Breaking Skin
Breaking Skin
Copyright © 2016 Debra Doxer
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Pam Berehulke of Bulletproof Editing
Cover Design by ©Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations
Formatted by JT Formatting
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Debra Doxer.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
T
his smooth, pale skin is a fragile facade, the most delicate armor, thin as the skin of a grape. Stretched tautly over muscle and bone, it conceals a jagged soul and veils a fractured heart.
Each day the truth threatens to pierce through. A storm of emotion struggles to burst free. But feeling too much would break me, break my skin, break my bones, break my heart.
The facade would fissure, and this smooth, pale skin would stain red.
Nichole “Nikki” Taylor, 16 years old
Mrs. Brown’s English Class
A
drunk ballerina walks into a bar.
Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.
A drunk ballerina walks into a bar and says ouch
.
I laugh quietly to myself, even though it’s not funny. Although it is ironic since I happen to be a drunk ballerina, and I am walking into a bar.
I chuckle again and nearly trip over the raised threshold. Maybe not so much ironic as pathetic.
“Come on, Nikki.” Deedee links her arm with mine and pulls me deeper inside.
We’re at a sports bar across town because Deedee wants to try someplace new. She’s tired of the same old places and same old people we see all the time. Since she’s been in town for exactly two weeks, I find that amusing and ironic too. I’m not sure it’s pathetic, but the night is still young.
“This seems promising,” Katy says.
Deedee convinced Katy to come along too. Katy was always more my sister’s friend than mine. Now that my sister has left the company and moved back to our hometown, I’m the default replacement friend, but not for long. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, Katy is retiring after this season.
“Lighten up.” Deedee bumps her shoulder into mine. “Dennis will get over it. He’s probably already over it while you’re still sulking.”
Dennis White, our choreographer, went ballistic at rehearsal today when my right leg buckled in the middle of a new routine. My knee has been giving me trouble lately, but it doesn’t occur to Dennis that I’m injured and not purposely ruining his choreography. I can’t tell him I have an injury because then he’ll pull me out of the show.
But Dennis isn’t the real reason I’m sulking, although sulky isn’t the right word for how I feel. I don’t know exactly how I feel but there’s a nonspecific pain, not in my heart where it should be but lower, as if I swallowed something alive and it’s trying to gnaw its way out.
Deedee claims some free stools at the bar and motions us over. “Three shots of tequila,” she tells the bartender.
My head is already spinning from the shots we did at her apartment, but the moment my drink arrives, I toss it back and savor every inch of the burn as it slides down my throat.
“Feeling better?” Deedee asks, flipping some stray strands of dark hair over her shoulder.
“Feeling nothing,” I reply with a smile.
It’s not the whole truth, but it’s a close approximation. The news I received today is a lot easier to digest when followed by several tequila chasers. Deedee doesn’t know about my sister’s cold, unexpected text because I didn’t tell her. Deedee thinks we’re as thick as thieves after only two weeks, but I disagree. I like her, but I’m not about to confide in her. That kind of trust takes a lot longer and more tequila than this bar keeps in stock.
When Deedee joined the ballet corps, she decided we were destined to be friends because we’re both from California. Believe it or not, most of the dancers at the San Francisco Ballet Company are not from the sunshine state. But she and I hardly look the part of the typical California girl, no blond tresses or spray tans here. Deedee’s skin color is a gift from her parents, not the sun, while my skin is so pale it looks like I descended from a long line of ghosts.
“I spy some potential at two o’clock. What do you think of him?” Deedee asks, pointing toward a round table in the back corner of the room.
It’s occupied by a series of muscle-bound guys, a few of whom look like they fought in MMA matches before they got here, and lost. I spot a black eye on one of them, and another has a swollen cheek. A handful of girls are with them too, showing a lot of skin, laughing a little too loudly.
I roll my eyes. “Which one? The guy with the shaved head showing off his biceps?” I lower my voice an octave. “Dude, call a plumber, because my pipes are about to burst.”
She snorts. “I’m talking about the one who doesn’t have a half-naked girl on his lap. The one with the deep blue eyes.”
My brows lift at her description. Deedee is hardly a romantic, and it’s much too dark in here to see the color of anyone’s eyes. Curious, I scan the table more carefully, looking for those eyes, and stop short when I find them.
Oh my
.
I rest my elbow on the bar and take a nice long look. If I’ve got the right one, Deedee has excellent taste. Blue Eyes sits directly beneath one of the recessed lights in the ceiling, making it appear as if there’s a spotlight on him. But she’s wrong about his eye color. It’s not deep blue, more like sky blue, a startling shade of light blue and a sharp contrast to the dark brows that arch above them. As I think that, I realize the eyes in question are staring right back at me.
Abruptly, I avert my gaze to the empty shot glass in my hand, embarrassed at being caught. My heart beats a little faster at the jolt that ran through me when our gazes connected. It was oddly unnerving.
I smile to myself, confounded by my reaction. He’s not the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. He’s too rough, too hard-edged. His friends all exude a rowdy, larger-than-life impression, but there’s something different about him. Something quiet and steely that makes me want to look again and maybe do more than look, even though I don’t dare. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me, especially since the only skin I’m showing is on my face and hands. No cleavage on display here. No cleavage, period.