on top of the churning water, ruby eyes reflecting the moon’s glow. A death glare—the way Zoe liked it. But the more my gaze disconnects from the picture, the more the foliage looks like the owl’s life support, a raft of some sort drifting out to sea.

  “Wow.” And it is wow.

  He bumps me with the camera. “Your turn.”

  “It looks complicated.” I take the camera. “All these buttons.”

  “Not really.” He points to the thin black dial around the lens. “This is your focus ring.” He slides the lens in and out. “Your zoom.” His finger taps a small silver button on the top. “Shutter button. Push this when you have your shot.” The strap falls around my neck, and he then takes a seat on the bench.

  I stare at the back of him. Momentarily irritated. Momentarily bemused. Momentarily intrigued.

  Hm.

  Looking around, I have no idea what to photograph. Torrin’s picture is so creative, so unexpected. I told him I liked photography; does he expect me to be good at it?

  Behind me is a brush-covered hill, to my right a lone sycamore tree, and to my left the dirt path—none of which seem spectacular enough to photograph. Out along the horizon, a white sailboat cruises by. Perfect. A picture of a sailboat could be cool, but I need an artistic way to capture it. A different angle. I crouch low to the ground. Center the lens under the bench, directly between Torrin’s legs with his knee eclipsing the moon. I wait until the boat sails into view and…then…snap.

  “My guess is the silhouette of a tree in the moonlight,” Torrin says, leaning back and extending his hand over his head. I plop the camera into his palm and round the bench.

  “Considered it. Much too cliché though.” My voice trembles a bit. Why am I nervous about him seeing the picture? Do I even care what he thinks?

  Squinting, he punches a button to draw up the image of the boat. It looks different on the screen. Zoomed in with more detail along the horizon line. A few seconds pass and then finally he says, “Nice angle. And I like how the sails look transparent in the moonlight.”

  Torrin spends a few minutes more snapping pictures of the bluff then walks me back down the trail. He stops in front of the G-Phi-B house.

  “Will you be at Pacific Rim on Thursday?”

  “Maybe.” I gesture to his shoulders angled toward the street then the wide-open front door. “I take it you’re not going back in?”

  He nods, steps off the curb. “Meet me after work? There’s something I want to show you.”

  ~*~

  “Miss Montgomery, I hope you have a good excuse for ditchin’ me at this party,” Nikki says before I’m fully across the room. Is the air stale in here? It’s even worse than in the bathroom. Or outside. I suck in a breath through my teeth. My heart is racing. God, where is all the air? How can it just disappear like this?

  Nikki, sitting midway on the stairs next to Bellamy, two red cups teetering in her hands, grins down at me. Bellamy points at the tear in my jeans and giggles.

  “Do we even want to know where that came from?”

  “Have you seen Derek?” I force out, and then seeing the two wobble and giggle some more I head for the rear of the house without an answer. It only takes a minute to spot him, reclined on the black couch, feet propped on the coffee table and Kennedy Ryan sitting beside him. Shouts erupt from the two of them as something explodes on the TV. I straddle his legs, remove the game controller from his hands. He looks up and frowns.

  “Can I talk to you?” I say quietly. “In private?”

  He lifts his leg, hooks his shoe around my hip and thrusts me forward. “Private sounds fun,” he says as I’m forced atop his bony chest. The harsh stench of whiskey downpours with his breath, snakes around my face, and with each breath of Derek I draw in, thoughts of Torrin seep further and further away.

  He’s just a dumb boy with a camera. I can’t let him get to me like this.

  “Hey.” Derek looks at me, brushing his fingertip across my forehead. “Do you need someone to take away all these wrinkles.” He lifts a grin. “I might know a cure.”

  I push his hand away.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Says the girl who looks like she’s going to throw up.”

  “C’mon,” I say, grabbing his arm. Down the stairs and across the unfinished basement, I lead Derek to a bathroom beside the washer and dryer—each step erasing Torrin’s voice from my head.

  Derek locks the door and presses me up against the wall, his hands slipping down the waist of my jeans. I close my eyes. Not feeling, not thinking, not moving…only remembering.

  “Are those my earrings?” Zoe snaps. Purple crescents sling low beneath her eyes; her break-up from Evan still selfishly stealing her ability to sleep at night. She throws the Cadillac into park with a quick jerk and looks hard at me.

  I touch my ears. “Um…”

  “Don’t um me, Quinn,” she spits. “I told you a million times to stay out of my room!”

  My gaze falls to my shoes; her backpack and a box of tissues cluttering the floor.

  “You left them in the bathroom, Zo. I didn’t go in your room.”

  “Whatever.” She jabs her hand my way. “Give’em back.”

  Derek’s trying to kiss me. “Derek, stop.” I turn my head, away from his sour breath.

  “Why?” His lips are still trying to reach mine, only he must be really drunk because he keeps missing and slobbering on my nose and I really wish I were making this up. I slither out from between his weight and the wall and yank my shirt back down.

  “Because I feel sick. Okay?”

  He reaches for me, rests his hand on my shoulder and rubs in circles.

  “You’ll be fine.” His hand slides down my arm and he entwines his skinny fingers with mine. He leans toward my face again.

  I twist away.

  “Stop it.”

  He freezes, lips horridly close to mine. For a long moment he just stares at me, eyes focusing in and o
ut, hands to his sides. “Ya’know,” he finally says, stepping back. He slides up his jeans and retrieves a cigarette from his jacket pocket. “I used to have a dog just like you.”

  “Did you really just compare me to a dog?”

  He exhales a cloud of smoke, nodding. “Name was Shasta. Spent all day diggin’ near the chain-link fence in the front yard, ignoring me.”

  Arms folded, I lean against the wall. “Not really seeing the connection.”

  “Until one day he cut his leg on the fence.”

  “Huh.”

  “And limped over to me. Wanting help.”

  Smoke swirls and condenses in the tiny bathroom; our reflection in the mirror marred. I take a deep breath.

  “I’m not like your dog—hanging out with you because I need my wounds cleaned.”

  He takes a step forward, gesturing with a tip of his pointed chin to the space between us. “What do you call this then?”

  Derek’s not supposed to be nice to me, not care or even think about me. And I’m supposed to be just as trivial as he is to me. Why’s he ruining it now?

  I reach for the door handle, words fumbling off my lips. “I need to go.”

  “I don’t get you, Quinn,” his voice calls out from behind me. This is good. Because if he “got” me, he may not want to “get” me.

  “Don’t bother trying to.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I swear, if this Billy kid doesn’t stop glaring at me I’m going to kick his ass. My eyes are open. My face is to him. I’m even goddamn smiling!

  I glance to the clock, battling the stir-crazy feeling bouncing about inside me; two more minutes of Billy’s scrutiny before Hunter calls quits. Not that I’m anticipating seeing Torrin or anything, but he wanted to show me something and I suppose I’m a tad curious what it is.

  “All right, artists.” Hunter claps his hands. “That’s it for today. Clean up and pack out.” With the instructor’s command, I snag my robe from the chair and slip into it. Fortunately after Day Two, I’m old news to the students and most of them are too busy securing their belongings or comparing sketches to notice me at all.