Skin of a Sinner: A Dark Childhood Best Friends Romance(11)

Steve is going to have a field day over this. He’ll probably try to get a couple more hits in himself or decide my weekend would be better off spent in the basement. He’s figured out that it’s far more effective than a belt or a “good ol’ fashion beatin’,” as he’d say.

“Yes, I saw the other guy.” She throws her hands up, but the exasperation doesn’t reach her eyes. “You pushed him to his knees and made him beg me for my forgiveness.”

I lift a shoulder. “You should have said you didn’t forgive him. Make it more exciting for me. You can forgive me by playing tag.”

We might be too old to play those types of games, but I just love the way her eyes widen right before I catch her. Screw hide and seek, or hacky sack. Tag is the only game I’ve ever wanted to play with her.

This time, when she looks at me, she really does seem exhausted, but it disappears when I wince from the sharp sting of the cotton on the open wound on my cheek.

I have to hand it to the kid from before; he didn’t look like much, but he could throw a punch. Caught me completely off guard. I almost had respect for him, but then I remembered why he ended up there.

“It was an accident.”

She’s been saying that all afternoon. It looked like no accident from what I saw. The lunchbox I gave her when we were kids somehow ended up in his bag. My Bella doesn’t have accidents like that.

This was deliberate.

I don’t take kindly to that.

Bella and I—not me and Bella (she’s been helping me with my English homework)—have been playing this little cat-and-mouse game since day one. I’m the cat, everyone else is the mouse, and she’s the dog from Tom & Jerry that would try to mediate. Or simply stand to the side and flinch every time someone lands a hit on me.

I like her flinching far more than I should.

I squeeze the stress ball the little princess got me using as of last month. I’ve already gone through two of them—not that she knows. If she did, she’d probably burst a vein from being overly worried about me. I’ve just been pocketing them from the department store instead and replacing them before she figures it out.

The stress ball is a handy little gadget that has stopped me from bashing my head into a wall. Or Steve’s, maybe even Josh’s, too. We have a new kid staying with us, about five years younger than Bella.

At first, I liked Jeremy because he was quiet and kept to himself. Then Bella sniffed him out and decided to take that little shit under her wing. If he’s under her wing, then by extension, that means he’s under my wing, which gets fucking exhausting when I only have two wings. Half the time, I’m walking myself into the basement before Steve gets the chance to drag me in there.

But it’s easier now.

Down there in the cold.

Now, I have the handy dandy stress ball, a pen and paper, and the MP3 player I stole from Skinny—or was it Ugly?—all because they looked at my girl the wrong way.

At least her hair isn’t so ridiculously wonky anymore. She means well and tries her damn best, but I usually end up redoing it for her before we walk to school. If not, I just can’t stop staring at it in all its chaos.

Every morning, I hold my breath to see if she tried braiding it because, unless she brings a hairbrush, there’s no way I can salvage it.

She frowns at me, and I frown, too.

“Maybe you should have talked to him before you punched him,” Pigtails says.

If she ever knew I still call her Pigtails in my head, she’d probably be debating whether to disown me or sit in the corner and cry. The last time I did, her bottom lip quivered—God, I hate it when it quivers—and she started getting upset, saying that I thought she was a pig.

I shrug, grinning. “No point wasting time. I was cutting to the chase.”

She carefully dabs the wound again. In my entire life, Bella is the only person who has tended to my wounds without being paid to do it. “There are two sides to every story, Mickey. What you did was grievous bodily assault.” Her r’s come out nice and clear.

Bella’s been watching Law & Order for the past month, and now she thinks she wants to be a defense attorney—which might actually come in handy for me, so it’s all a go from my point of view.

I catch sight of her earring and internally wince. I’m unsure if she still thinks about losing her mother’s earrings, but I do. Every day.

“Your side is the only one that counts.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s how justice works.”

I can’t help it; I roll my eyes too. “Shut up, you’re, like, eleven.”

“No, I’m twelve, thank you very much.” She places her hands on her hips. “Twelve years and three months,” she adds matter-of-factly.

I put no effort into hiding my victorious grin. Pointing out her age always gets a rise out of her. She’s twelve going on twenty with how much she tries to mother everyone.

Then the first sign starts; the loud wheeze in her breath from the change in season. Bella clears her throat to hide it, but I narrow my eyes at her. Then, as the seconds pass, she turns to the side and lets out a series of earth-shattering coughs.

Reaching for my bag, I tug it onto my lap and ignore the pain from my busted knuckles. I rummage around the front pocket until I find what I need, all while Bella wheezes between coughs.