by B. B. Easton
Harley held up a hand to silence me. “I’m gonna have to stop you right there,” he said, smiling and shaking his head, “because right now all I can picture is you in the shower and I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna be able to process another word you say.”
I covered my face with my hands out of embarrassment, but also to hide the blush his sexy little comment had caused. I couldn’t believe this grown-ass man was flirting with me. He had to be in his early twenties, and he was fiiiine as hell.
Trying to change the subject back to cars again, I asked, “So, what do you drive?”
“Hmm…” Harley answered with a smirk. “Why don’t you take a guess?”
Oh, we’re playing games now. Okay…
I tapped my lips with my fingertips and eyed him, thinking hard.
“You strike me as a…Volkswagen Beetle kinda guy.”
Harley almost laughed, then quickly scowled and tried to look mad.
“No? Oh, I got it. PT Cruiser.”
Harley pursed his ample lips, trying to fight back a grin.
“Wood-paneled Pinto?”
That one had him wrinkling his nose in genuine horror.
“Oh, I know—it’s a trick question! You drive a Vespa!”
The laugh he’d been trying to contain burst out, along with a super cute smile.
I was running out of ideas, so I looked around the shop and spotted a ‘64 Impala lowrider. “Ooh! I found it. Right there,” I said, pointing to the hoopty. “The gold rims were a nice touch. I bet you even put hydraulics on it, didn’t you?”
Harley finally laughed and said, “You’re getting warmer. It’s actually on hydraulics right now.” Then he lifted an oil-smudged finger and pointed to the matte black sex machine above my head.
“No!” I screamed and smacked him in the chest with the back of my hand. “No fucking way!”
“Yep. That’s my old lady,” Harley beamed.
“Oh my God! That’s yours? Yours? Like you own it? And you get to drive it? Holy shit! What year is it? A ‘69? What engine does it have? Is it all original?!”
Harley cocked his head to one side and said, “You tell me, smarty pants.”
“Oh shit,” I rubbed my hands together, accepting his challenge. “Let’s see…If it’s a ‘69, which I think it is, then it could be a GT, a Mach 1, or a Boss. Or an E, but those are super rare. The GTs had different hood scoops than this one, and I’m pretty sure the Mach 1s had cable and pin tiedowns. So, this has got to be a Boss, right? But is it a Boss 302 or a Boss 429? Ugh!”
Harley let out a low whistle and clapped his oil and tattoo-covered hands together a few times. “Damn, girl. If you weren’t so young I’d ask you to marry me right now.”
I laughed on the outside, but on the inside I was doing fucking roundoff back handsprings. The owner of that car, and that face, and that body, and those tattoos was flirting with me!
Unable to filter my big fucking mouth, I giggled, “You know, sixteen-year-olds can get married in the state of Georgia as long as they have a note from their parents.”
Harley laughed and said, “Well, hell. I guess I better scrounge up a ring quick, ‘cause I’m not lettin’ you get away.”
My stomach did a double salto with a full twist and stuck the fucking landing.
I decided to change the subject from our impending engagement back to the car, if only to help me regain my composure.
“So, you never told me…Is it a 302 or a 429?” I asked, nudging my head toward the matte black orgasm on wheels above us.
“Guess you’re just gonna have to wait to find out.”
“Aw, man!” I whined. “Wait until when?”
“Tonight.” Harley grinned at me like the devil himself, about to convert another sinner. “I’m taking you to the track, Lady.”
The End
The following playlist includes most of the ’90s punk/alternative songs mentioned in this book, as well as several modern-day tracks that I listened to while writing it. I am grateful to all of these brilliant artists. Their blood, sweat, and tears provided me with hours of “Knightspiration.” You can stream the playlist for free on Spotify here:
https://open.spotify.com/user/bbeaston/playlist/3dStteQkF2a995rMa7r1fg
“Be Alone” by Paramore
“Blood in the Cut” by K. Flay
“Calling All” by Phantogram
“Can’t Sleep” by K. Flay
“Catch” by The Cure
“Cities in Dust” by Siouxsie and the Banshees
“Daddy Issues” by The Neighbourhood
“Die, Die My Darling” by Misfits
“Ego” by The Sounds
“Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star
“Fire Escape” by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness
“Genghis Khan” by Mike Snow
“Gold” by Kiiara
“Joga” by Björk
“Mr. Jones” by Counting Crows
“Mr. Self Destruct” by Nine Inch Nails
“Rise Above” by Black Flag
“Sheena is a Punk Rocker” by Ramones
“Skinhead on the MBTA” by Dropkick Murphys
“Sound System” by Operation Ivy
“Strange Girl” by The Airborne Toxic Event
“Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers
“The Cops” by K. Flay
“You Don’t Get Me High Anymore” by Phantogram
BOOKS BY BB EASTON
44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir
THE 44 CHAPTERS SPIN-OFF SERIES
SKIN (Knight, Book 1)
SPEED (Harley, Book 2) - Release Date To Be Announced
STAR (Hans, Book 3) - Release Date To Be Announced
SUIT (Ken, Book 4) - Release Date To Be Announced
This book almost killed me. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I didn’t bathe. I didn’t leave the house, and I considered taking up smoking again because my characters just made it seem so damn cool. I ate angst for breakfast, lust for lunch, and depravity for dinner—interspersed with chai tea and red wine. I became a zombie-eyed freak myself, for a time, and these are the people who loved me through it.
Ken—This year was probably harder on you than anyone. I quit my good-paying job as a school psychologist—the job you supported me through seven years of college to do—to stay home with the kids and write romance novels about you and my ex-boyfriends. You weren’t happy about that, obviously. You made spreadsheets, lots of them. You refused to read my books. (Thank God). But you still came with me to every single author event. You analyzed my sales and tracked my budget. And you helped out with the kids when I was too sleep-deprived to remember how pants work. You are the true definition of a life partner. No, I take that back. Life partner implies one life. You, sir, are my soul mate. Thank you for letting me have this.
Knight—Writing this book felt like exhuming a body. It was arduous work, it happened under the cover of nightfall, and there were ghosts involved. I could feel yours cheering me on like a drill sergeant and filling my head with crazy, violent thoughts. I hope I did you justice. And I hope that, wherever you are, you’ve found peace.
Mom—If I ever killed somebody, I’m pretty sure you would help me bury the body, but only after tripping over a rock and dropping your side of the cadaver in a puddle and laughing your ass off for fifteen minutes about it while I dug the hole all by myself. You are unconditional love personified. You support me without question and without fail. You never take life too seriously. You never ask for thanks or recognition. You are the kind of mom I aspire to be.
Ken’s Mom—Mrs. Easton, thank you so for stepping up to watch my children while I gallivanted all over the country promoting books that you are never, ever, ever allowed to read. I love you.
My Editor, Ellie McLove—Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for always squeezing me in at a moment’s notice, working with any deadline I threw at you, being available at literally all hours of the night to answer my questions, and for supporting my Shia
LaBeouf meme habit. You are a magical unicorn, and you spoil me rotten.
My Formatter, Jovana Shirley—You knock it out of the park every time, lady. Your professionalism and attention to detail are unparalleled. Thank you for being on my team.
My Agent, Susanna Einstein—Thank you for taking a chance on an indie author with one quirky, genre-bending memoir. You took my baby and turned it into a full-grown book, and for that I will be forever grateful.
My Talent Manager, Larry Robins—You have been my champion since the very beginning. Thank you for arguing with me when I told you, “It’s a book, not a movie.” I hope you prove me wrong.
My Beta and Proof Readers (April, Bex, Chante, Jamie, Kellie, Mary, Meg, Leigh, Sunny, and, of course, Sara Snow)—
You guys: Hey! We heard you wrote another book! We want to read it right now and find all your typos for free!
Me: Uh…okay?
You girls are my bottom bitches. The fact that anybody cares about Knight’s story will never cease to amaze me, nor will the fact that you ladies continue to support me so rabidly. I have the best friends in the world. I love you!
Colleen Hoover—Thank you for not judging me even a little bit when I showed up at your fancy book signing still drunk from the night before and wearing a two-person Christmas sweater with only one person in it. Thank you also for inspiring me every day, to be my silly self, to dream big, to give back, to support others, and to always be bold and brave. You are beautiful, lady.
Ace Gray—Or should I say, Ace Cray? It’s a good thing you and I live on opposite sides of the country because the two of us together is a recipe for facial tattoos, amateur porn, and liver transplants. Thank you for being my biggest cheerleader and the bearer of my name. Ken could learn a thing or two from you.
KinkyGirlsBookObsessions (Kellie, Chante, Jen, and Andrea)—Y’all a bunch of pimps and hustlers and I think we should buy a mansion and live together forever. I love you!
My Author Friends and Muses (E.K. Blair, Tillie Cole, Jay Crownover, J. Daniels, Mary Elizabeth, T.M. Frazier, Ace Gray, Leddy Harper, Kim Holden, Colleen Hoover, A.M. Johnson, J. R. Rogue, Charleigh Rose, Jamie Shaw, L. J. Shen, K. Webster, Alessandra Torre, A. Wilding Wells, and many, many more)—In a society that teaches us to compete, compete, compete, you ladies chose to share instead. You shared with me your time, your advice, your encouragement, your resources, and often, your platforms, to help me succeed in an oversaturated market where so very few do. Thank you for letting this pink-haired, foul-mouthed, new kid sit with you. And thanks for all the glorious smut!
#TeamBB—You beautiful bitches are my queens. I grovel at your collective feet. You make me laugh. You share my announcements. You make me teasers. SO many teasers. You make me blush with some of the pictures you post (Eve, Mix, Ace—I’m looking at you.). And you keep my ass in gear. Thank you, for everything. If any of you ever need a kidney, I’m your girl.
A few exceptional #TeamBB teaser makers whom I would like to thank personally for their help promoting SKIN are (in alphabetical order by first name) Amber Cooper, Amada Söderlund, Amanda Young, BexLovesBooks, Cassandra Magnussen, Crystal Blanton, Danielle Robbins, Dyllan Erikson, Emma Healy, Innergoddess Booklover, Jen Wachowski, Kellie Richardson, Kristi Webster, Lisa Marie Soares, Lisa Mondragon, Lisa Reads, Liz Milner, Lyndsey Aaron, Mabkenyie Bibliophile, Maria Blalock, Meg Tracy, Mia’s Book Blog, Simmy Owens, Sonal Dutt, Sonya Paul, Sunny Borek, and Susan Rees. I cherish your art, your passion, and your friendship.
BB Easton lives in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia with her long-suffering husband, Ken, and two adorable children. She recently quit her job as a school psychologist to write stories about her punk rock past and deviant sexual history full-time. Ken is suuuper excited about it.
If that sounds like the kind of person you want to go around being friends with, then by all means, feel free to drop her a line. Just don’t be surprised if you get a reply at four a.m. with an inexplicable Shia LaBeouf meme or a text that was clearly meant for someone else. BB is what doctors call chronically sleep-deprived, or as Ken pronounces it, “depraved.”
You can find her being inappropriate at any given time of day on any one of these fine internet institutions:
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.authorbbeaston.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/bbeaston
#TeamBB Facebook Group: www.facebook.com/groups/BBEaston
Instagram: www.instagram.com/author.bb.easton
Twitter: www.twitter.com/bb_easton
Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/artbyeaston
Etsy: www.etsy.com/shop/artbyeaston
Goodreads: https://goo.gl/4hiwiR
