by B. B. Easton
“I don’t know,” I said, taking another sip. “I never really thought about it. I guess I just don’t like being alone. I mean, my parents are there, but…they’re not really there. You know what I mean?”
Now I was the one staring at the dirty blinds, picturing my folks. “My dad is super anxious and paranoid and doesn’t ever sleep or leave the house. He just sits on the couch watching CNN and playing guitar all day and night. And you know my mom. She’s like, the nicest person ever, but she mostly just smokes pot and reads when she’s at home. Plus, we live out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
I looked back at Knight, who was hanging on my every word, and said, “I guess I’d just rather be out here in the real world, living a real life, than stuck in the woods with a couple of middle-aged stoners.”
Knight smiled a tiny bit, probably relieved that I wasn’t some child abuse victim, and took another swig. Gesturing around the room with his flask he said, “You call this a real life?”
I smiled back. “I’m drinking whiskey at three o’clock in the afternoon with a skinhead, in my ex-boyfriend’s house, and there is no one around to hear me scream. That feels like living on the edge to me.”
“I’ll toast to that.” Knight held up his flask, and I held up my Coke can.
“To living on the edge,” I said.
We clanked our vessels together and drank in unison. I thought of something as I swallowed, and blurted it out as usual.
“So, if your stepdad has a restraining order out against you and you live with him, how does that work?”
Knight screwed the cap back on with a flick of his thumb and said, “He travels for business during the week, so I just have to find somewhere else to be during the weekends.”
“So you stay at the tattoo shop.”
“Yeah. Bobby lives nearby, so she usually lets me run over to her house to take a shower in the mornings before the place opens.”
“So, you’re basically homeless three days a week, but you still manage to stay in school and shower daily. That’s pretty amazing, Knight. I don’t even shower daily,” I giggled in embarrassment.
Fucking truth serum.
Knight stamped out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray next to him on the end table and asked, “How else am I supposed to get pussy? Bitches like a guy who smells good.”
I laughed so hard I spit bourbon and Coke across the room. Thankfully, the shag carpet was basically the same shade of brown as my drink. It burned like hell, so I smacked Knight’s arm in retaliation while I coughed and laughed and secretly agreed that he did smell good. Damn good. Sweet musky cinnamon and Marlboro Reds good.
Once I calmed down I said, “I can’t believe you fucking stay at the shop overnight. That place scares the shit out of me.”
“It’s not so bad, once you get used to all the ghosts.” Knight smirked, then brought the flask back to his lips.
Laughing again I said, “If there are ghosts, they’re probably all afraid of you.”
Knight set the flask down and turned toward me. Smirk gone. “I’m pretty sure the only thing dumb enough to not be afraid of me is you.”
“I am not dumb!” I yelled louder than I intended. “I’m in all AP classes and I’m going to graduate early! I’m the smartest person you know!”
I took another drink to hide behind my Coke can for a second while I reined in my feistiness. The caffeine and bourbon were giving me way too much energy to sit there having serious conversations any longer.
“In fact,” I continued in a less shouty voice, “I’m smart enough to know that I don’t have to be afraid of you. You’re not going to hurt m—”
“Yes I will,” Knight interrupted. “That’s what I do, Punk. I hurt people.”
C’mon, Knight. Lighten up! I’m the one who lost the love of my life today. Why are you so damn serious?
“Prove it,” I teased, begging him to play with me.
“You want me to hurt you?” Knight asked.
“Yep.” I hiccupped.
“What, like you want me to punch you in the face or something? Jesus, Punk. You’re like a damn man when you get drunk, you know that?” Knight sounded annoyed, but I could see a smile creeping into the corners of his mouth.
“Oh yeah?” I slurred, my can almost empty. “Well you’re like a little bitch when you get drunk.”
Knight chuckled, showing me the gorgeous smile I never got to see anymore. The one that made him look boyish and cute instead of cold and calculating. The one that made me forget who I was dealing with.
“Oh, really?” he said, leaning in closer, all snowy white teeth and icy blue eyes. “Would a bitch do this?”
Then he kissed me.
When Knight’s lips first touched mine they were still smiling. I wanted them to stay like that. It felt nice, that part. When we were still just a couple of friends, drinking and smoking and joking around. A split second before everything changed. Before Knight’s whiskey flavored tongue was in my mouth. Before his callused hand was wrapped around the back of my neck.
Before I kissed him back.
I’d kissed Colton at least a hundred times on that very same couch, but this wasn’t one of Colton’s kisses. This wasn’t a kiss from some cocky teenaged boy who didn’t care about anything other than getting his hands under my clothes. This was a kiss from a man who didn’t care about anything other than me.
It was intense. Too intense. So I put both hands on Knight’s hard chest and pushed him off of me. The alcohol and adrenaline must have given me super strength because I was actually able to launch him all the way back to his side of the couch. I didn’t know if I was more nervous about the kiss, breaking the kiss, or shoving that motherfucker off me, but some combination of those things caused me to erupt into a total hysterical giggle fit.
“I can’t believe I pushed you that far!” I said through my hysterics. “You really do turn into a little bitch when you drink!”
Knight’s face cracked open into a malicious grin. It wasn’t boyish. It was frightening.
Knight sneered, then grabbed my leg and yanked me toward him, causing me to fall sideways onto the couch. Screaming between my giggles, I took my other combat boot-covered foot and pushed off of his hard thigh, clawing my way over to the other side of the scratchy sectional. Before I could get away, though, Knight got a hand around one of my ankles.
“No!” I screamed, kicking again with my free foot, but this time Knight grabbed it as well and slid me backwards until my knees were on his lap. I couldn’t kick out, so I flipped over onto my back, causing my feet to twist out of his hands.
My whole body was alive. I was wrestling with a skinhead, and I was winning! I’d never had any confidence in my athletic abilities whatsoever. I was weak and uncoordinated, but evidently, I was fast. It was exhilarating.
When Knight went to grab my legs again I rolled onto the floor. When his hands came down around my waist I screamed and dug my nails into his skin. When he let go I crawled halfway to the arm chair before my legs were pulled out from under me. And just when I thought I was going to be pinned on my stomach, I flipped over onto my back and tickled the shit out of him.
I’d never seen someone react so violently to being tickled. Knight let go and clutched his sides, laughing and yelling, “You fucking bitch!” as I army crawled across the brown shag carpet. Just before I made it to the ancient wood-paneled television set—which I envisioned myself picking up and smashing over his head, WWF style—Knight caught me and slid me at least three feet backwards. The friction burned a new hole into the knee of my jeans.
I flipped over and tried to tickle him again, but that time Knight was ready for me. He straddled my thighs and squeezed my legs together between his knees. Then, when I lunged for his sensitive sides again, Knight grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the ground on either side of my head. Knight was suspended above me, eyes crazed, chest heaving, and the reality of the situation hit me like a Mack truck. Being drunk and alone with a
violent skinhead in a place where no one could hear my screams— “living on the edge,” as I’d called it—suddenly felt like a really, really stupid idea.
This wasn’t the same boy who’d just playfully kissed me on the couch. There was something predatory in his movements, his stare. Like he’d finally caught the mouse, and now he was licking his chops.
I blinked up at him with wide, helpless eyes, silently begging him to leave me whole—to not take too much—but Knight’s eyes were elsewhere. They lingered at the place I’d already let him touch, shove needles through, adorn with jewelry. He was the only one who’d ever seen me there, and from the way he stared, I could tell he wanted to see it again.
Without releasing me from his grip or gaze, Knight slowly lowered himself onto me. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t flee, so I did what I did best. I froze.
I braced myself to have something taken from me, ripped away, but instead Knight gave. He pressed his sweet, bourbon flavored lips to mine, and gave me a kiss. One that sent sparks coursing through my cortisol flooded bloodstream and made my immobilized arms and legs tingle. There was a tension in his body that suggested he was exercising a great deal of self-control, and for a split second, I wished he wouldn’t.
Instead of deepening our kiss, like he had before, Knight pulled away and pressed his forehead to mine in yet another unexpectedly tender gesture. He loosened his grip from my wrists and laced his fingers through mine. Our noses touched, barely, and Knight exhaled a long, shaky breath.
He was holding his breath too, I thought.
I don’t know whether I tilted my mouth up toward his or whether he brought his down to mine, but somehow our lips found one another’s again.
Knight swirled his tongue around mine in controlled, unhurried circles, before capturing my bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it in a way that made me wish my thighs were free so that I could wrap them around his waist.
I immediately took that thought back, however, when Knight lowered his torso the rest of the way down onto my body. Something unnaturally long and hard pressed against me, causing my breath to falter and my eyes to squeeze shut in terror.
It seemed to stretch from my pelvis all the way to my rib cage, and I went as still as if a fucking copperhead had just slithered up onto my chest.
Dear God, if you’re listening, it’s me, BB.
When I stopped reciprocating Knight’s kiss he immediately released me and pushed up on his forearms, removing the threat. His concerned colorless eyes darted all over my face, looking for clues as to why I’d suddenly gone limp on him. Embarrassed by my reaction—but relieved by my sudden freedom—I smiled shyly.
And then I tickled the shit out of Ronald McKnight.
I was pinned again within milliseconds, but this time I welcomed it. Knight and I were laughing and breathing too hard to resume our make out session, so Knight kissed me chastely and said, “Stay the fuck here,” before getting up to grab his cigarettes and flask. I would have gotten up just to fuck with him, but I was exhausted. In the best possible way.
When Knight came back I glanced at his crotch quickly to see if the monster was still there. Oh, it was there all right. And it was every bit as huge as I’d imagined. The bulge extended beyond the waist band of his jeans and up under his T-shirt, ending just below his belly button. I dropped my eyes to the ground and took a few shallow breaths.
Fucking hell.
I had no experience with peni. Zero. But I knew that whatever the fuck that thing was, it wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. There wasn’t an orifice on the human body equipped to take that thing on. I averted my eyes quickly before it sensed my fear and attacked.
Knight and I sat side by side with our backs against the TV stand and smoked in a contented, exhausted silence. Well, he seemed content. I, on the other hand, was drowning in panic stricken thoughts about what was going to happen next.
Am I, like, Knight’s girlfriend now?
I can’t be Knight’s girlfriend. I can’t. Everyone will think I’m a racist and they’ll hate me.
Juliet will hate me.
What if I just don’t tell anybody?
That might work. Knight doesn’t have any friends. I’ll just keep the fact that we made out to myself.
I can’t fucking believe we made out.
I can’t fucking believe he can kiss like that. Colton never kissed me like that.
Knight kissed me like…like…
Like he loves me.
Oh my God.
This is bad.
This is so bad.
What if I reject him? I know what happens to people who piss off Ronald McKnight. He’ll fucking chain me up in his mom’s basement and make a wedding dress for me out of the skin of his enemies.
What if I don’t reject him? Am I going to have to touch his…oh God…his thing??
I grabbed the flask out of Knight’s hand and took a swig, grimacing at the burn. Knight snatched it back and said, “No more until you eat.”
I pouted, but Knight ignored it. Standing and pulling me to my feet he said, “C’mon, Punk. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you on a date.”
Fuck me. We are dating.
Knight said he didn’t want to drive me anywhere until he sobered up, so we walked (Well, he walked. I stumbled.) to the restaurant with the greasiest food and the strongest coffee that we could get to on foot—Waffle House. (Okay, so it wasn’t a fancy date.)
Knight held my hand the whole way there, which sadly reminded me of Lance. I missed him, and felt kind of like a whore for making out with someone else just a few hours after he left. But why? It’s not like he was my boyfriend. It’s not like he even wanted to be my boyfriend. I’d changed my whole wardrobe, studied every underground punk band in the developed world, shaved my head—fuck, I’d even gotten my nipples pierced—and for what? For nothing.
I’d wasted a fifth of my life chasing a boy who didn’t want me back.
The realization was sobering. Actually, it was depressing as shit. The sting of a rejection three years in the making seized my chest and squeezed my guts until my vision went blurry. But then I felt the squeeze of something else, and it helped massage away some of the pain.
Knight’s hand around mine helped. Knowing that somebody wanted me helped. I just wished that somebody didn’t have to be Skeletor the motherfucking Skinhead.
Knight had to go to work that afternoon, so he drove me home after we ate. He offered to let me come to work with him, but I doubted that his boss would appreciate having a fifteen-year-old hanging out in her shop all night. I also doubted that my parents would appreciate their only daughter being dropped off by a skinhead in a monster truck, but I wasn’t exactly long on options.
Knight looked pitiful when he pulled up in my parents’ driveway. We stared at each other for a while, trying to figure out the most appropriate goodbye. We’d kissed, twice, but did that mean that was, like, what we did now? Were we people who kiss, or were we people who had kissed?
Finally, Knight broke the silence and said, “C’mere,” patting the seat next to him.
I smiled and slid over. I wrapped my arms around his torso, deciding a goodbye hug would be the best way to go. Knight’s body instantly went rigid in my embrace, just like it had the day before. Evidently, hugs and tickles were foreign to him. The thought made me squeeze him tighter.
After a few seconds Knight began to breathe again and pulled my body into his. With my ear pressed against his chest, I could hear his heart fluttering wildly. I wanted to reach between his ribs and pet it like a frightened bird. I wanted to shush it and make it feel safe. I touched the hard, muscular cage protecting all that was vulnerable with my fingertips. Followed by my lips.
Knight tilted my chin back with two fingers and ran his nose down the length of mine. It was a warning. If I didn’t move away, Knight was going to kiss me again.
I didn’t move.
I let his lips find mine.
Again.
And again.
And again.
When I finally peeled myself off of him, I floated into the house in a confused daze. I was every bit as giddy as I was what-the-fuck-have-I-done, and I was probably still a little drunk too.
I curled up on the couch next to my mom, who lazily played with my super short hair and asked about my day. I told her that Lance had moved. I didn’t tell her that he’d actually run away, nor did I mention that Colton had moved too. I might need her to keep picking me up from his house after school, and that was just a weird conversation that I was not prepared to have.
My mom told me she was sorry about Lance. She asked what I’d had for dinner. She probably asked me some other stuff too, but I don’t remember because I passed the fuck out.
A few hours later I woke up, disoriented as hell, to the sound of my phone ringing. I rolled off the couch and sprinted into the kitchen, rummaging around in my purse until I found my phone. I jammed my finger into the talk button about a half second before I missed the call and gasped, “Hey,” into the plastic brick.
“Hey,” a deep voice said. A voice that was not Juliet’s. Or August’s. A voice that had never called me before.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was after ten o’clock.
How long had I been asleep?
I grabbed my purse and backpack and sprinted up the stairs to my bedroom.
“Did I wake you up?” Knight asked.
“Yeah, but I was just asleep on the couch.”
Knight did his cough-laugh thing. “Yeah, day drinking will do that to you.”
I set my stuff down and carefully lifted Knight’s paper flowers out of my backpack. “Were you busy at work tonight?”
I listened to Knight describe his clients as I arranged the delicate pieces of art in a plastic cup on my desk.
I assumed we’d be on the phone for five minutes at the most—Knight wasn’t exactly a talker—but it wasn’t until the sun peeked in through the slits of my blinds the next morning that we finally said goodbye.
