Chapter 8

“Did it myself,” CJ tells them, turning

the board so the skaters can see the deck he spent weeks designing.

Richard let him spread newspapers out all over the living room

floor and he would lay on his stomach painting while his guy

watched the nightly news. CJ can’t draw worth crap but he can copy

pretty well—it took days but he managed to recreate an old cover of

the Sandmancomic book onto his deck, it kicks ass. All done

in black and grays and purples, and Richard helped him set it with

shellac so it wouldn’t chip off. “You could do this, you know,” his

lover told him, awed. CJ has to admit that he likes the glassy look

that creeps into Richard’s eyes when he looks at CJ’s artwork, such

as it is. For some reason he can’t quite understand, Richard gets

horny as hell just thinkingabout CJ’s drawings, and he

watched CJ work on the board more than he watched the TV sometimes.

The night it was finished, he touched the board with an almost holy

reverence and told him, “You could make goddamn good money doing

these for people, babe. You’re amazing.”

CJ doesn’t know about all that,but

these guys here seem impressed. “You didthat, dude?” The

skater pushes off against the wall and reaches for CJ’s board,

which he willingly surrenders. His cheeks hurt from trying not to

smile too wide. Turning the board to study the artwork, the kid

sounds like he’s holding the Grail as he tells his friend, “Check

this out, Mick. Fucking A.”

The kid in dreads—Mick—grunts in approval

without looking. He’s too busy popping off the curb and more often

then not, his board gets away from him. He isn’t really all that

good. Handing his board back, the first guy says, “Wicked, man. Too

rad. You do these?”

“I did this one,” CJ beams. Maybe

Richard is right, maybe there issomething here after all.

He drops his board to the ground and loves the way the other

skater’s gaze falls with it, like his eyes are glued to the deck.

As nonchalantly as he can, CJ steps onto the board. “I’m CJ,” he

says, spinning the board in a kick flip. Unlike Mick, he’s damn

good at it, and the board turns once before settling back into

place beneath his feet. “What’s up with the pipe?”

“Cops busted some kids in there last

night,” the guy who’s not Mick says. He leans back against the wall

again, nudging his board back and forth with one foot while he

shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Hash or pot,

something like that. They’re patrolling the whole damn lot now. I’m

Brendan. He’s Mick.”

With a nod, CJ says, “That’s shit about the

pipe.” He came out here early just to skate it and now he can’t.

Where’s Richard already?

Brendan nods, it isshit. For a few

moments they’re silent—the only sound is the scritch of Mick’s

wheels on the concrete. He might be a good skater in time, but

right now CJ secretly thinks he’sshit, too. Can’t keep his

feet on the board, it just gets away from him. As it flies out into

traffic he falls hard on his butt… he sucks, plain and simple. CJ

thinks he should say something, show the kid how to really

skate, but he’s not here to compete so he keeps his mouth shut.

But Mick’s next jump sends him off the curb,

straight into the path of an oncoming Lexus SUV. The driver isn’t

going all that fast but she slams on the brakes anyway, and the

look she throws at them could melt glass. Mick ignores it and

Brendan laughs. “You’re lucky she didn’t run your ass down,” he

smirks, kicking out his board. It shoots across the sidewalk and

rams into the back of Mick’s battered Converse sneakers.

“Fuck you,” Mick mutters. He kicks the

board back to his friend, then flicks off the SUV as it passes

by.

Leaning from side to side slowly to move his

board back and forth, CJ shoves his hands into the pockets of his

jacket and frowns at Mick’s feet. The kid is doing it all wrong. He

waits too long to jump off the curb, that’s what’s throwing him

off. As Mick sets up for another try, CJ suggests, “Maybe you

should kick up sooner.”

Mick gives him a hateful stare. “I know what

I’m doing,” he growls.

“I’m just saying.” CJ shrugs. It’s

nothing to him. He waits until Mick jumps—and the skateboard

skitters away, another fouled attempt—before he adds, “You’re

waiting too long. If you set up just beforethe

curb—”

Mick glares at Brendan. “Who the fuck is

this?” he wants to know.