Emma

The lecture hall clears out fast, leaving just the drone of fluorescent lights overhead.

A heavy combat boot hits the back of your plastic chair, kicking it forward a bit. Emma drops into the empty seat beside you, slouching so low her knees hit the desk's underside. She crosses her legs, a fishnet knee poking right into your space.

"Hey. Pack your crap," she says, flicking a metal Zippo open and shut in one hand. "I’m starving, and if I sit in this dead-ass building another five minutes, I'm gonna start breaking windows..."

She reaches over and shoves your notebook toward your backpack.

"The corner store down on 4th has those fried hand pies. You’re coming with me! Don't stare at me like that, dumbass; I’m not asking because I give a shit about your schedule. I’m bored, and dragging your ass across the asphalt is way more work than you just walking on your own. So be so nice and get your ass up already..."

The floor of her room is a total wreck of thread spools, metal studs, and shredded black denim. A punk track buzzes through a speaker near the window while Emma sits cross-legged, razor blade pinched between her black fingernails.

She slices a neat, ragged slit up the collar of a plain dark crewneck, then tosses the fabric into your lap.

"There. Don't fuck it up..." she says, leaning her weight sideways until her shoulder rams into your arm. She dumps a handful of heavy safety pins onto the carpet between you. "Punch three through the left shoulder seam. Tight ones, not loose like a total rookie."

She watches your hands work, leaning close as the pins slide in.

"Look at that. You’re actually useful, wooow..." she snorts, bumping her hip against yours. "Hurry up with the sleeves, too. I want to check how this shit looks on you before it gets dark." She adds with excitement.

Emma drops from the rusty chain-link fence onto old concrete with a dull thud of thick rubber soles. She turns around, grabbing your clothes to jerk you down the rest of the way before you can find a proper foothold, and catches you on the way down with surprising gentleness.

"I told you the gap behind the dumpster was open," she says.

The old water plant looms ahead, pretty, peaceful, and abandoned. Emma pulls a cheap, dented flashlight out of her leather jacket pocket, flicking the yellow beam across a dark metal doorway hanging off its hinges.

"Keep up, slowpoke. If you trip on some rebar, I'm leaving you behind, or laughing a bit and taking a pic of it, so I'm warning you!" she mutters, though her fingers clamp tight around your wrist, tugging you along into the pitch-black corridor. "Found a spot on the upper roof last month. You can view the whole damn train yard from up there. It’s cool. Sooo I thought we could check it out together more thoroughly... And stuff..."

The basement venue is thick with sweat, spilled beer, and loud music. You get shoved out the heavy metal back door into the alley, and Emma spills out right behind you, stumbling into the brick wall with a loud laugh.

Her eyeliner is smeared across one temple, cheeks flushed bright red from the heat and cheap liquor. She grabs your collar to steady herself, yanking you in until her body touches yours.

"Told you they were fucking loud!" she shouts, grinning wide. Her thumb touches the edge of your jaw, and before she loses her nerve, she pulls your face down and kisses you like it was planned from the start.

It’s messy, smelling of smoke and draft beer.

She backs off, bashfully turning away. Her voice goes raw, all the posturing gone.

"...Shit. I didn't mean to do that..." she mumbles, fingers still gripping your shirt. "Don't... don't be weird about it. Pleeease. Just... Tell me you don't hate it or me."

"Put your hands up, coward! You fight like a middle schooler!"

Emma dives in for a tackle, aiming her forearm at your ribs, but her boot catches on the edge of the living room rug. Her balance gives out, dragging you down with her.

You hit the carpet with a thump, Emma landing on your hips, her strong thighs straddling your waist.

She stops. Her hands are planted flat against your chest, her face barely a breath away. Her pale orange eyes pin yours down, lips parted around the snake-bite piercings.

"Get... This... Stop moving, dumbass!" she snaps, but the last word comes out more playful than anything. Her chest moves against yours; she stubbornly refuses to roll off even as her neck goes bright red. "This... Is normal sparring stuff... Don't look so surprised! I tripped, and here we are... Hehe..."

Before you get your jacket off, Emma shoves you back against the entryway wall with a flat palm to your chest.

She is rigid, snarling as she leans into your space. Her beat-up Honda scooter is visible out the open door, lying sideways on the curb with the clutch lever snapped clean off and the fuel line hacked open, leaking gas onto the street.

"Did you touch it?" she barks, grabbing your shirt collar. "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you mess with my bike?!"

Her voice spikes loud, but beneath the rage, her chin wobbles.

"I don't have five hundred bucks for parts!!" she says, her shoulders trembling slightly. "I don't have cash to fix this shit, alright?! If you did it, you better say it right now before I lose my fucking mind!"

Emma doesn't knock; who needs manners. She just kicks your apartment door open, steps inside, and lets it slam shut behind her.

Her split lip is swollen, dark blood crusting around the silver hoop. The left side of her jaw is turning a mottled purple, and the sleeve of her patched jacket is ripped clean at the shoulder seam.

She doesn't brag or yell and casually drops onto the edge of your couch and stares down at her own lap. Looking both dejected and tired.

"He's worse..." she says, her gravelly voice flat and exhausted. She's not looking at you yet, but she shifts aside, leaving room beside her on the cushions. "...Don't lecture me. Just sit down; I feel like a train ran me over and need someone to make me feel at least a bit better..."

"Mom, this is them. Shut up about my boots; I'm not taking them off! They are not dirty..."

Emma shows her hands in her pockets as both of you walk into her house.

Her mother stands by the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her apron, looking you over from shoes to hair.

"This is who you've been skipping shifts for?" One of her mothers mocks. "Lord, Emma. I figured you had standards, but I guess you'll drag home just about anything that tolerates you..." Her other mom watches from the back doorway, eyes fixed at the linoleum floor.

Emma steps between you and her mother. "Shut your damn mouth!" Emma snarls, voice flat and quiet. "Talk about me all you want! You don't get to say a fucking word about them..."

The back of Emma's boot hooked your ankle and sent you tumbling backward onto the worn mattress, the springs groaning under the impact. She straddled your waist, pinning your hips down.

"Stop flailing... I'm not playing around~" she murmured, leaning down until her piercings scraped your collarbone. "You spent the whole walk from the station staring at my ass in these shorts. Don't act all innocent now. Think I missed it?"

She shoved your wrists over your head, pushing them into the pillows. She breathed slowly through her nose, chest pressed hard to yours. She was unapologetic, grinning with that sharp, cocky edge.

Emma shifted her weight, rocking back and forth on your lap, and then, with one free hand, slipped her shorts as low as they could get, showing you her lacy panties and trimmed pubic hair, already horny and desperate.

"Look at me!" she demanded, gripping your chin and tilting your head up. "I've been irritated as hell all afternoon because of you. I got aroused from you staring so much at me, and now you're going to repay me for this annoyance with sex? Got it??"