Being with Richie was one of the worst things I'd ever done. He was heartless and cruel; with a 'love' that ruined me entirely.
"God knows what is hiding in those weak and drunken hearts. I guess the loneliness came knocking, no one needs to be alon...
"But you'll always be my hero. Even though you've lost your mind."
Chapter Theme Song: 'Love The Way You Lie.' by Rihanna.
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Becca
That night when I saw Richie Moscow, I almost couldn't breathe.
He was leaning against the door jamb to his classic-styled kitchen, hands crushed into his pockets, lips stretched into a little pink smile. He wasn't looking at me, but at Winston Covard who was nursing a bottle of beer, baseball cap on backward, one hand stuffed into his Khaki pocket.
And I remember Tee, linking her arm through mine with an equally pink face as we passed by the two boys.
"Hey, Tee..." Winston had stopped talking to say, and she blushed as though someone had shoved her face down in a bucket of red paint.
I stood there, skin flushed and littered with goosebumps, waiting for her to finish talking to him. Richie had straightened his back, dark green eyes now fixed on me, and he brought his own beer to his lips, dirty blonde hair swept into his eyes. He had the most intense pair of eyes I had ever seen, and I couldn't believe those mysterious greens were now positioned on me. I felt as though I was under a microscope, being sieved and analyzed by a scientist. He rocked back until his spine was against the cold, cream walls, and I did a measly job at pretending the roof was painted with molten gold.
Then his voice came, deep and rich as his living status as he said:
"November?"
My big, brown circles fell to his, and I felt my stomach leap with a million butterflies. I couldn't quite put into words what his stare did to me, and I couldn't quite put into words a response to his question. So I stood there, several feet shy with my legs shaking in my Nike-air sneakers and lemon-green socks. He was patient with me, rows of pearly white teeth spreading across his face as he repeated:
"November. Your shirt."
Oh.
My head dipped as I eyed my black T-shirt with splashes of neon green paint and the writing: November. Alongside it, a skinny boy stood in a freakish pose. Hair spiked and wild, head bent, wearing a duplicate of my T-shirt. It was 'Come November,' the writing. But the come was so small it couldn't be seen.
"Like the band, huh?" Richie's head tipped back to enclose pink, plump lips around the edge of the bottle. I wasn't sure I understood, and he laughed. "There is this group called, November. They haven't been active since 1972, though. They make good music. Saw your shirt and thought of them. You like music, yeah?"
I forced my mouth to open. "Yeah, I do. A lot."
"I know." Saying this, his mouth, wet with beer, had twisted to the side in a grin. He eased off the wall, and the breeze of his movements smelled of fresh fabric softener and mildly citrus deodorant. "I'm Richie. What's your name?" His hand went up to take another swig of his beer, his eyes boring through mine.
