I’d had to.
I stomped into the main tattoo parlor with Knight right on my heels. Black leather tattoo chairs lined both sides of the darkened room, and beyond that, a cash register sat atop of a long glass case filled with merchandise. Squatting down behind it, I began digging through stacks of Terminus City T-shirts. The only light in the room was the glow from the streetlights and headlights outside.
“Punk, I’m sorry.” Knight’s black combat boots stopped mere inches away from mine.
“Good.” I finally found an extra-small on the bottom shelf.
“I just…hate to see you like this.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, unfolding a smaller version of the T-shirt Knight had been wearing earlier.
Knight’s arm shot out and cleared the top of the glass case in one fell swoop. I ducked and covered my head as stacks of flash art notebooks and tattoo magazines crashed to the ground.
“Fuck me? Fuck me?”
Shit. Time to go.
I turned and marched back in the direction of the fire escape door, pulling the T-shirt on over my head as I walked.
“What did I say when I left, Punk? Huh? What the fuck did I say?” Knight matched me stride for stride. “I told you I loved you. I told you I was doing this for you. I told you to find somebody fucking better! And what did you do? I wasn’t even out of basic training yet and you were already off getting high and fucking that piece of shit, Harley!”
I snatched my purse up off the floor and pulled open the fire escape door. Night had fallen, but there were still plenty of cars on the road and people milling about downtown. Thank God. Whenever Knight got like this it was best to have witnesses.
Ignoring him and fighting back tears, I dug my keys out of my purse and hit the button to unlock my doors. Jerking my driver’s side door open, I turned to face Knight. I was about to say something catty and unfair before speeding off dramatically into the night, when Knight cut me off.
“What’s that?” he asked, his eyes trained on the white fabric filling my backseat.
I followed his gaze. “It’s a fucking garment bag.”
“What’s in it?” His tone was accusing.
I threw my hands up. “Oh my God! It’s not good enough that you have to know where I am and who I’m fucking at all times, but now you want to know what’s in my backseat too? It’s a dead body, okay? I better go before it starts to smell.”
Knight pinned me with a murderous stare, his pupils pulling the truth from my lips like twin black holes.
“It’s a fucking prom dress, okay?”
“When?” Knight hissed through gritted teeth.
“Saturday. Listen, before you give me the third degree about going with Harley—”
“Oh, you’re not going with fucking Harley,” Knight sneered. “You’re going with me.”
Five
Inch-long pixie cuts don’t exactly lend themselves to up-dos. Juliet and I tried spikes, tiny curls, lots of little barrettes, one giant flower barrette, and even a few stupid headbands before I finally just parted it on one side and slicked it all down with hair gel.
Fuck it.
With our hair finally done, Juliet and I stood side-by-side at her bathroom sink, caking on the eyeliner—mine liquid, hers kohl.
“So, no word from Harley, huh?” Juliet tried to sound casual, but I could tell she’d been dying to ask me all day.
“Nope,” I replied, emphasizing the p.
“Wow. What…a fucking…asshole.”
I shrugged, reaching for my mascara. “Whatever. I didn’t want him to come anyway. He’d probably just get fucked up and do something to get us thrown out, and then I’d have to wait with him in the parking lot until the limo came back while he tried to stick his hands up my dress.”
Juliet snorted out a laugh. “Girl, that’s exactly what would happen. You’re better off with no date than fucking Harley. Or a gay one, like mine.”
Juliet beamed. She was going with JayShawn Butler, her buddy from school. It was too damn bad he wasn’t into girls because the two of them together looked like Will and Jada Pinkett Smith. Until he wagged his head and snapped his fingers in a sassy little arc, that is.
“I have a date,” I said barely above a whisper, swiping on another coat.
“You what?” Juliet’s head snapped in my direction, causing her freshly curled braids to bounce around her shoulders.
I swallowed, staring straight ahead into the mirror.
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“If you say Knight, I swear to God…”
My eyes flicked to hers in the mirror as my face contorted into a guilty grimace.
“No! BB, what the fuck?” Juliet screeched. She hated Knight for the obvious best friend reasons, but also because he kinda sorta beat the ever-loving shit out of her baby daddy one time and carved BB IS WITH KNIGHT MOTHERFUCKER into the hood of his car.
“Oh my God, you’re such a fucking idiot.” She shook her head.
“It’s not my fault!” I whined. “I couldn’t tell him no, Jules. You know how he is. He’s fucking crazy!”
“Oh, I know.” Juliet nodded in sarcastic agreement. “I also know that that asshole is not riding in the limo with us.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t even invite him to dinner, I swear.” I held my hands up. “I told him where the dance was, and he said he’d be there. That’s it.”
Juliet gave me a nasty side-eye, then suddenly burst out laughing.
“What?” I asked as she gasped for air and blotted the corners of her eyes.
“I was just wondering what kind of tux Knight would wear…” She cackled. “And then I realized…it’ll probably be made from the skin of his victims!”
“Ha, ha.” I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. He’s a psychopath, not a cannibal.”
“Hey!” Juliet shouted in a defensive tone. “Cannibals are psychopaths too.”
Now I was the one laughing my eyeliner off. “Oh my God,” I snorted. “I fucking hate you.”
Goth Girl and Steven, her Lord Licorice-looking boyfriend, showed up at Juliet’s house around five, giggling and falling all over each other like they’d smoked a pound of weed on the way over. They were in head-to-toe black, per their usual, but happily, Steven had left his black lipstick and fishnet shirt at home.
JayShawn showed up right after them, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, black bow tie, and a shimmery black and gold paisley jacket. I tried to talk him into trading outfits with me—I was already way over the whole high heels/strapless bra thing—but he said blue wasn’t a good color on him.
Juliet’s little brother watched the baby while Juliet’s mom took pictures of us in the front yard. She had us stand in front of a cluster of overgrown azalea bushes with the sun in our faces, then yelled at us to stop squinting.
This was a stupid idea, I thought, turning my head from left to right on command. My first date stood me up, and according to Juliet, my second date might possibly kill and eat me.
“BB! Smile like you mean it!”
Damn, woman. I cranked my phony smile up wider. My cheeks hurt. My feet hurt. And this stupid dress cost two hundred—
“Ho…ly…shit.” Juliet muttered through her forced smile. “Look who decided to show up.”
I heard the low, throaty rumble before I even turned my head. God, I loved that car. It was a ’69 Mustang fastback, fully restored, Boss 429 engine, matte black paint job, matte black wheels, and the sexiest loser driving it you’ve ever seen.
As long as his tattoos were covered up, that is.