BAD LAD

2. Chris

I have such a headache I have the impression that at any moment my eyes will come out of their sockets to greet the mob. The previous evening is fuzzy in my memory and I remember only two things clearly: the Swedish women and the crazy chick with the spear gun.

It’s with miserable lurching that I extract myself from the f*****g tent which is too narrow for a guy my size. Seriously, this thing is practical for kids who are a meter ten with their arms up, not for me.

I rub my skull automatically and stretch myself. I love the feel of my very short hair under my palm, this tic soothes me; it reminds me of my father when he had the same cut. It has nothing to do with style, or fashion, but rather with the cops: they can’t catch you by the hair when they try to grab you. It’s these kinds of details that you pay attention to when you take the professional path I chose.

The sound of metal-on-metal coming from beside me catches my attention. I frown and then turn to spot the crazy chick.

It’s true, her silhouette is lost in a formless black sweatshirt while the hood practically covers her whole face. My eyes go lower. It’s a basic reflex: a guy gauges a girl on her ass... and here, unless you have Superman’s x-ray eyes, you can’t see anything: hers is somewhere in those pants that are two sizes too big for her.

As if she’d felt my gaze, she pivots her upper body in my direction. I guess she’s also eying me, so I casually stretch each of my muscles as if it were normal. I wonder what she thinks of my tattoos. They have no other function than to impress and show who I am: I’m not a good person. They are primarily war paint, rites of passage, marks that remind me who I am. Although many have a meaning, the entire puzzle is not mystical. They’re a silent warning, like a shark’s fin that breaks the surface of the water.

When my camping neighbour gives me the middle finger, my saliva goes down the wrong way and then I chuckle, genuinely amused by her audacity.

She has balls, I’ll give her that.

Given my gangster look, in her place, a guy would have thought twice before carrying out such a defiant gesture. Because she looks like a kid, a courageous kid, too, I decide to let it go and just shake my head in response.

I put on my worn threadbare jeans and sit cross-legged on the half-dried grass of our camp. My buddies are all trying to sleep off their booze, and I have, for now, nothing better to do than watch the crazy chick. After grabbing one of the cigarette packets lying on the ground among the bottle corpses, I light one, take a long puff, still watching her.

My interest is awakening again. I could be compared to a big lazy cat revelling in sleep for hours, constantly immersed in some sort of alcoholic coma. It’s strange. Strange that, in this girl’s presence, I should react this way. The emptiness... fades a little.

I watch her religiously prepare their breakfast on a red folding table. Something in her posture intrigues me: she’s so stiff! As if she knows that my eyes are following her every move. Her awkwardness appeals to me. I like the idea that she reacts this way.

When a pleasant smell of coffee tickles my nostrils, I immediately frown. I take a quick look around me: nothing on our site that looks anything like food. s**t. I rub my stomach. The simple fact of having no food makes me hungry. It’s automatic.

“Hey!” I question, nonchalantly scratching my belly, cigarette stuck between my lips. “Hey! Crazy chick with the spear gun!”

Hearing the last words, she finally turns—despite this, I can’t see her face because of that damn hoodie.

“Could I have some of your coffee?”

She doesn’t answer, turning away to downright snub me.

Huh?

“Hey, oh! I’m not asking for a miracle! A cup of coffee, s**t! You know...” my hands make windmills in the air while I find the word that escapes me, “... that crap about good neighbourliness? Well, I’m your neighbour, so shouldn’t you be nice, or something like that?”

This time, she looks openly in my direction while clenching a harmless spreading knife in her tiny little fist. The subliminal message makes me raise a mocking eyebrow as I take the last puff of my cigarette.

“And the smallest courtesies, like please, is the least we can do, no?”

She hissed the sentence between her teeth. The sound reminds me of a snake, the one it emits before attacking. I’m torn between laughing and getting annoyed.

This chick, she kills me!

“If I agree to give you a cup of coffee, you get off my back? And above all, you and your buddies, you stay the hell away from my sister?”

This is the bullshit that you shouldn’t try on me: spin a deal. Because of course, I’m going to want to do the exact opposite, just in the spirit of contradiction.

Though... it’s not necessarily the little sister that I want to tease.

With a broad smile, eyes wide open, imitating innocence to perfection, I nod.

She gauges me for a long time, then eventually fills a cup and comes to offer it to me. I take my time getting it, my eyes on her face... well, what I can see, which is to say not much. When she leans over, mumbling something about my poor character, her eyes meet mine. I’m suddenly caught by their unusual colour: a translucent blue, almost non-existent. She turns her head too fast so I can’t get a better look. Still, such a bizarre shade, I only saw that in some Goths who put in contact lenses and she, given her current style, doesn’t look the type to accessorize her appearance.

Now, I wait with curiosity to check out her little sister. A so-called church mouse and a pseudo-rebel; there’s something to keep me busy until the guys emerge from their drunken sleep.

“Thanks, thank you,” I articulate with exaggeration.

I taste the coffee and spit it out straight away: it’s instant, and it’s vile.

“How in the hell do you drink this s**t?!”

I hear her snicker, and although I’m looking at her, she insists on only showing me her back.

“Kate! I’d like to take a shower.”

Kate? That’s her first name? She doesn’t look the Kate type.

While reflecting on this, I carefully examine the girl coming out of the tent, the exact one I ventured into a few hours earlier. She must be seventeen years old tops but Jo’s right: she’s a little bomb on legs despite that curious sky blue dress. The style of clothing those chicks surely wore at one time; the girls leaving the family home only for confession. The small collar buttoned up to the chin alone is enough to make you want to know what’s underneath. A white headband holds her long silky pale blond hair, which reinforces my desire to know the hair colour of her sister. I take a look at her rear...

Nice little ass, Jo has the eye.

My eyes change targets and I discover that her big sister has hers locked on me. If I judge from her rigid posture, the fact that I’m watching her sister doesn’t please the masses.

The idea of coming here without guys... especially if you don’t want people sniffing around your sister’s skirt.

Suddenly, she turns with her toiletries in her hands.

“Let’s go,” she says, in a voice so soft that I choke on the rest of the sock-juice she gave me.

I watch as they move away to the washrooms. Frustrated that the crazy chick disappears from my line of sight, I suddenly want to let off steam. Achieving completely stupid stuff seems to be a good option. Search their tents to learn a little more about this amazing duo? Give it a try to see what Kate looks like without that cursed hoodie? Or wake my friends by emptying bottles of water on their faces?

I laugh silently at these stupid ideas and throw the empty plastic cup into a green bin provided for this. After I get rather skilfully back on my feet, I vigorously rub my jeans to make the blades of dry grass fall. This done, I approach one of our tents, give it a nasty kick, and do the same for the other two.

“Ho! I won’t spend my day waiting for a bunch of freeloaders!”

Unhappy grunts answer me, and I give a satisfied smile. I repeat the kicking. They replied at once with furious fists distorting the thin fabric.

Faced with their lack of motivation to get off their asses, I decide to give in to temptation and take the path to the shower facilities. As soon as I’m standing in front of the entrance, I notice that they are separated by s*x. A dirty rascal grin immediately splits my face in two: I opt without hesitation for the women’s.

I have just enough time to spot the coppery hair that the hood covered. The crazy chick is leaning against the door, crossing her arms on her chest, her head bent down as if admiring her shoes.

I approach, savouring in advance getting her riled up. I simply don’t understand why, but the fact is that I think it’s as good as candy.

“Hello, neighbour! Tell me, do you have any shower gel or anything that foams?” I sing stopping near her.

I smell her perfume.

I didn’t miss my mark; she throws me a brief murderous glance:

“Weren’t you supposed to leave me alone?” she ridicules.

I hear muffled cries behind me, so I instinctively take a look over my shoulder: girls have realized my presence in their holy place and my tattoos, as well as my build, make them act as one... they perform a quick U-turn. There are chicks that I excite, and others that I frighten. Only the first category interests me.

I refocus on the Rambo of the oceans.

“Yeah, but I need to wash and who do you want me to ask? Mind you, I can always see if your sister...”

Once again, for a split second her translucent eyes try to pierce me. With an angry gesture, she sticks a bottle of shower gel in my hands and then nods to me, clearly inviting me to clear out.

Again, her guts kill me. I slowly put my forearm on the door frame, just above her head; my muscles roll, tense, under my skin.

“Are you tired of living?”

I spoke in a soft, almost friendly tone. I think that this is what startles her, much more than the meaning of my words.

“Is that the impression I give?”

I slowly shake my head from side to side, without taking my eyes off her. I’m serious.

“It’s suicidal, your behaviour. I don’t hit chicks, but bravery is a ripe peach just waiting to be plucked when you’re the size of a garden gnome.”

“Guys like you... I used to date them. You don’t scare me.”

“You’re very lucky. I’m an asshole... but not that kind of an asshole. Others would have busted your face all up just to remind you where your place is.”

She stands up like a cobra ready to strike and finally I discover her face: tiny freckles cover her cheeks and her upturned nose. Not a single trace of make-up which, in a sense, gives her a very young look, but what’s behind her eyes is too worn out for her to have experienced nothing.

“What’s that? A warning? A threat?”

Her voice is high pitched. I’ve touched a sensitive spot and like a predator that smells the scent of blood, I narrow my eyes as I continue to watch her.

“A wake-up call. You say you dated guys like me... so you should know where you stand and blend into the landscape when necessary to save your ass. I don’t have the impression that this is the case, seeing how you’re trying to rile me up.”

“You’re the one who’s after me, right now.”

I know she’s right. I’ve no idea about what has motivated me to provoke her since this morning and frankly, self-psychoanalysis is not one of my favourite leisure activities, I’m over it.

“I’m trying to be nice, right now.”

“A success,” she says sarcastically.

I walk away with a sigh.

Stubborn chicks are too boring.

I shake the bottle of shower gel and then enter the shower cubicle next to her sister’s.

“You know, one of these days, you’re going to have problems. It’s not courage... but stupidity.”

I’m not the kind of guy to worry about others usually, or to show myself nice enough to re-sell them advice however twisted they are, but this girl... she still has something sacred in her eyes. Something that reminds me of David.

David...

My jaw tightens. I instantly decide to take care of my business.