Bad Boy, Good Kisses

Chapter 1

The sky reeks of wet mulch and soot.

Cigarettes. Fresh paint. Latest graffiti.

Slashed, mangled, exhausted brick walls, ripping from the delicate seams sustained only by inches of debilitated and colorful plaster.

Deserted alleys. Darkness. Daunting and serene at the same time.

There is a loneliness here only those who've experienced can understand.

I drive by a small winding road with rubble scattered carelessly on the streets. Usually, this is a frozen city. But I can feel it. It speaks to me, and only to me.

On some days...on the best days, it is alive.

More alive than New York City, itself.

The key is to listening to the right thing.

Occasionally, as I drive though with the windows lowered, I hear whispers. Whispers in the dark. Children, women, men. And then slowly, but all at once, they are gone. Sometimes, I can hear the soft rustling of the wind picking up and other times: gunshots. Gunshots. It always smells like smoke. Always. Each time I pass here, new graffiti arises, thrown across the walls, bursts of orange, yellow, and magenta splattered on white plaster, popping out in a town that knows nothing but gray. Gray surroundings. Gray streets. Gray thoughts. Behind each piece of art screams the voice of an individual. (ermergerd I need to use that line somewhere)

However, the town isn't just art. If you study it closely as I have, on the rarest of days, there are people.

The people are the most fascinating, most intriguing of all.

You'd have to see them to understand.

The thing is, most people would find towns like these unnerving. Chilling or even intimidating.

This is South Bronx. And I believe it's beautiful.

Most days, it's peaceful. I am careful not to pass anyone who looks like bad news.

Today, however, things are different.

It started with a gunshot.

Then, hell broke loose.

***

BANG.

I jump, slightly frightened by what sounds like nearby gunshots. I was used to hearing the occasional bullet in South Bronx, but this one sounded extremely close. Trying to calm myself, I bite my lip and drive a little faster in hopes that I won't get killed.

BANG.

My stomach twists into a knot as the gunshots sounded again, even louder than the last time. Something stumbles across the street in my rearview mirror. Flashes of black and grey clothing.

I swallow, trying to clear my racing mind. It was careless coming here, but I couldn't help it. It was the only place I could think properly.

Besides, I hadn't known this was going to happen.

It never had, all the years that I've passed by.

THUD.

Before I can react, a man nearly slams into the windshield of my car, his hands flailing at the insides of my moving car. I scream, slamming down on the breaks, unable to see. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?"

For a moment, I get a good look at his face and we peer at each other. To my surprise, he looks around my age. Oddly, he looks vaguely familiar. His face is dirt-stricken, his jacket caked with mud, like he'd tripped and fallen into a huge puddle. Sweat pours down the sides of his face. It drenches his hair, causing the tips to look wet and unruly.

"Shut up, and open the door!" he orders, ignoring me, shaking the door handle violently.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I scream, getting ready to slam my foot on the brakes once again. I press the button to close the windows but he presses down on the windows, preventing them from closing. I stare at him in disbelief.

"I'm serious, Charlotte. Open the door! They'll find us any moment. And stop trying to close the fucking window. Can't you see I'm in trouble?"

I continue to stare at him, completely horrified. How did he know my name? "I—"

BANG.

"CHARLOTTE, YOU IDIOT. OPEN THE DAMN DOOR OR WE'RE GOING TO DIE."

I opened the door and he scrambles into the backseat, mud and all. I gasp as the mud from his clothes stain my car seats. My new car seats.

"My seats! They're new!" I say, angrily, suddenly losing any fear I previously had.

"You are going to die if we don't move. I SWEAR TO GOD, MOVE THE CAR BEFORE—"

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I scream, watching as a black van turns around the corner, violently knocking over a trash can.

"GO!!!" he shouts, jumping up to try to get to the front wheel, himself.

"QUIT YELLING AT ME!" I shout back, glaring at him over my shoulder. Then I squish the pedal into pulp.

"Maybe I would, if you weren't such an idiot!" he yelled, again.

"That is it! I. DON'T. EVEN. KNOW. YOU. Some gratitude would be nice!" I say indignantly, getting madder and madder.

"For what? Almost running me over?" he smirks as we start to lose the van behind us.

"Fine," I say stubbornly, when we're just out of Bronx. I stop the car in the middle of a deserted street. "Out."

For once, his stupid smirk disappears, replaced by a confused look. "What?"

His expression makes me want to laugh but I resist the urge, glaring instead. "Out. Get out."

"What do you mean?"

"Get out of my car. Whoever you are."

"What?" he scoffs. "No. Keep driving. We need to lose them."

"I DID," I yell, truly annoyed. "Now leave, you ungrateful, little—"

"Language," his smirk returns.

"UGH," I groan. "GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT."

"But—"

"GET OUT, DOUCHEBAG."

"Watch it," his turn to shoot me a death stare.

"NO," I yell, again. "YOU WATCH IT. NOW GET OUT OF MY FREAKING CAR. IF YOU CAN'T APPRECIATE THE FACT THAT I JUST RISKED MY LIFE FOR YOU, GET. THE FRICK. OUT."

"Fine. I don't need you anyway."

"I thought you wouldn't."

"I don't."

"Good."

"Okay."

"Fine."

"FINE."

"Wait..."

"What?"

"How did you know my name?"

"Bye."

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