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I don’t have to look to know it’s Amberly again. She won’t stop until I pick up.
A girl passes me on the street. She’s young, wearing untied Converse, and dragging a skateboard behind her. She smiles at me, then looks over her shoulder like she knows my face, but maybe not my name.
I don’t look at her. Not because she’s staring; it’s because I don’t usually look at anyone for that matter. The last thing I want is her approaching me. Her eyes cling to my face, searching for something she’s never gonna see. “Aren’t you that guy who races freestyle?” she asks, stopping on the sidewalk.
“No.”
It’s her lavender hair, shades lighter than my worst nightmare that sends my heart racing. Purple.
You’re purple, love. I’m black. Together we’re a desert’s midnight sky.
The purple in my mind never fades. It overwhelms. I glare back and divert my eyes up the street right through her. She walks away. The downtown streets of Pasadena are teeming with people, but this girl catches my eye for whatever reason. It’s the purple, a color deeply rooted in my mind.
When my phone stops ringing, I pull it out and call my buddy Nells. His dad’s a defense attorney in Los Angles which means Nells—much like the Kardashians—has an endless supply of money, drugs, and pussy at his house constantly. Not so different from my house, but it’s always better at Nells’s place because I don’t have my brothers or Ricky breathing down my neck. My entire relationship with Nells revolves around getting loaded, plain and simple. It’s hard to explain how drugs and alcohol can take over your life, but it can. Fuck, it can destroy it.
Nells answers on the first ring. “I’m heading to Brennan’s. Meet me there?”
I agree, because it sounds a whole hell of a lot better than going back to the house where my brother and Scarlet will be. I know exactly what happens at Brennan’s too. Shit-faced until I can’t stand and then back to Nell’s place where drugs are on demand and pussy’s around every corner.
You’re probably wondering how a guy like me who has a promising career in freestyle motocross ends up drinking away his emotional hatred for life at a bar in the middle of the afternoon, aren’t you? It’s easy really. Alcohol takes away the pain. Drugs take away the pain. Pain doesn’t have a watch. Pain doesn’t care if it’s morning or night, so why should my way of coping with it have to adhere to some fucked-up definition of when it’s appropriate to party?
I have scars. Emotional. Physical. . . and some, well, I hide them pretty fuckin’ good if you ask me. It’s the kind of scars one would understand if they’d grown up too fast, abandoned too soon, and are hardened by life. The kind of scars that burn my skin they run so deep in my veins. Lost in the artful ink plastered on my skin, there’s a statement of how far I’ve sunk in the depravity of that particular world. It’s downright hatred fueled by a once juvenile ignorance and an ever-growing anger. Or hell, maybe it’s the chemical destruction of my brain. I embrace it. I’m lost, I’m soulless, and I’m eaten by hatred. Hatred compounded by being betrayed by the one person who should have loved me unconditionally. Nothing matters to me. Live fast and die young, right?
I’m anxious. He won’t answer my calls. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s when people don’t answer when I call. Maybe they’re justifiably busy, but then again, why not text and sayHey, can’t talk.There’s even a button on your phone that does it for you.
But still, here I sit, anxious, waiting for the one who makes me smile unreasonably, and feel cold in the hollow of his absence, missing the way his hands trace my curves and his lips press to my collarbone.
Twisting the ends of my hair around my fingertips, still anxious, I set my phone aside and impatiently wait for the pizza to arrive. I try to remember if I have enough money in my bank account to pay for my hair appointment next week.
It’s not cheap to get your hair colored purple and when you go every three weeks like I do. And I’ll put this out there now. I spend a lot of money on hair products and dye because being an ordinary brunette just won’t do.
You might be surprised to learn I went to beauty school, too. If three weeks counts. It does because when have I ever done anything for more than three weeks?
Actually, I take that back. I’ve worked for Jett Industries selling merchandise at motocross events for the past year.
So there. I have some responsibility. And some could argue that’s only so I have money. For my hair. If it weren’t for money, I’d be a sloth who stays at home and colors her hair every three weeks. I’m totally that girl who has big plans to go out every Friday night and then cancels last minute because sitting on the couch is so much better than club life. You’d think I was forty, not twenty-three.
Logging into my credit card app, I realize I don’t have enough and wonder if they’ll increase my credit limit overnight? I only have $23.49 in available credit.
Crap.
A heavy weight hits me. Not because I’m nearly out of money and don’t get paid until Wednesday, but because something is lying on me. A big hairy dog that smells like fruit snacks. He smells that way because he keeps eating them from the pantry.
“Why are you lying on me, Kona?”
He doesn’t answer me.
Maybe because he’s a dog and probably has no idea what I’m saying. I’m house-sitting for my sister, Ava, and her overly large golden lab who insists on lying on me, though I’m certain he weighs more than me.
I don’t particularly like dogs. It’s not that I hate them. No, they’re cute. It’s their hair that bothers me. I don’t like picking my own hair from my bright green cardigan. Why would I want to pick Kona’s coarse blond hairs from it?
There’s a knock at the door and Kona’s ears perk up. He jumps off me, and I’m able to breathe again. His nails click against the wood floor. He skids to a stop in front of the door, his barking bellowing through the house with vaulted ceilings and thick white craftsman style trim everywhere your eyes land. While everything is clean and precise in my sister’s home, my studio apartment is nothing like this. My place is something out of a rock ‘n’ roll bedroom with deep rich colors splashed on everything, while hers belongs on the cover ofHomes & Gardens.
With a heave, I draw myself from the couch, padding over to the door as I yank my socks up one by one. It’s probably the delivery driver with my pizza. Cracking the door open, I attempt to block Kona from getting out. He peeks his head through my knees about the time I get out, “Hold on a second.” I take a quick glance at who’s standing before me, but it takes me another before it hits me.
Straining for my purse on the floor, I gather my wallet in my hand only to drop it when my eyes find the compassionate man before me. Two police officers.
“Are you Amberly Johnson?”