I liked riding my bike. I liked riding it even more when it was heading in the opposite direction of my house. I couldn’t stand it. So there I was, on my silk black BMX, equipped with handlebars that had been dipped in chrome, riding toward the other side of town. With my hoodie thrown up over my head, and my jeans hanging off of my hips and my skater chain dangling off my belt loop, I was riding to where I always went when it became too much at home. When the air became tight and the tension would be close to snapping. Most parents loved each other, whereas mine barely tolerated each other. A car honked from the other side of the road and I kicked my feet back to hit the brakes, skidding to a halt. Turning toward the car, my eyes narrowed. I knew that I shouldn’t have stopped. I was young—pretty much still a child. Eight, to be exact. I’m not exactly legally allowed to be riding across town on my own, so without a second glance, I peddled forward and made my way to Newtown Beach. It always took around twenty minutes to get there, and today was no exception. I came to a halt, kicking my bike stand out and looking out to the trailer park.
In a clean layout, there were roughly around twenty metal moveable homes all parked. All with different designs, and obviously, you could see who had the most pride. It ranged from old OCD grandma with florals and cats, to old bins strewn over front yards and rusted swing sets that had seen one too many days in the sun and rain, and not enough being ridden on. My attention went straight to the metal grey trailer I was familiar with. The dents and scratches were clearly visible, even with a brief glance. This trailer was a neglected as the child who resided in it. Not to stereotype trailer parks, because some of them here had blossoming flowers lining their walls and gardens, along with a couple of lazy chairs and tables set up nicely, this one didn’t. There wasn’t a spec of pride that whistled off of this trailer, and like always, I headed straight for it. I was just about to tread across the fake grass that had long faded from its unnatural plastic of green to a dingy shade of yellow, when the metal door swung open, smashing against the side of the beat-up oversized shit-hole as Khales stormed out, her long brown hair sticking to her heart-shaped face.
Her eyes connected with mine. Her frown turned soft. “Bishop?” She scrubbed the tears off of her cheek, sniffed, and then put her nose up. That pride was going to kill her one day. “You shouldn’t have come, Bishop. He’s angry today. Like, extra angry.”
My heart pinched a little for her. I hated my parents, but they’d never do the things Khales’ dad did to her, and I despised the expensive architecture I called home, but it wasn’t a run down, beat up, dingy metal on wheels shit-box that on a good day, stinks like beer, sweat, and stale cigarette smoke. Where on a bad day, it smelled of whiskey, sweat, stale cigarette, and Khales’ tears mixed with her dried blood. I felt my anger drop to its knees inside of me and beg to travel through my veins and rest on the slight tingle at my fingertips.
“What’d he do?” I asked her, pushing my hands into my hoodie pocket to hide the way my nails sunk into the palm of my hands. I wanted to protect her. She was the first friend I had outside of the Kings, and I’d known her since pre-school. I’d had a front row ticket to this same shit-show since we were kids, and I was about ready to punch our ticket and end it once and for all.
“He’s just drunk, Bishop.” A smile, so weak, so placid, came onto her face. “Can we go to your place? Or have you taken the pegs off your bike?”
My anger simmered out a little, and my shoulders slightly rested. “I haven’t. I won’t, not until you don’t need them anymore.” She pulled her hair into a high ponytail and then snapped a fluorescent pink band around it before she gestured to the bike. “Let’s go then.”
“And your dad?” I questioned, watching as she bounced over to my bike and turned to wait for me.
“Screw him.”
“He will hurt you, Lees, and you know it. I don’t want him to hurt you ever again.” I headed toward her, taking the handle bars into the palm of my hands and sitting on the chair. She stood on the pegs, her hands coming to my shoulders. “I can’t stop him, B.”
Maybe she couldn’t stop him, but I could.
And I did a couple years later. He was my first kill. I remember calling my dad, panicking with the gun hanging on the tips of my fingers. Dad, my uncle, and Johan came. I thought I would have been in trouble. I just committed murder at age thirteen, you would think that was a big deal. It wasn’t. It was a part of my initiation process, and I was the only one to ever begin at that age. My dad was proud. The Kings were proud.
I pulled my phone out when Madison’s head was rested back on my lap, and pulled out my ear pods. I pushed play on “Whoring Streets” by Scars on Broadway, and slipped it into our playlist, closing my eyes and reliving, soaking every inch of what I remember of her.
“What are you doing here?” Madison asked, stepping outside cautiously and shutting the door. She was somewhat smart to be cautious around me, that was for sure. I took a seat on one of the marble steps, and looked directly at her, only hers were on my car.
“I told you,” I answered matter-of-factly. “We need to talk.” I didn’t even hide the fact that my eyes were undressing her. She wore cute little shorts and a tight tank that rose up to display her belly. When my eyes fell to her socks, my eyebrow rose in shock. “Is that Banksy’s work?”
“I’m shocked,” she snorted sarcastically, and I had to fight the urge to rip her fucking clothes off and eat her on her parents’ doorstep. My fingers twitched, and just when I was about to throw my ‘talk’ out the fucking window, she fucking insulted me. “You know Banksy?”
“I know his artwork,” I retorted.
I could see her trying her hardest to not meet my gaze, so she flipped the box of chocolates open and gestured them to me. “I can share.”
Her eyes finally came to mine, and I leaned into my shoulder, using it to shield my mouth. My attention stayed on her, studying, trying to crack open every single cage she kept hidden. What the fuck was it with her. I fucking wanted her. “What?”
I shook my head, breaking our eye contact and looking straight ahead. “You’re different.”
“I’ve been told that all my life.” My jaw tensed. I knew that she meant that as an insult, but I didn’t say it as an insult, it was a good thing. A fucking dangerous thing, but a good thing nonetheless.
“Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“You and Carter?” I threw her off track.
“Are none of your business.”
“Really?” My lip curled. “Pretty sure you made it my business the second you were screaming my name and clawing up my back.”
I fought the smirk that was possessing my mouth and leaned back farther into my chair. Just thinking about that night was making my dick hard all over again.
My karma may be a bitch, but damn the bitch is beautiful.
“I’ve felt loss. I’ve suffered and lived through what felt like my heart being ripped from my chest. Death was a brutal thing. Its behavior could be unrestrainedly ferocious, and at times, radiated toward the people who didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of its wrath. It tore your heart into two by taking your loved one and replacing them with nothing but the sweet whispers of their memories. Those memories will become the shoulders you cry on.”
– Amo Jones
(on losing the most important father in her life)
The trip back to my house felt long, and the hours felt as though they stretched into days. By the time we reached my driveway, I was tired again, my eyes struggling to stay awake through all the trauma. Bishop’s arm never left me, and I snuggled into him deeper, burying my face into his chest. He leaned down and kissed me as the car came to a stop.
“Come on.”