“It’s not funny, Clyde! I didn’t want angel curls anymore, but I didn’t think about the consequences of short, brown hair on this square, Shelby face. But now I know.” Bonnie hung her head and her shoulders shook as she dissolved into noisy sobs. She seemed almost as alarmed by her tears as he was, and she shot from the bed and into her room without another word
He didn’t go after her. He wasn’t her mother, her twin sister, or the guy she was sleeping with. He was just . . . Clyde. And he didn’t have a clue what to say. He could say she didn’t look like a boy. Because she didn’t. At all. Her hair was short and that was where the similarity ended. But he didn’t think he could support his argument without pointing out her more womanly attributes, which was a very bad idea. So he stayed on his side of the door and worried. He had no wisdom where women were concerned, especially a woman he hardly knew, who had literally fallen into his lap, and who he now felt strangely, infuriatingly, responsible for.
He scrubbed his hand down his jaw, immediately missing the feel of whiskers against his palm. The friction against his fingers eased the friction in his head, and he wondered what he’d been thinking when he’d shaved it off. Stupid. He knew what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking that he should show Bonnie more of Finn and less of Clyde. He’d been thinking maybe he could shed some of the old skin and become a little more suitable for someone like her.
She didn’t come back through his door, though he left it open, just like he’d said he would. He ended up turning off the television and staring up at the ceiling in the dark, the way he’d done a million times in his young life. He wished he had some colored chalk. He wanted to write on all that empty white space. His fingers clenched and stretched, imagining how it would feel to scribble an equation across the expanse, something he could stare at and puzzle over until the numbers blurred and sleep lifted him up and away, where he could merge with the universe, a place rife with endless formulas and figures transcribed across the heavens.
But he was in a motel room, and writing on walls was frowned upon. When he had lived at home, he and Fish had shared a room. Fish’s two walls were covered with posters and pictures, and his parents had finally given in—his dad even encouraged it—and let Finn cover his two walls with numbers. When they were full he would paint over one wall and start over. His next apartment was going to have walls covered in chalkboards.
But the numbers were forced to remain in his head, crowded, irritable, and hot . . . or maybe that was just Finn. He sat up in frustration and threw off his covers. He had turned off his heater when he’d turned off his TV, but Bonnie had hers cranking in the next room, and the heat billowed through their adjoining door. He pulled his shirt off, wadded it up, and threw it toward his duffle bag. He lasted all of five seconds before he stalked over and retrieved it, knowing he needed to put it back on.
“Finn?”
Finn jolted, bumping his head against the wall as he shot up from a crouch. The sudden light from Bonnie’s room sent a fat streak of light shooting across his floor, pinning him against the wall like an inmate caught trying to scale the prison fence. Bonnie was outlined in the opening. He immediately turned back around, facing the wall.
“Finn?”
“Yeah.” He felt like an imbecile, his back bare, his eyes to the wall, unable to move.
“I’m sorry. For crying like that . . . over something so stupid. I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. Hank sounds hideous. I would cry too.” He wished she would go.
She giggled. She sounded like a sad, little girl, and he winced at his predicament. The giggle died when he remained motionless.
“Finn . . . are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just . . . uh. Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay. Goodnight.” Seconds later the light was gone, and Finn heard Bonnie’s bed creak and the headboard jostle the slightest bit. He stayed where he was and lifted his hand to his chest, and the twisted black cross etched into his skin. Maybe she hadn’t seen it. But she’d seen the ink on his back. No doubt about that.
He had only been eighteen. And he had been terrified. Terror makes a man do things he would not otherwise do. Finn pressed his hand over his heart once more, covering the ugly tattoo. Then he crossed the room to his bed and willed himself to sleep, his hand curled against his chest.
He remembered the feel of the needle in his skin, the weight and the smell of Grayson sitting across his shoulders and head, suffocating him, his arms stretched out to the sides, his legs similarly pinned, a man on each limb, Maurice straddling his back. He had eventually lain motionless, allowing the indignity of being marked and branded against his will, the pain of resisting—the blows, the stabbing needle skittering across his skin—greater than the humiliation of holding still. And when they were done, the blood had welled and seeped from the messy outline of three playing cards on the center of his back. One card had a big diamond on its face, a symbol that Finn was a cheat. One card was decorated with a spade, a symbol that he was a thief—and both were stamped on his skin for everyone to see. But it was the third card, the one with a heart on it that made Finn’s blood run cold. The heart was a symbol to the population that he welcomed romantic attention. And that was the one thing he didn’t think he would survive. Not that.
It had all started with a card game. He’d thought if he ingratiated himself with Cavaro he would be safe. So he’d taken a chance.
“Don’t go all in,” he had said.