Skin (44 Chapters #1)

by B. B. Easton

  I had no idea what she was going through. I’d never even had sex. Babies were the farthest thing from my mind, and here Juliet was growing one inside her body.

  “BB, please don’t tell anybody. I haven’t even told Tony. I…I might not tell him,” she sniffled.

  “Sweetie, I think he’s gonna figure it out sooner or later.”

  “No, I mean…I might not...” Juliet couldn’t even say it. Her hysterics started all over again and I had to hold the phone away from my ear until she calmed down.

  She might not have it. Jesus. I hadn’t even thought of that.

  “Shhh…It’s okay. You don’t have to decide right now.”

  Juliet didn’t say anything, but I could feel her nodding on the other end.

  “Hey Jules?” I asked. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “What?” she whimpered.

  “Will you please come to school tomorrow? I’m getting really fucking sick of listening to Lance and August talk about Eurotrash punk bands all lunch period.”

  Not only did Juliet and her swollen, puffy eyes make it to school the next day, but she even came out to the church parking lot after second period with me. I knew she shouldn’t have been smoking, but hey, at least she wasn’t smoking and skipping school. Baby steps.

  Juliet and I didn’t talk about what had happened at Carlos and Angel’s apartment. I wondered how much Tony had even told her. There was no way he would have been able to hide his cracked ribs, bruised throat, strained voice, or the busted blood vessels in his eyes, but knowing Tony, Juliet didn’t get the full story. I knew for a fact that he hadn’t told her about our little “arrangement” either.

  Fucker.

  The thought that a piece of shit like him could impregnate someone so smart and beautiful and badass made me sick. It wasn’t fair. But, maybe this was what she needed to get back on track. To stop skipping school and acting like a hood rat. Maybe a baby would get her to focus on her future a little more.

  If she kept it, that is.

  We didn’t really talk about that either.

  Just about the only thing Juliet did say during our little seven-minute reunion was, “Is that Knight and Lance?” as we walked back down the trail to the student parking lot.

  Sure as shit, there they were, cutting across the far side of the parking lot a few feet apart from one another. I guess I’d been so happy to have Juliet back—even if it was a thuggish, hopelessly depressed, almost mute version of her—that I hadn’t really noticed they were missing.

  Even if I had noticed, never in a million years would I have assumed that they’d be together. Knight and Lance despised each other. Even after hanging out at Colton’s every day for over a month they still weren’t exactly on speaking terms. I couldn’t begin to guess what the hell they’d been doing, or where they were coming from. There was nothing in that direction but cars, and beyond that, more woods.

  Cars.

  Maybe that was it. Knight’s truck was usually parked in that direction. Maybe Lance had left something in it the day before. That was the only thing that made sense. Hopefully Knight hadn’t been too big of an asshole to him about it. Guessing from their body language and the fact that they were walking so far apart, whatever had happened hadn’t gone too well.

  Even though Juliet was back, I didn’t dare ask for a ride home.

  And she didn’t offer.

  I rode to Colton’s with Knight as usual, but that afternoon there were only two boys in the back of his truck instead of three. Colton was already on a plane headed back to Las Vegas. I wanted to miss him, but…meh. Mostly I would just miss hanging out at his house and drinking his mom’s beer.

  Oh, shit.

  I yelled over the roar of the engine to Knight, “Hey, if Colton’s gone, where are we gonna hang out?”

  Knight glanced at me then flicked the impressive collection of keys hanging from his ignition with two fingers. “Peg said she wants me to keep coming by every day to feed the dog and shit.”

  His tone told me all I needed to know about his mood. I mean, Knight was pretty much always in a shitty mood, but he seemed even more irritable than usual. I wondered if it had something to do with his interaction with Lance earlier. I never did ask about it.

  Walking on eggshells, I asked as sweetly as possible, “Are you sure it’s okay for the rest of us come too?” Even I had to admit that hanging out at a forty-something-year-old lady’s house and drinking her beer while she worked forty-something odd jobs just to keep the lights on seemed like a shitty thing to do.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I’d have to remember to leave her some beer money after I got paid on the first. Poor Peg.

  As soon as we stepped inside Peg’s house Lance grabbed me by the hips and pulled me down onto his lap in the middle of the couch. I squealed and giggled as he tickled me and buried his face in my neck.

  August awkwardly took a seat next to us.

  I sat on Lance’s lap all the time, but he’d never made such a spectacle of it before. It was like he was trying make Knight jealous or something. Why the fuck anyone would want to piss Knight off was beyond me, but in that moment, I didn’t care. Lance’s hands were on my body and his breath was on my clavicle and I let my blissful ignorance swallow me whole.

  Knight growled something about Lance getting his AIDS all over me as he headed out of the living room toward the back door. Lance pulled his head up to make a kissy face at him in response, but Knight was already gone. I appreciated Lance’s confidence—in fact, I thought it was sexy as hell—but he had no idea who he was fucking with.

  Just then August cleared his throat, reminding us that somebody was still in the room, and that somebody was uncomfortable as shit.

  I hopped off of Lance’s lap—he seemed to be done playing with me anyway—and announced that I was going to grab some beers. On my way to the kitchen I stopped by the “powder room” to pee and make sure I didn’t have mascara under my eyes from my little giggle fest. I could already hear Lance and August talking about record labels. Those guys talked indie music the way most dudes talked sports. It was like a never-ending stream of bullshit they could tap into whenever they wanted.

  I grabbed some beers from the fridge and headed back through the tiny dining room that connected the linoleum-lined kitchen to the wood-paneled living room, but got distracted on the way by a loud banging noise coming from outside. I peered through the window on the back door and saw Knight hammering the shit out of the weather-beaten wooden stairs that led from the deck to the yard. Veins bulged from his forearm as he worked, and I began to wonder if he was fixing the deck or just fucking it up more.

  Note to self: Do NOT piss Knight off while he’s holding a hammer.

  I wanted to watch him until I figured out what the hell he was doing, but the freezing cold beers in my hands demanded to be put down more than my curiosity demanded to be fed.

  Lance and August were so far gone in their conversation that they barely even acknowledged me when I returned with their beverages. As annoyed as I was that August was cock-blocking me, a part of me was still really happy that he’d at least made a friend—a real friend—who wasn’t me.

  I popped the tab on my can and flopped onto the open spot on the couch over by the end table—the home of the ashtray and the remote.

  I was bored. No one was entertaining me, including the hillbilly family having a painfully contrived food fight on The Jerry Springer Show. I rolled my eyes at the TV and stamped out my third cigarette just as a familiar metallic jingle sounded from somewhere next to me. I looked over and saw that Lance had pulled out his Lemonheads tin and was shaking it back and forth gently.

  “Anybody wanna party?” he asked with a playful smile.

  August and I traded glances. I could tell he wanted me to take the lead on this one, but I stayed mum. I totally wanted to “party” if that meant Lance and I would get to pick up where we left off in that bathroom stall two months ago, but with August and Knight
there that would be pretty fucking awkward.

  Cock blockers. Everywhere.

  August finally shrugged and asked, “What is it?”

  “Crank,” Lance said, as he leaned over and unzipped the front pocket of his backpack. He said it the way someone might say “jelly beans” or “candy corn.” Like it was no big deal.

  Crank? Crank. I’ve heard of that. Crank is yellow, right? Yeah, I think it’s made from crystal—

  “Meth,” I whispered, as Lance sat back up holding a light bulb and a straw. August and Lance both looked at me, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t want them to think I was judging them. I wasn’t. I’d done drugs, plenty of ‘em. I smoked. I drank. But meth? That shit rotted your face.

  “Nah, I have to work tonight,” I lied. “You two have fun. I’m gonna go see what the fuck Knight is doing. I think he’s building a coffin or something. Probably for you, August.”

  August’s eyes went wide and I laughed. That poor kid could not take a joke. Just as I stood up and started heading toward the back door, I heard Lance’s velvety soft voice say my two favorite words in the English language.

  “Hey girl…”

  My face split into a stupid tipsy grin as I spun around and asked, “What’s up?”

  Lance smiled back, and his dimples made me weak in the knees, “I hate to see you go, but I loooove to watch you leave.”

  I wrinkled up my nose in feigned offense and stuck my middle finger in the air. Lance gasped and clutched his heart as I turned and sashayed through the dining room. And away from that yellow shit.

  As the sound of Knight’s hammering got closer I remembered that he was Lance and August’s ride home. If Knight found out that they were both tweaking he’d probably kick their asses out on the side of the highway. If they were lucky he’d slow down first.

  As my hand landed on the doorknob, I called out over my shoulder in my too-loud, tipsy voice, “Hey, you guys? Y’all might want to wait to do that until you get home because Knight fucking hates drugs, and—”

  Just then the door opened into me. I stumbled backwards a few feet but managed to keep a tight grip on what was left of my almost empty beer.

  “I fucking hate what?”

  Knight’s sweaty figure filled the doorway and his nostrils flared from what I hoped was exertion rather than rage.

  “Nothing. Shit! Go back outside.” I tried to shove him back through the doorframe, but Knight wouldn’t budge.

  “Did he just fucking try to give you something?!” Knight’s eyes were crazed.

  Oh, Jesus Christ. Not this again. Not with Lance!

  Before I could shout “Run!” Knight had pushed past me and stomped into the living room in three huge strides.

  The house was immediately filled with the sounds of furniture hitting walls and skin hitting skin.

  Lance!

  I ran after Knight, but it was too late. The side table had been knocked over. The carpet had become a bed of cigarette butts and lightbulb shards. August was pressed up against the wall as if he were trying to blend in with the wood paneling. And Knight and Lance were in a full-on brawl on the living room floor.

  I didn’t know how to break it up, but I knew I had to do something. Knight would fucking kill Lance. The only reason Lance was holding his own at all was because, a) he was three inches taller and at least thirty pounds heavier than Knight, and b) he’d been fighting his older brother since he was a toddler. In fact, that’s exactly how Lance was fighting. Knight looked like he was out for blood, while Lance was just blocking and wrestling like he was sparring with a sibling.

  Knight was not his fucking brother though. Lance’s brother wouldn’t punch him in the fucking face. Lance’s brother wouldn’t try to break his bones. Lance’s brother would stop when someone screamed, “Stop it! Stop it! You’re KILLING HIM!”

  Knight wouldn’t.

  Knight would stop when Knight felt like stopping. Which was the second Lance lost consciousness. Satisfied, Knight stood up, spit on the floor next to my future husband’s limp body, then stomped past me without so much as a glance and slammed the back door behind him.

  What.

  The fuck.

  Was that?!

  I ran over to Lance, who was just coming to, and helped him sit up. His left eye was already starting to swell and turn purple, his nose was bloody, and his jaw looked like it was hanging crooked.

  “I had that fucker right where I wanted him,” he said, standing up way too quickly for someone who’d just been knocked out. “Did you see that shit, B? I’m a fucking champion!”

  Then he winced and clutched his jaw.

  I reached out to touch it, but stopped short, not wanting to hurt him. “Shit, Lance. Do you think it’s broken?” I asked.

  Lance waved his hand at me dismissively and said, “Nah. Probably just bruised,” as he bounced on the balls of his feet. He was fucking amped.

  “WOO! That shit was awesome! Who’s next?” Lance clapped his hands together and glanced back and forth between me and August with his one open eye.

  I looked over at August, who was still pressed up against the wall, hiding behind his flop of black hair, and noticed that he was feverishly picking at his fingernails even though his black polish was long gone.

  “August, you okay, hun?” August nodded at the speed of light, but kept staring at his fingernails, picked clean and probably bleeding.

  Ooooooooh no.

  I was too late.

  “Lance, I know this is a shitty thing to do while you’re fucked up, but you have to go, baby. You and August need to get out of here.”

  “Boo!” Lance said, and stuck out his bottom lip like a little kid, pulling me toward him. I wanted to climb him like a tree and suck that lip into my mouth. I wanted cute, crazy, hyper, badass, invincible Lance more than I wanted regular Lance, which shouldn’t have even been possible. I wanted him to push another one of those yellow crystals into my mouth with his tongue and let me follow him into whatever manic marshmallow covered magical mystery land he was living in.

  But then Knight would kill him.

  And that would kill me.

  Which, in turn, would kill August.

  As much as it pained me to send them away, especially in their condition, and especially with no ride, they had to go. Luckily, August’s trailer was only about a mile away. I opened the front door and gestured for them to exit.

  August left first, probably eager as fuck to get out of that place, and I gave him a big hug. “Go straight home, okay?”

  August nodded, a little too fast and a little too long, then dashed down the rickety wooden stairs and into the yard.

  Lance picked me up over his shoulder and spun me around on his way out, swatting my ass before putting me back down.

  “Go straight to August’s house, okay?” I begged.

  Lance smiled like a goofball with his swollen-shut eye and jacked-up jaw.

  “Hey girl!” he shouted in my face.

  “What’s up, Lance?”

  “Are you a beaver?”

  “No, Lan—”

  “Because daaaaaam!”

  I burst out laughing, and Lance—all six feet, three inches of him—jumped off the front porch and landed on his feet on the slab of cement at the bottom of the stairs.

  As soon as he landed Lance screamed, “Fuuuck!” and gripped the tops of his thighs, causing August to erupt into a nervous fit of giggles. Motherfucker had stabbed himself with his bullet belt again.

  When I shut the door I felt a little bit better. Lance and August were going to be okay, as long as they didn’t get hit by a car on their way home.

  I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for crank.

  Now what?

  It was just me and the psycho, who, from the sound of things, was outside hitting shit with a hammer again.

  Fuck me.

  I looked around the room at the destruction those assholes had left in their wake, and my anger toward Knight returned full-force.
I didn’t care how many jackets or rides or meals or piercings he had given me—he was a fucking monster. I should have just left with Lance and August. Why hadn’t I? Why was I still there?

  I grabbed what was left of my beer and peeked out the kitchen window again. Knight had stopped hammering and was standing on the deck with his back to me looking down at the stairs—or what used to be the stairs—shirtless. The black lines of his McKnight coat of arms tattoo stood out in stark contrast against his pale skin, which appeared to be glowing in the mid-afternoon sun. Red braces hung down from the waistband of his jeans, and his muscles were swollen from use and shiny with sweat. I choked on my beer.

  I may have been furious with him, and he may have been psychotic, but my feet were fueled by curiosity and pheromones, not logic.

  When Knight heard the back door open he turned and practically sliced me in half with his laser-like pupils.

  Clutching the door frame for support, I asked, “Why are you covering up Peg’s stairs?”

  “It’s a ramp,” he said. His tone was clipped. Annoyed. “For Shep.”

  Upon hearing his name, Shep, Peg’s geriatric German Shepard, limped over to Knight from a shady spot on the deck and rested his head against the shirtless skinhead’s thigh. Knight reached down and rubbed his head, right behind his ear.

  Was this seriously the same person who just beat a six foot three inch tall Mohawked motherfucker unconscious in the living room?

  I looked at Knight—past his tough exterior, through those haunting colorless eyes—and into the soul of a man with the most confusing combination of qualities a human could possess. When it came to animals he was gentle and thoughtful, but when it came to people I got the sense that he genuinely wanted to kill them all.

  Except for me.

  I hoped.

  “That’s…really sweet of you,” I said.

  “It’s not fucking sweet. It’s what needed to be done.” Knight’s voice got louder, and he shoved a finger in the direction of the yard. “They can’t just leave him out here by himself all day.” Louder still. “They think just because he has teeth and claws, just because he was built to kill shit, that he can just take care of himself. Well, he can’t!”