Skin (44 Chapters #1)

by B. B. Easton

  I stared, partially hidden behind Lance’s sturdy frame, as the skinhead idly spit on the ground next to his victim, lit a cigarette, and walked with long confident strides… directly toward me. The gravel crunched under the weight of his steel-toed boots, which emerged from the bottom of a tightly rolled pair of blue jeans. Bright red laces wound themselves up the front of his boots, and bright red braces slashed across his muscular chest—a chest which was wrapped in a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with the word Lonsdale.

  Steeling myself behind Lance’s comforting presence, I mustered the courage to peek up at the skinhead’s face. It was like looking at a ghost. He resembled a person, but there was no color to help differentiate his features. His skin was white. His hair and eyelashes were virtually transparent, and his eyes… His eyes were a ghostly, icy gray-blue. Like a zombie’s. And when they landed on mine, my hair stood up on end so violently it felt like a million tiny needles were stabbing me at once.

  Those zombie eyes flicked from mine to Lance’s with a look of irritation as he approached. I could feel a buzzing electric current of malice radiating off of him well before he reached us, and I winced as he passed, as if bracing myself for his wrath. When nothing happened I carefully opened my eyes, relieved by the change in the atmosphere. The static charge was gone. He was gone. But he left a broken boy, a still burning Marlboro Red, and my scattered wits on the ground in his wake.

  As traumatizing as my first smoke break had been, that wasn’t the reason I was having trouble concentrating in my honors economics class. It was because as soon as the bell rang I knew I was going to have lunch with Lance Motherfucking Hightower—and my best friends, Juliet and August—but mostly Lance Motherfucking Hightower.

  I saw the teacher’s mouth moving, but all I could hear were my own racing thoughts. I’m totally going to sit next to him. But what if I get there first? Will he sit next to me? Maybe I should hide and wait for Lance to sit down and then run over and sit next to him before anyone else has a chance. Yes. Totally. Then I’ll find an excuse to touch him. And I’ll laugh at all his jokes. Not that it’ll be hard. He’s so funny. And beautiful. And tall. And edgy. And fucking dreamy.

  When the bell finally rang, I jumped up as if my ass were on fire and sprinted to the bathroom to touch up my makeup. Then I high-tailed it to the cafeteria to scope out the cool kid table. Every punk, goth, druggie, drama nerd, vegan, hippie, skater, and metal head at our high school wanted a spot at that table, and even though he was only in tenth grade, Lance was the reigning king of them all. Getting a spot next to him was going to be tricky.

  When I ran up I realized that not only had Lance already taken his seat—right in the middle of the fifteen-foot-long table—but goddamn Colton Hart was sitting right next to him.

  Shit.

  Shit fuck damn.

  When the hell did he get back?

  Colton was going to be a major fucking obstacle in my quest to become Mrs. Hightower. He was the world’s biggest cockblocker—that’s actually how I wound up dating him in the first place—he just kept inserting himself between Lance and me until I gave in and let him kiss me. Which he did. A lot. Don’t get me wrong, making out with Colton Hart was a spectacular way to spend an afternoon. He was super fucking cute. And cocky. And sarcastic. And bad. But he just wasn’t Lance.

  But technically, he was still my boyfriend.

  Oh my God. What if he thinks we’re still a couple? No. There’s no way. He never even called me after he left. He probably screwed all kinds of future strippers while he was living with his dad and brother in Las Vegas, and now I’m small potatoes. I’m just the girl he left back in Georgia who wouldn’t let him touch her boobs. It’s totally fine. No. Big. Deal.

  As I walked up, I couldn’t help but admit to myself that he did look damn good. Better than I’d remembered. He was like a wicked Peter Pan. Spiky brown hair with blond tips, pointy ears, perfect male model smile. When he left, he had a definite punk rock style, like a mini-Lance, but I guess his skateboarding older brother had worn off on him while he was in Vegas. Colton had traded in his boots for a pair of shell-toed Adidas, his bondage pants for a pair of black cargo shorts, and his studded belt for a chain wallet.

  There was a spot open next to both of them, but I made sure to sit next to Lance just to establish whose girl I was. Or at least, whose girl I wanted to be.

  As soon as I walked up and set down my backpack Colton cried, “Kitten! Get your ass over here!” I glanced down at Lance, who made no attempt to rescue me, and sighed. Getting up and walking around him I embraced Colton, who had stood up and was waiting for me with open arms.

  Feigning excitement I said, “Hey Colton! Oh my God! When did you get back?” as he squeezed the shit out of me.

  “Last week,” he said, rocking me from side to side. “My moms got lonely. What can I say? Living without me is hard.” He pulled away and gave me a wink. “Isn’t it?”

  I rolled my eyes in response, but I couldn’t help my traitorous smile. He really was cute. And he smelled squeaky clean. Like a girl. Colton had a thing for products—hair products, skin products—he was vain as hell and proud of it.

  After giving me the once-over Colton whistled, “Look at you. You’re making me wonder why I left in the first place.” I blushed and looked at the ground. “You wanna ride the bus home with me this afternoon? Just like old times? My mom just stocked the fridge with PBR...”

  Yes. No. Kinda?

  Before I could say something stupid, Juliet swooped in and rescued me. “She’s riding home with me, Colton. BB is my bitch now.”

  Juliet set her tray down across from my backpack and glared at Colton. She never liked him. For starters, I kind of forgot she existed after he and I started dating. I just started riding the bus home with him every day instead of her—a dick move, I know, but I was fourteen and he was my first real boyfriend. I’m pretty sure “first real boyfriend” would be accepted as just cause for a temporary insanity plea in a court of law. But Juliet also hated him because I kind of blabbed to her about how hard he’d been pressuring me to do stuff with him. I would have given in too, if he hadn’t told me he was moving. I was not giving it up to somebody who was just going to leave in a few weeks. Besides, I was saving myself for Lance Hightower.

  Colton glared back at her for a minute, then smiled and asked, “Can I watch?”

  We all laughed, even Lance, who was watching the show with piqued interest. When I sat back down next to him (and away from the pheromone cloud that was Colton Hart) I let out a shaky breath and stared straight ahead at Juliet, thanking her silently. Lance, who had resumed his conversation with Colton, reached under the table and gave my thigh a reassuring squeeze. He left his hand there, and I prayed to every deity I’d ever learned the names of, that he would slide it up a little farther. He didn’t, but he did absentmindedly lace his fingers through the holes in my fishnets as he spoke, causing me to stop breathing long enough to almost actually fucking die.

  My mind was sufficiently scrambled when August, whom I hadn’t even noticed, spoke to me from the spot next to Juliet.

  I had been friends with August Embry since first grade, when we wound up in the same first grade class. Back then he was a shy, pudgy little thing with no friends, and I was a bossy, talkative little thing with no friends, so we just clicked. I loved him like a brother.

  August was still a shy, round little thing. He hid his warm, chocolate brown eyes behind a curtain of dyed black hair, and every night he painted his fingernails black to match. Of course, every day he would pick them clean again—leaving little black flecks behind, like a trail of breadcrumbs everywhere he went. August was the sweetest, most sensitive person I’d ever met.

  I could tell from his body language that August wasn’t exactly happy to see Colton, either. He and Lance had become kind of close since Colton left. They both liked the same terrible music and competed over who had the best, rarest punk records in their collections, so Lance getting his best f
riend back didn’t bode well for August.

  “Hey A!” I cheered, trying way too hard to sound like a girl who didn’t have a boy’s fingers stroking her inner thigh at that exact moment. “I didn’t know you had this lunch period too! Are you growing your hair out? I love it!” August just smiled and looked down at the food on his tray, which he suddenly decided needed rearranging.

  I turned to ask Juliet if I could ride home with her and Tony, but she was gone. Her stuff was still on the table though, and I thought I could hear the sound of her voice. As much as it killed me, I moved Lance’s hand so that I could peek under the table. There she was, sitting cross-legged on the floor talking on her cell phone, which was strictly forbidden at school. There was only one person she could possibly be talking to.

  “Juliet,” I whispered.

  She looked up, annoyed. “What?”

  “Ask Tony if he minds giving me a ride this afternoon.”

  She winked at me and whispered into her brick-sized Nokia, “Hey. BB’s gonna ride home with us this afternoon, okay?” She gave me a thumbs-up after hearing his response.

  Cool.

  Just then, I felt Lance’s hand press down on the back of my head and saw his crotch rise up to meet the side of my face. I screamed and tried to sit up, causing my head to smash Lance’s hand into the underside of the table. Laughter erupted from the cafeteria as I emerged, red-faced, looking like a girl who’d just eaten a punk rocker’s cock for lunch.

  I glared at Lance, trying my best to look angry, but his eyes were shut and he was laughing so hard he wasn’t even making noise. Just the sight of that giant, Mohawked motherfucker smiling ear to ear had me reduced to a puddle of swoon juice in an instant. I burst out laughing right along with him, and anxiously glanced over at Colton.

  He was laughing too, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Guess he didn’t appreciate the entire lunchroom thinking his girlfriend was giving his best friend a BJ under the table.

  In that moment, I knew that Colton wasn’t going to be a problem. Lance had just established, with dramatic flair and in front of everyone, that I was his girl.

  All the hope and hormones had my insides on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so I barely noticed the loud slam that came from somewhere behind me. I hardly felt the resulting shudder that rippled down the length of the lunch table. And I didn’t turn to look for the source until the faces of all my friends fell and glanced anxiously over my shoulder. Swiveling around on my stool, I followed everyone’s gaze to an empty seat at the end of the table.

  Um, anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. Planning my spring wedding…

  That afternoon I fought against the current of teenagers fleeing the building, dragging my swollen backpack behind me by one strap, in search of my new locker. According to my homeroom teacher my old one had to be torn out over the summer to make room for the new science lab. She had given me a little slip of paper with my new locker number and combination on it, saying only that it was “somewhere over on C Hall.” I couldn’t wait to find that shit so that I could finally offload a few of the ten-pound textbooks I’d been given that day.

  Clutching the piece of paper with my new digits on it, I scanned dozens of identical metal doors until I found the one I’d been assigned. It was almost at the end of the hallway, of course, near the exit doors that led out to the student parking lot. I felt relief wash over me immediately.

  My first day of tenth grade was a wrap, and overall it had been a smashing success. I’d smoked with the coolest of the cool kids; wound up with the same lunch period as Lance, Juliet, and August; got a bunch of compliments on my fishnets and new haircut; and now I had a new locker on the same hall as all the seniors. Okay, so maybe it took me a few attempts to get my code to work, but once that shit was open it was glorious.

  As I bent over to take the last load of books out of my straining backpack, I stopped short, paralyzed by the sight of two black steel-toed boots with blood red laces planted just inches away from my face…and pointing directly at me.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Not him. Anyone but him.

  I took my time gathering my stuff, hoping that ignoring him would make him magically disappear. When I finally stood up, arms full of books, I mustered all the courage I had and looked him in the eye.

  Zombie eyes. God, his irises were such a pale, pale gray-blue that his pupils looked like two endless black holes in contrast. Two black holes that were sucking me in.

  Speak dumbass!

  “Um, hey,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to me.

  He didn’t reply. He simply cocked his head to the side and studied me with those cold, dead eyes. It was the same way he looked at the kid in the parking lot, right before he smashed his face into the ground.

  Swallowing hard I forced myself to break the silence.

  “I’m sorry, do you need something?” I squeaked out, trying to sound cute and tiny. I blinked and opened my eyes a little wider, feeling like a woodland creature in danger of being squished by a massive black boot.

  “Your shit is in front of my locker,” he said. His voice was deep and clear and humorless.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Tripping over myself I slid my lightened backpack behind me with my foot. The skinhead immediately grasped the metal latch on the locker beside mine and gave the lower left corner of the door a swift kick, causing the fucker to pop right open, no code necessary. I shuddered involuntarily as my mind conjured images of that same boot landing square in the back of a scared little skater boy just a few hours earlier.

  Afraid that he could smell my fear, I quickly hid my face behind the metal door of my own locker, busying myself by arranging my books and notebooks by size, color, the Dewey fucking decimal system, anything. Then something occurred to me. Before I knew it, my stupid mouth was moving.

  “Shouldn’t you be suspended?”

  I felt my face blush crimson as the blond with the buzzcut slammed his locker shut and asked, point blank, “Why?”

  Was he teasing me? We both knew what the fuck he did.

  “That, that fight. Today. In the church parking lot,” I said, into my locker.

  Thinking about that… attack had my blood pumping into my extremities and my mind screaming for me to run. I turned and went back to my organizing, hoping to conceal the terror and embarrassment that I’m sure my big, dumb doe eyes were doing a shit job of concealing. My face always snitched on me, broadcasting my every thought. My every feeling.

  My thin metal makeshift shield vibrated as he spoke. “I didn’t get suspended for the same reason you’re not sitting in detention right now for smoking. That shit happened off-campus.”

  “Is he okay?”

  God! My fucking mouth! Filter, BB. Filter!

  “Who? That little pussy wipe from the parking lot? He’ll be pissing blood for a week, but he’ll live.”

  Slowly, the door I had been cowering behind began to close. Moving out of the way so that the metal wouldn’t graze my face, I reluctantly turned toward the boy with the cadaverous eyes, who was deliberately pushing my locker shut. Once the door was firmly closed and I had nowhere left to hide, Zombie Eyes leaned toward me and reached around my body with his left hand. I squeezed my eyelids shut and braced myself for something violent and potentially bloody to happen.

  With his voice lowered so that only I could hear, he said, “If you hit a fucker in the kidney hard enough… right here…” I suddenly felt a thick finger jam directly into one side of my lower back. “He’ll piss blood.”

  My eyes shot open, and I immediately wished that they hadn’t. That gray-blue gaze was way too close, too intense. His finger lingered way too long, and there was a crackle in the air that had my senses on high alert.

  Danger! Danger! Skinhead Boy is fucking touching you! He could kill you with that finger, BB! Kill you and eat your brains!

  But those zombie eyes wouldn’t let me move. Up close they were so
clear. Like two crystal balls that I wished would give me a glimpse into this twisted creature’s soul. In my curious state of hypnosis, again, words tumbled unbidden from my mouth.

  “Why’d you hit him?”

  After a pause long enough to let me hope that maybe I hadn’t actually asked my question out loud, he answered, “Because he called your little boyfriend a faggot.”

  About three million follow-up questions slammed into my throat at once:

  A) Why would a Neo-Nazi looking motherfucker beat someone up that he doesn’t even know for calling some other dude he doesn’t know a faggot?

  B) Shouldn’t he have given the kid a high five instead?

  C) Why would he call Lance my boyfriend? Lance is NOT my boyfriend. I mean, I want him to be my boyfriend. Jesus, I want to ride him like a pony everywhere I go and have all of his babies but, he’s not my boyfriend.

  D) Why would anyone think Lance was gay in the first place? He’s sooo dreamy.

  But the only thing I could squeak out was, “You were defending Lance?”

  I never knew an eye roll could be so terrifying. Shit. I’d done it. I’d finally pissed him off with all my stupid fucking questions. Why did I always have to talk to the scary ones? My mom still loves to tell people about the time I picked up my Happy Meal and sat down with a group of leather-clad bikers at McDonald’s when I was three just so that I could ask the gnarliest-looking one why he had a pony tail. According to her my exact words were, “Only girls are ‘apposed to have pony tails.”

  My curiosity was going to get me straight murdered one day.

  The skinhead, who now looked positively murderous himself, removed his hand from my back and placed it on my locker, just above my head. Cocking his head to the side again he watched me, as if mulling over the best way to skin me alive, and of course I just stood there blinking up at him like a fucking dumbass.

  Basic bodily functions like speaking, breathing, and running were completely out of my grasp. It was as if I’d been cornered by a coiled rattlesnake. A rattlesnake that just so happened to smell like dryer sheets, cigarettes, and a sweet hint of cologne.