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Copyright © 2022 by J.L. KENNA
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
For more information address:
www.jlkenna.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales,

and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: Gavin Turley

Editing: Ellie McLove (My Brother’s Editor)
Proofreading: Rosa Sharon (My Brother’s Editor)
Paperback ISBN: 9798807020772
Created with Vellum
 For the underdogs. The outcasts and misfits.
For the monsters and abandoned, the unloved and mistreated.
A fire only burns when given oxygen.
Keep breathing.
 playlist

Criminal - Exitmusic
All I Need - Radiohead
Become - Locals Only Sound, Gray Hawken
Angsty - Best Coast
ILYSB - STRIPPED - LANY
All I C Is U - Nate Traveller
ocean eyes - Billie Eilish
Killboy Powerhead - The Offspring
out in the wild - REUNIØN
Fade Into You - Mazzy Star
If You Could Only See - Tonic
This Love - Taylor Swift

Listen to the playlist here

“The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.”
LEO TOLSTOY
 contents

1. Skylar
2. Dominic
3. Skylar
4. Dominic
5. Dominic
6. Skylar
7. Dominic
8. Skylar
9. Dominic
10. Skylar
11. Skylar
12. Dominic
13. Skylar
14. Skylar
15. Dominic
16. Skylar
17. Dominic
18. Skylar
19. Dominic
20. Skylar
21. Dominic
22. Skylar
23. Skylar
24. Dominic
25. Skylar
26. Dominic
27. Skylar
28. Dominic
Skylar’s Epilogue
Dominic’s epilogue

Thank you!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
 skylar

Dear future Skylar,

If you’re looking back on the brutal years and reading this
with tears in your eyes, remember this: Stay broken on the
inside. Contrary to popular belief, there’s nothing wrong with
being broken. There’s something beautiful in the broken
pieces of a person. Don’t let them make you whole because
only whole people fear their own collapse. Clean the dirt from
under your nails and keep moving.
Preferably as far from King, Texas as you can.
Oh yeah, one more thing: When you get out of here, if
you haven’t already, burn this bitch to the ground.
-SBQ

T he bell reminding students that lunch is nearing its end, ricochets

through the halls and sounds into the quad where I sit. A lone
wolf. A once-popular girl left to eat alone because the only two
people I call my friends—Dixie Cartwright and Trevor Black—are sick
and didn’t come to school today, leaving me to walk the plank alone.
It’s a task I don’t welcome, but a task I’m used to all the same.
I close my tattered leather journal, securing it with a few wraps
from its built-in leather rope and stuff it into my messenger bag with
a sigh. The day must go on.
I’ve been writing in a journal since I was thirteen, when tragedy
seeped into my life and poisoned my veins with its malice. I needed
a place to put my thoughts. A place to refer back to when memories
couldn’t find me. I needed roots, grounding me to something.
So, I started putting all the words in my head on paper.
The pages between the leather of my journal have seen more
teen girl angst than the CW on Friday nights. Thoughts, feelings,
predictions, and of course the peaks and valleys of each of my days
are scattered across its worn pages.
My first journal entry was exactly one month after my dad went
missing. I came home from school one day and most of his things—
including Clyde, his motorcycle—had vanished. I say went missing
because I know in my heart he would never have left me behind. So
something had to have gone terribly wrong.
My dad wasn’t seen as a man of outstanding moral character in
our town. I’ve heard a lot of shady stories about his dealings over
the years. Still, he was my biggest fan and I was his. He single-
handedly molded me into who I am today—a person no one would
ever praise, but a person I’m proud of, nonetheless.
Taking a deep breath, I lean back against the tree behind me,
remembering the day I realized time would take him from me. I
stared up at the ceiling speckled with stick-on stars in my bedroom,
wishing and praying to any god who would listen to bring my dad
back to me. I tried to remember the last thing he’d said to me and
couldn’t. The words I had echoed to myself repeatedly to keep him
near had slipped from my mind like fish in a bucket of baby oil. Right
then and there, I vowed to write daily to remind myself of the
moments I most cherished, as well as the moments that brought me
pain in hopes of never forgetting who I came from and why I ended
up where I’ll eventually end up.
Wherever that will be.
When I’m older, I’ll read through my days and moments, finding
my dad in the pages I once thought were trivial. I’ll find him in the
little things I’ve done. I’ll find him in every love of my life and future
heartbreaks. I’ll find him written in the days when I shut out the
world to build myself up again. In tiny moments and monumental
ones equally.
And maybe one day, I’ll find him.
 The bell rings a second time, pulling me from reverie. As
students spill out of the cafeteria in clusters, and make their way to
their next classes, I stand from my spot under my favorite oak tree
outside the cafeteria and swing my messenger bag strap over my
shoulder, then take off toward history class.
“Skylar Quinn, will you please report to Principal Cartwright’s
office,” the loudspeaker echoes. “Skylar Quinn, please report to
Principal Cartwright’s office. Thank you.”
I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction, ignoring the
finger wags and taunts from classmates, speculating I’m in trouble.
Getting called to the principal’s office may induce anxiety for
some, but not for me. Principal Cartwright is my best friend Dixie’s
older brother. Dixie and I are as close as true sisters, which means
Principal Cartwright knows me better than most of my classmates.
He’s kind of like a big brother to me.
Plus, I know why I’m being summoned.
The reason? Today’s Valley: When Kyle Lemke called me flat-
chested in American Literature and Mark Moxley egged it on, making
the entire class erupt into laughter.
No big deal.
Mark Moxley was only my closest friend in the entire world and
now he’s not. Nothing like reveling in the humiliation of a girl you
once fell asleep talking to every night.
But who’s bitter? Not me. Do I care what Kyle Lemke and Mark
Moxley think? Absolutely fucking not. Do I care what any of these
plastic garbage people think? Also, a hard no. Do I despise the
attention? Guilty.
This is my senior year in high school and the faster I get out of
Hell High—home of the Gators—and ultimately out of this shit for
town, the better. My dad is out there somewhere. Waiting for me to
find him, no doubt. But the days have been ticking by at glacial
speeds, reminding me slowly that I don’t belong here. Needless to
say, I need public shamings from Kyle Lemke and Mark fucking
Moxley about my tit size like I need a second asshole.
Comfortably invisible is how I prefer to walk the halls, and usually
I do. But days like today happen. I’ll be the focus of all giggles and
gossip, and by the end of the day, the story will take on a life of its
own. The new story will be told that I offered Kyle and Mark blow
jobs in the gym after football practice, but they denied me because
my tits are too small. Or some ridiculous shit like that. A rumor
nobody will actually believe, but a rumor the majority will be all too
willing to believe, considering I’m the devil who hurt King’s Golden
Boy, Mox the Fox.
Ever since Rachel Brown’s pool party at the beginning of our
sophomore year when Mark and I very heatedly and very publicly fell
into the abyss of excommunication, things have been pretty rough
for me around here. People are still gossiping about that fight,
though it happened two and a half years ago. That pool party is
where the old me, the popular me, went up in flames and this newly
exiled me was born from her ashes. Like a dumped-on phoenix with
her proud wings stretched wide in all her reincarnated glory. That
was the day my social scene went from buzzing with endless options
to flatlined in a dimly lit warehouse.
Thankfully, I got to keep Dixie, my best friend from birth,
someone who would follow me into the pits of hell to shield me from
the burn. And Trevor, someone who would follow her into the pits of
hell to shield her from even breaking a sweat.
You know what they say: quality, not quantity. And Dixie and
Trevor were as quality as they come.
Swinging the door to the administration office open, I slip inside
and walk to the counter. Gladis, the administrative assistant, looks
up from her stack of papers.
“He’s ready for you, Skylar. Go on in, sweetie.”
“Thank you, Gladis.” I smile and saunter into Principal
Cartwright’s office.
“What’s the damage today?” I ask, sitting in one of the two
chairs in front of Principal Cartwright, kicking my high-top Chuck
Taylors onto his desk.
“Skylar, feet off the mahogany.” He reaches forward and swats at
my feet, leaving them to drop with a thud onto his hardwood floors.
“Jesus, Jimmy! Watch it.”
 His pointer finger aims in my direction, showing me his patience
is wearing thin. “Don’t Jimmy me on school grounds and watch your
mouth. What happened in American lit today?”
“What always happens. Kyle called me flat and Mox laughed,
making the whole class laugh. I merely told them where to shove
their thumbs.” My eyebrows tic with pride.
“Was it really necessary to draw a diagram?”
I shrug it off, lifting the corner of my mouth into a smirk. “Didn’t
think either of those idiots knew where to find their anuses.” I brush
my nails across my shirt, buffing them out. “Or their thumbs, for that
matter.”
“Skylar, let me call their parents in for a meeting. Honestly, I
wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior if they aimed it at any other
student. Why are you halting my efforts to reprimand them?”
“Moxley’s mom is dead, remember? His dad’s a piece of shit. All
you would do is get him a beating—”
“So you’re enabling him to bully you to protect him from being
bullied?”
“Call me a saint, but I prefer Skylar,” I say boastfully, kicking my
feet back up onto his desk.
Principal Cartwright shakes his head. “Skylar, if it gets worse, I’m
handling it like a principal would, not like your friend. Which I am, if
you don’t take advantage of my position. I won’t tolerate bullying in
my school. Even if you are tough as nails.”
“Aww, thanks, Jimbo. You’re my favorite principal in the whole
wide world.”
“Alright, alright.” Jimmy holds his hand up to stop my sarcastic
praise. “How’s everything else? How’s your mom?”
“You mean Korin, the woman who birthed me? When I left for
school, she was passed out naked on the couch with Pratt Ashter.
Since he’s not much older than me and superhot, albeit an asshole,
I’d say she’s happy and thoroughly fucked.”
“Jesus, Skylar.” Jimmy winces. “Watch your goddamn language.”
I grin, batting my eyes.
Korin Quinn is by all accounts King’s dumping ground and my
greatest embarrassment.
 Story be told, she was raised by a proper woman. Stoic and so
set in her ways she couldn’t see the color blue if the good book told
her it didn’t exist. She kept Korin on a tight leash and afraid of her
own shadow, so she’d never stray from the course.
The course? To mind her p’s and q’s until a devout, god-fearing
man made her honest and all that bullshit.
My father told me he saw a wild streak in her she couldn’t see in
herself. So instead of keeping his roll downhill, he stayed in King to
spend his days presenting her with the line she would inevitably
cross.
They were both sixteen when they met and he said they fell in
love instantly. The roughneck runaway drifter with a leather jacket
and the innocent preacher’s niece in her Sunday’s best, sneaking
glances in the parking lot of the Quickmart while her mother bought
smokes and lemon cakes for the after-dinner Bible study she hosted
every Sunday night.
After her mother made her play the piano for her stick-up-their-
asses friends, she retired to her bedroom for the night, where she
found a shaggy-haired boy with hazel eyes tapping at her window.
That was the first time her eyes glowed with precariousness, my
father said.
He said her capacity for danger was broken because once she
tasted its sweet layers, she devoured it. It was the thing that most
attracted him to her in the beginning. But, like an addict, she just
didn’t know how to reset limits once he erased them.
“Has Pratt been spending a lot of time at the house?” Jimmy
asks.
“Define time…” I shrug and pick at my nails.
Jimmy narrows his eyes and leans back in his chair. “I’m only a
phone call away, Skylar. Please remember that. Doesn’t matter what
time.”
I nod and smile at his protectiveness.
“Alright. Get back to class.” He shoos me away. “And stop telling
people to go fuck their thumbs.”
I stand laughing, then hook my bag over my shoulder. “See you
next week, Jimbo,” I say, stepping through his office door.
 I wave to Gladis, then slip through the administration office
doors, heading in the direction of history class. Looking down at my
phone, I turn the corner, and collide with an “oof” into the chest of a
mountain. I drop my phone and bag, its contents spilling out
between us.
“Jesus, man! Watch where you’re…” Looking up, I slip in a puddle
of the prettiest emerald-green eyes I’ve ever seen. “Going.”
Green Eyes looks over my face slowly, then drops his gaze to my
chest.
Wonderful.
His eyes drag back up to mine, then his beautiful lips part to
speak. “I bury my feelings in this town’s secrets and wait for you
there. I’ll look for your cinnamon-brown hair.” His gravelly voice
thunders something curious in my chest, making goose bumps tickle
my skin.
My eyes stay locked on his for the thirty seconds I take to
register that he’s spoken to me. “Huh?” I finally ask.
Was he speaking Russian?
“Your T-shirt…” He gestures to my chest, laughing silently. “Beach
Ratz…? Summer Zombie Tour…? Those are song lyrics to “Secrets—”
“Ohh!” There I am, joining the functioning world again. “Yeah,
my favorite band.” I bend down to stuff my belongings back into my
bag.
“Good taste in music,” he says, bending down to pick up my
phone. He looks down at the selfie of Dixie and I sticking out our
tongues on my lock screen for all of thirty seconds before handing it
to me.
When I reach out to take it, the tips of my fingers touch his. My
lips part when his thumb grazes mine before we separate. My eyes
shoot up to his to find that he’s already looking over my face with
mild curiosity.
Feeling dizzy under the weight of his stare, I slip my phone into
my back pocket, ignoring the thin layer of sweat coating my
forehead, and we both rise to our feet at the same time.
“Be careful rounding corners,” he says. “You never know what
monster you’ll run into.”
 Before I can register his comment, he slips past me and
disappears around the corner like he never existed to begin with.
Peeking around the corner, I see that he’s walked into the
administrative office, so I scurry to the glass office front just in time
to watch him walk into Principal Cartwright’s office.
Popping my head in the door, I whisper, “Gladis,” forcibly, making
her jump. “Who’s that?”
“A transfer. West Coast somewhere.” She holds up a manila folder
and reads from the tab at the top. “Dominic Pope.”
“Thanks,” I say, letting the door swing shut behind me.
Dominic Pope. New transfer. Former West Coast resident.
Standing at around six foot two. With arresting green eyes, a hard
chest carved from granite, shaggy brown hair that curls under the
rim of his black beanie, white T-shirt, faded and ripped at the knees
black jeans, and scuffed-up vintage black leather boots.
He stuck out like a stallion in a pigpen, and he certainly wasn’t
from King.
I think I just came face-to-face with today’s peak.
CHAPTER TWO
 dominic

I fI’mit’s intruethewhat they say about revenge, that it’s best served cold,
wrong state. Texas humidity fills my lungs like hot
cotton and all I can think about is completing the task I’m here to
complete and getting the hell out of this fake fucking town.
I just wish I didn’t have to spend my days at Abbott Kennedy
High. It’s wasting too much of my time, but my mom made me
promise I’d graduate and breaking that promise isn’t on my list of
things to do.
I arrive at school late—just like yesterday, and probably like
tomorrow—so I pull my motorcycle up to the first row of cars and
make myself a parking spot. Right next to the sign that reads
Teachers Only.
Yesterday, the meathead principal gave me a “gentle reminder”
that classes start promptly at eight o’clock. Which is precisely why I
feel well within my rights to stroll in at eight forty-five. His reminder
was too gentle and my capacity to let anyone tell me what the fuck
to do is nonexistent. I give respect when respect is earned and his
“keep the trouble outside of my school” speech only made him fall to
the back of the line with what little respect I do hand out.
I find calculus pretty quickly, considering this school is about a
third the size of my old school in California, and slip through the
door in the back of the class. I plop into a chair in the last row of
seats, setting my helmet on my desk. The teacher—Mr. Fincher, I
presume—looks up and gives me his best not so fast, young man
look.
Great. Here we go.
“Mr. Pope, how lovely to be graced with your presence today,” he
says, sarcasm dripping from his too-fat-for-his-face lips. “Are you
aware school started at eight o’clock?”
“I’m aware,” I say, leaving nothing to decode in my expression.
“We give students a four-minute grace period after the second
bell rings because we understand life happens. Anything after that is
a tardy and will need to be cleared through the office. You were late
yesterday as well. Let’s not make it a habit.”
His stupid fucking voice is already putting me in a bad mood.
Especially since he talks like a game show host, raising his tone an
octave at the end of each word.
Christ, I hate this school already.
“Mr. Pope, come get your syllabus. Everyone else can move
around freely until the bell rings.”
I slide out of my chair and walk to the front of the class, hoping
that his lecture is over.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his desk and hands it to me.
“You’ll have to catch up on homework, since you missed—”
“I did the work,” I interrupt, pulling a piece of paper out of my
back pocket. I unfold it, then hand it to him.
Mr. Fincher knits his eyebrows in astonishment as he looks over
my work. “So you have, young man. Good work. Next time keep it in
a folder and maybe bring your textbook and a pencil.”
I pull a pencil from behind my ear and tap it on his desk with a
lazy smirk, then turn around and head for my seat.
All eyes are on me as I approach my desk, but only one set of
eyes catches my attention.
My clumsy little Beach Rat. She’s sitting at the desk next to the
one I’ve slipped into with her milky-white legs crisscrossed under it.
Her glances are short and cautious, like she can’t tell if I’m a
house cat or a lion. Would I curl up for a cuddle or feast on her like
she’s my prey, she’s wondering. Her cinnamon-brown hair stands out
in the sea of fake blonde, and she’s the only person I’ve seen at this
school who’s even remotely intrigued me.
Still, I have no room for distractions while I’m here and she is a
distraction. And probably a good one. As curious as I am, I have to
stay away from her.
“Hey, Skylar…” a waif-thin, future cheated-on housewife says a
few desks away.
Beach Rat looks up from the notebook she’s been scribbling in
and lifts her eyebrows as a response.
Her name is Skylar. Fitting, since her eyes are as dark as the
night sky, speckled with twinkling stars. Cute, just like her.
“I heard your mom got kicked out of Brewser’s for dancing on
the bar topless last night.” The girl laughs, along with a couple of
guys wearing letterman jackets. “Are the rumors true?”
Beach Rat’s expression remains unscathed. “The rumor that you
cheated on Mox at Justin’s party last weekend? I don’t know, you tell
me.”
I smile amusingly, while everyone sitting around us goes wide
eyed like they all know it’s true, but my little rat is the only one with
balls enough to say it. Blondie jumps out of her seat and hovers over
Skylar’s desk.
“I did not, you little bitch! I was referring to the rumor that your
mom brings her dates home to fuck you.”
Skylar’s face scrunches in disgust, as it should. “Are you seriously
suggesting that my mom brings men home to rape me? And you’re
laughing about it?”
It takes everything I have not to stand and throw this fucking
desk across the goddamn room. This girl is a disgusting little twat,
and I bet she’s what passes for popular around here.
Not your business, Pope, I remind myself.
“It’s not rape if you like it,” Twat taunts. “Admit it, you two share.
Like mother, like daughter.” She grins, clearly pleased with herself.
Even though she’s only proven she’s a genuine piece of shit.
“Rachel, your level of stupidity and treachery toward your own
sex never ceases to amaze me,” Beach Rat says, bringing her
attention back to her notebook.
 Rachel leans against her desk, catching Skylar glancing in my
direction. And like an eagle eyeing a field mouse, Blondie’s eyes fall
on me.
“Dominic, right?” she purrs, pushing her tits out.
Skylar snaps her attention to me, then tries to act uninterested
by burying her face into her notebook, but I know her ears are wide
open. It’s obvious Twat is jealous of Skylar, and she should be. I
know nothing about her and still I can tell she’s real, and raw,
vulnerable, and intense. A combination of things I find delicious at
best, and intriguing at worst.
I lift my eyes to Twat. “Mm-hmm…” I purr back.
“I just bought these jeans…” She turns around, grips her desk,
and looks at me over her shoulder, pushing her ass in my direction.
“I can’t decide if I like them. How do they make my butt look?”
Not if you were the last hole on the planet and my dick was
cursed with a constant hard-on, sweetheart.
I smile, seeing Skylar’s shoulders sink in my periphery. I bet guys
from around here drool over this chick, so Skylar’s expecting I will
too.
Not me, Beach Rat, not me.
“Well…” She nudges. “How does my butt look, Dom?”
“Flat,” I say, tonelessly. “I like to sink my teeth into meat, not
bone.”
“Oh, shit!” One of the jocks in blue spits, while quiet laughter
bubbles around us.
A pleased smile curls my little Beach Rat’s pretty lips, but her
eyes stay buried in her notebook. Blondie tucks her scaly tail
between her legs and pouts.
When the bell rings, I waste no time grabbing my helmet and
slipping into the hall to find my locker. Pushing through the torrent
of students heading off to their next classes. I ignore every eye in
the hall, watching me like they haven’t seen a fresh face in a
decade.
“Dominic…” a girl’s voice calls from behind.
I turn around, seeing Beach Rat jogging my way. I slow but
continue searching the wall of lockers to find mine.
 “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
I find locker 157, then pull a crumpled piece of paper out of my
back pocket. Combination: 0-1-5.
“By now you’re probably pretty stoked you moved here. King,
Texas; home of the treacherous assholes.”
I smile and pull my locker open.
“It’s nice to see a new face, actually. We haven’t had anyone new
around here for a long time, so the vampires are going to come out
to play. A friendly warning.”
“I can handle them.” Her big honey-brown eyes hold my gaze.
“From what I can tell, so can you.”
“I’m Skylar Quinn, by the way. Student body president, and the
most popular girl in school. Obviously.” She nervously laughs and
tucks her hair behind her ear.
She’s adorable, but no dice. I shouldn’t be engaging. The less
these people know about me the better. And especially this one.
She’s tempting. Too fucking tempting. I can see myself getting lost
between those legs.
“Offspring today…” I say, noticing her tattered band T-shirt. Biting
the inside of my cheek, because I just can’t help but join this
conversation. It’s like my mouth is telling my brain to fuck off.
She looks down at her shirt. “Yeah, my dad got this at their
Smash Tour in the nineties. He’d blast them in the garage while he
worked on his bikes and I kind of got hooked. They give me a
reason to scream.” She giggles, and picks at the lavender paint on
her nails. “You like?”
“Yes, I do,” I say, nodding lazily. I like very much.
Something lingers between us and I know I’m one trip to the
janitor’s closet away from breaking my number one fucking rule: no
goddamned distractions.
I break our connection and shut my locker door. “We can’t be
friends, Beach Rat.”
Skylar pulls her face back. “Beach Rat? I don’t know if I should
find that endearing or offensive.”
 “It’s endearing, trust me. They’re my favorite band, too.” I swipe
my beanie from my head and tuck it into my back pocket, watching
Skylar’s doe eyes drift over my disheveled curls. “You’re cute and I’d
like to try you out a little, but I’m not interested in making friends.
With anyone.”
Skylar raises her eyebrows and laughs. “Are you joking?”
“Serious as a judge, baby girl.”
“Uh…” Her fingers twine together, picking at her nail polish again.
“Message received.”
Shit. This girl needs another person being mean to her like she
needs a face full of makeup. Skylar turns to leave, but my body
reacts before my mind can wrap around it. Stupid fucking body.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her by the wrist. “I’m sorry.” Tightening my
grip, I pull her closer.
What the fuck am I doing?
She looks down at my hand around her wrist, so I loosen my grip
and let my hand slide down to hers.
“Sorry for what?” Her fingers wiggle between mine. “We’re not
friends, remember?”
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings.” I let go of her hand,
immediately missing the warmth. “I’m only passing through town.”
And you would definitely throw a wrench in that propeller, Little
Rat.
“You didn’t hurt my feelings.” She lifts her chin. “I have thicker
skin than that,” she says, with a sexy little smile that makes my dick
twitch in my pants.
“I’ve gathered that, Skylar.” A smirk tugs at the corner of my
mouth.
“Hope you don’t die of boredom around here.” She wastes no
time putting distance between us. “Welcome to Hell High, Pope,” she
calls over her shoulder.
I watch her ass covered in short, cutoff jean shorts as she walks
away and hope to god we have no more classes together. Since
apparently my mouth wants to get to know her, but my brain wants
to tell her to hit the pavement. I won’t even think about what my
cock wants to do.
 I may have to revise this no distractions rule of mine. All work
and no play make Pope a pissed-off son of a bitch.
CHAPTER THREE
 skylar

Dear Diary,
Why does the universe hate me so much?
-SBQ

A dd another face to the list of faces I’m desperately trying to avoid

at Hell High. A beautiful face, but an irritating one, nonetheless.
Dominic Pope: Tall, dark, handsome, and kind of an asshole.
“Dom” is what Rachel called him.
It’s like he doesn’t even see me. Like I’m a ghost. I may as well
have died and now my soul is pathetically attending high school
because I have nothing better to do in the afterlife.
An entire week has gone by without even a spoken word
between us, and we have almost every class together. I even spoke
to Gary Glasser briefly. I haven’t spoken to Gary Glasser since sixth
grade when he shit his pants right next to me in the lunchroom.
Thankfully, our schedules spare us the awkwardness of having to
team up for gym activities. That’s one of two periods we don’t share
and even then, he has social studies with Mrs. Kubernick directly
across the hall from the girls’ locker room.
Twice this week, we exited our doors, coming face-to-face. Not
that he’d even spare me a glance. He doesn’t look in my direction.
He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Our eyes met once
when I tripped on Katie Clark’s backpack on my way to my desk in
chem, nearly taking out an entire desk covered in glass beakers. His
stoic expression was steadfast, while I painfully tried to ignore his
presence and failed.
I don’t know why I care. I don’t, really. It’s just so fitting that the
one time someone even remotely intriguing moves to King and he’s
a damn recluse who embarrassingly told me he doesn’t want to be
my friend.
Yeah, well, take a number, buddy.
“It’s like he’s… you.” Dixie laughs. “But a dude. He even drives a
motorcycle.”
“A 1950 Triumph 6T Thunderbird with added modifications for
increased speed, to be exact. Guy knows what he’s doing.” I roll my
eyes.
That bike is a classic, and Pope on it is sex on wheels. The first
time I saw him drive into the student parking lot like Marlon fucking
Brando in The Wild One—on time, to make a note of it—I nearly lost
my skirt. Still, no matter how edible I think he is, no matter how
much my stomach tightens when he’s near—which is like, all the
damn time now—I would never pursue Dominic Pope.
He disarmed me with his emerald eyes and recited my favorite
band’s lyrics back to me, while using lyrics that felt personal. I have
cinnamon-brown hair. Coincidence? I think not. Then shot me out of
the sky like a Nintendo Duck Hunt duck carcass.
How many times can someone die before their souls float away?
“Should I try to be friends with him?” Trevor says, taking a bite
of his sandwich, then handing it to Dixie. “Maybe he just doesn’t like
girls. Maybe he still believes in cooties.”
“I don’t need you getting close to Dominic, my love,” Dixie says.
“I need Skylar getting close to him. Chick needs some tender lovin’
in her—”
“Hey!” I say, shoving Dixie’s next words back down her throat. “I
will not make anyone be my friend who doesn’t want to be. He can
shove it for all I care. And not into me.” I raise my chin pridefully. “I
have enough problems within the walls of this prison,” I say,
crumpling up my brown paper bag and tossing it in the direction of
the trash can without actually making it inside the trash can.
 “I heard he was in prison before this,” Dixie says, handing her
sandwich back to Trevor. “He’s probably a bank robber. Or a
carjacker…”
Dixie and Trevor have been dating since the womb. They’ve
shared their lunches with each other every day since preschool.
They’re extensions of each other. They’re inseparable. Side by side.
Ride or die. Their love is goals love.
“A bank robber, Dix?” I shake my head and laugh. “Besides, I
refuse to believe any rumors coming out of this rumor mill. Ninety-
nine and a half percent of the rumors about me aren’t true.”
Dixie drops her mouth open. “You mean you’re not a serial
killer?”
“I said ninety-nine and a half percent of them aren’t true,” I say
with a wink, glancing at my phone. “Shit! I have to meet with Mrs.
Pricher before next period. She’s letting me make up that exam I
missed last week. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“See you later, love.” “Bye, Sky,” she and Trevor say at the same
time.
I swing my messenger bag over my shoulder and exit the
cafeteria. My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out to see that
I’ve received a text message from… Kyle Lemke?
What the hell?
Kyle: Meet me outside by the cafeteria dumpsters. The
ones by the north parking lot.
Why is Kyle Lemke asking me to meet him behind the cafeteria? I
immediately decide I’m not going. Obviously. But curiosity gets the
best of me.
Me: Why?!
Kyle: Because I need to talk to you about something. Just
come, Sky!
Taking a minute to gather my thoughts, my phone buzzes again.
Kyle: Fine… PLEASE. Better?
Gross. Even in a text message, he’s an asshole.
I’m going to regret this and I’m going to miss that make-up test.
I expel a breath and turn around, ignoring the nervous ball forming
in my gut, and head back toward the cafeteria. Turning the corner, I
smack into a wall that isn’t supposed to be there.
“Shit!” I hiss, then look up into the eyes of Dominic Pope.
“I thought I told you to be careful rounding corners, Rat.” His lips
turn up, lazily amused.
Taking a step back, my smile is as wobbly as my knees. “We keep
running into each other.”
“Hmm…” He quirks an eyebrow. “You keep running into me.”
“Well… you keep getting in my way.”
Dominic's shoulders move with a laugh that never reaches his
mouth.
“The Pixies,” he says, eyeing my shirt. He lifts his arm revealing a
small rose tattoo on the inside of his bicep, and swipes the beanie
from his head, letting his tousled curls loose, a couple falling across
his forehead. He stuffs his beanie in his back pocket, then looks up
at me through his long thick lashes.
God, that hair. Short on the sides, a curly mess on top. Makes me
want to tangle my fingers in it. The look he’s giving me tells me he’s
curious about me too, but he’s got the air of a man who knows what
effect he has on women. Like he knows the effect he has on me.
“Yeah, the Pixies are awesome. Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Let your hair loose when you’re talking to me.” I tilt my head,
observingly. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rat. But if I did, I’d have
to admit that, yes, women do find my curls sexy. Some even like to
yank on them.”
I roll my eyes, then my phone buzzes in my hand. “So you admit
that you’re trying to get me to notice you?” I say, looking down at
my phone.
Kyle: Ummm, are you coming, or not?!!
I grind my teeth, then bring my eyes back to Dominic, who’s
meeting my gaze with fiery intrigue.
“Are you admitting that you notice me?” he says, sliding his
hands into his pockets.
The cocky bastard.
 “Who doesn’t, Dominic? You may as well be a tornado siren
walking through these halls.” I stuff my phone in my back pocket.
“This was nice, truly, but I have to go. I look forward to our next
run-in.” Curling my lips into a mocking smile, I pass Dominic, feeling
the heat of his body as I do.
Exhaling the breath I’ve been holding in, I slip into the kitchen—
invisibly as always—push the heavy metal door open, and step
outside, letting it swing shut with a loud thud behind me.
“Kyle?” I call out.
“I’m over here. What the hell took you so long?”
I walk behind the dumpster enclosure and find Kyle sitting on top
of a stack of wooden pallets smoking a cigarette.
“Sorry, I ran into someone.” Why the hell am I apologizing?
“Never mind. Why the secret meeting, Kyle?”
His eyes drag from my feet to my eyes, making my stomach
lurch. “I need you to do me a favor…”
“Why would I do anything for you? You’re nothing but an asshole
to me.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t in a jam.” He jerks his
cigarette back to his lips and takes a ragged drag.
“Not that I’m going to help you, but I’m curious. What’s the
favor?”
“I’ll just come out with it. I gave Korin a lot of money and I need
you to steal it back for me,” he says nonchalantly, like he’s just asked
me to pass the salt.
“What?!” I spit, arching my eyebrows to the sky. “Korin, as in my
mother?!”
Kyle stands, holding up his hands in front of me. “Just let me
explain…” He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, then swipes his free
hand through his hair. I’ve actually never seen him this rattled
before. I can almost hear his jagged breaths clanking around in his
metal rib cage.
“Your mom said she could get me a large quantity of some really
pure shit. The guy I usually buy from—”
“Whoa! Hold the damn phones. Did you buy drugs off of my
mother?!”
 “Shh,” he hisses, flicking his cigarette to the ground. He takes a
large step toward me. “Yes, okay! Or, I thought I was. You don’t
understand. I collected a lot of money from a lot of people and she
fucking ripped me off. I’m in it deep now with a lot of people. Some
of them are people that wouldn’t mind seeing my insides on the
outsides, if you know what I mean.”
“Does Mox know?”
“No! Skylar, he’d kill me. Why the hell do you think I asked you to
meet me back here. You can’t tell anyone. With football and
everything… I’ve got Notre Dame on the hook for a full athletic
scholarship. I’m in real trouble.”
“Kyle, this is fucking insane.” I shake my head. “I can’t help you
—”
“Skylar, you have to!”
“I don’t have to do shit!” I start to back away. “You’re doing
drugs and selling them. You went to my mother, of all people!” I
shake my head again. “No, I don’t want to get involved. I can’t help
you.” I turn around, starting for the door, but Kyle grabs my wrist
and swings me around to face him.
“Sky, please!” he begs, backing me into the wall of the dumpster
enclosure.
“Kyle, you’re hurting me!” I try to shake free of his grasp, but he
pushes his body against mine, stifling the air as I breathe. “You’ve
fucking lost it, Kyle. Let me go!”
“Either you steal my money back or I’ll blow your mom’s whole
operation. Your ass will be in foster care faster than you can say
‘white trash.’”
“I’m eighteen, asshole.”
Kyle presses his body into me harder. “Skylar, I need you to help
me. I’m fucked! She’s your piece-of-shit mom!”
This is one of those all too familiar moments when you’re stuck in
a situation that has you petrified for the outcome, and all you can
think is, how could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I listen to that
ball knotting in my stomach? And why does this shit seek me out like
a missile in a carnival porta-potty?
“Kyle, I understand you’re scared, but—”
 In an instant, Kyle is ripped from me like a fully extended rubber
band that’s been set free.
“Get the fuck off her!” Dominic growls.
Kyle’s eyes widen as he’s thrown onto the stack of wooden
pallets. Confused, I straighten my back, rubbing the wrist Kyle had a
tight grip on.
Dominic stands firm, feet planted into the ground like a
mountain, veins corded up his forearms as he clenches his fists,
shoulders squared like a prizefighter.
“You’re going to fucking pay for that, new kid.” Kyle spits as he
stands.
“Dominic!” I yell when he charges in Kyle’s direction.
Dominic enters Kyle’s reach, and without hesitation, swings his
arm. His fist connects with Kyle’s jaw like a bat to a ball. Kyle’s head
snaps to the side, and the sounds of my gasp and knuckles to bone
fill the air. Kyle’s body goes slack, and he falls to the ground like a
limp noodle.
“Come with me,” Dominic says, grabbing my hand.
He threads his fingers between mine and leads me past the
dumpster enclosure, nowhere near concerned for the physical state
we’re leaving Kyle in. He crosses the lawn and leads us past the
football field.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to keep up with Dominic’s
pace.
He doesn’t answer, instead he holds my hand tighter, as we pass
car after car in the student parking lot. When we reach his bike, he
lets go of my hand forcefully, then whips around to face me. His
emerald eyes burn through me with an angry glare.
“What’s going on with you and Lemke?”
“Nothing!” I blink rapidly, trying to calm my racing thoughts. “I
hate Kyle Lemke.”
“Then why the fuck were you behind a goddamn dumpster with
him?” His alarmingly jade eyes are narrowed at me like snipers, and
his mouth a hard line. Even as taken aback as I am, I can’t help but
to notice his stature.
He’s so beautiful. Even the devil was an angel once.
 “Oh, my god, Dominic. You haven’t given me even a glance all
week.” I yell. “What the hell do you care?”
“Is that what you think?” He arches his eyebrows. “Not even a
glance, huh? You sure about that?”
What? He hasn’t talked to me. He hasn’t even looked at me…
Has he?
“You’re awfully possessive for a man who said he didn’t even
want to be friends—”
“I changed my mind,” he interrupts, crossing his arms over his
chest, like the egotistical hypocrite he is.
I take a deep breath, averting my eyes from Dominic’s glare,
trying to sort through what’s just happened. One minute I was
eating lunch with Dixie and Trevor, then I was being seduced by
Dominic’s curls, then basically assaulted by Kyle fucking Lemke, and
now I’m standing by Dominic’s bike while he cuts me in half with an
accusatory glare.
I bring my eyes back to Dominic’s. “Did you follow me outside?”
“Answer my question first.”
“I don’t even remember your question!” I throw my hands in the
air.
“Why were you behind a dumpster with Kyle dipshit Lemke?” he
repeats, emphasizing every syllable.
“Kyle texted me that he needed help. Curiosity got the best of
me.”
“You know what they say about curiosity and the stupid fucking
cat. What did he need help with?”
I lift my chin, stubbornly rebelling. “Did you follow me outside?” I
repeat.
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “What. Did. He. Need. Help.
With?” he enunciates slowly, like an asshole.
“Wait a minute,” I narrow my eyes. “First, you tell me to basically
stay the hell away from you, then you’re wondering if I’ve noticed
you, and now you’re following me? What did I miss?”
He says nothing, his silence telling me to answer his fucking
question.
 I roll my eyes. “Fine. Kyle tried to buy drugs from my mom, but
she ripped him off. He wants me to steal his money back. Which I
told him I wouldn’t do, so he freaked out. He seems a little off his
rocker.”
Dominic tilts his head curiously. “Your mom deals drugs?”
“Not that I know of. Probably. Your turn: Why did you follow
me?”
Dominic looks over my face. His eyes drop to my lips, then back
to my eyes as his glare softens. “Because you may as well be a
tornado siren walking through those halls, Little Rat.”
The space between us warms as blood pumps into my cheeks. I
look down at my hands to notice I’m picking at my polish.
“So you have spared me a glance then?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nods, uncrossing his arms, then sliding them into
his pockets. “Kinda hard not to, Skylar.”
CHAPTER FOUR
 dominic

B each Rat is standing right in front of me, batting her big brown
eyes. Her chest rising and falling with nervous breaths,
stubbornly waiting out the silence between us.
She’s such a fucking brat.
She should be thankful I stepped in when I did. Lemke’s a dick
and it looked like he was about to slip her his. The thought makes
me want to grind my teeth into nubs.
Now what? I wasn’t really in the position to think this through. I
acted on impulse and anger, now here we are, in a position I really
shouldn’t be in. Alone. With her.
I saw the irritation in her expression when she got that text. Saw
the way the light in her eyes dimmed. And when she slipped past
me to head back to the kitchen, the urge to follow her overtook me.
I saw her slip into the kitchen, then out the exit. I thought
maybe she was aiming to catch a smoke or sit in private to doodle in
that leather book she carries around like a security blanket.
I was going to talk to her, sit with her, explain that even though
I’ve been back and forth, I am interested, or just observe her from
afar because she’s right; it’s quite possible to die of boredom in this
damn town. Instead, I rounded the corner and found dickhead
Lemke caging her between him and a cinder-block wall, and I
fucking snapped.
Something about the look in her eyes as he pressed his body into
hers stirred something protective in me. I never want to see that
glint of fear seizing her beautiful eyes ever again. With that, I have
to remember, I’m the one she truly should be afraid of. If she knew
what I was, what I’m willing to do, she’d look at me with that same
glint of fear—even worse. She’d no longer reward me with those
adorable nervous glances that tell me I could be her weakness if I
let this happen between us.
We have almost every class together and even when we don’t,
it’s like the floors of the halls are tilted in each other’s direction,
guiding us to face one another. All goddamn week she’s been
moving around me, fluidly like water. There, but if I grabbed for her,
she’d slip between my fingers and puddle at my feet. Because the
truth is, she’s better off not knowing me.
Still, she drives me crazy and I don’t know why or what it is
about her I’m so curious about, but I am.
I want to know what she’s always scribbling in that leather book
she carries around. I want to know why she bothers painting her
nails if she’s just going to pick it off when she feels nervous, angry,
or annoyed. Which kind of seems like her default settings. I want to
know why these kids have it out for her so badly. More than
anything, I want to know what it would take for me to make her
scream my name.
Watching her is like torture. Especially when she thinks no one is
looking. The way she bites her bottom lip when she concentrates.
The way she rolls her eyes out of nowhere like she just thought
about something that annoys her. And the way I can feel her
glancing at me when she thinks I don’t acknowledge her presence.
It’s taken everything I have not to reach out and pull her into my
lap, just for a taste.
Maybe it’s because I’ve told myself no. You know how that goes.
It’s like dieting. You never want the greasiest, shittiest foods you can
get your hands on as badly as you do when you’re dieting. So
maybe if I let myself have a little taste, I won’t feel like I need her
as badly as I do. Then I can drop her ass and focus on the real
reason I’m in King.
Skylar’s leaning against the car parked next to my bike. I keep
my eyes on her, trying to decide what to do with her now. She
glances at me, swallowing hard before she starts picking at her
chipped nails.
I make her nervous. As far as I can tell, the rest of King’s
population barely amuses her, let alone intimidates her, but I make
her nervous.
I take a deep breath and unhook a bag hanging off the side of
my bike. I pull a helmet from it, then hand it to her.
“Put this on, Beach Rat.”
She takes the helmet and narrows her eyes on me. “You know,
under any other circumstance, that nickname wouldn’t be flattering.
Consequently, under any other circumstance, my knee would
become acquainted with your nethers.”
I laugh and swing my leg over my bike, taking a seat. I may
make her nervous, but she has no intention of putting a muzzle on
that smart lip of hers—one reason I want my tongue to become
acquainted with her nethers.
“Skylar,” I say with a pandering smile. “Will you please put that
fucking helmet on and get on my damn bike?”
She rolls her eyes, then shifts the strap of her messenger bag to
her other shoulder so she’s wearing it like a cross-body bag. She
pushes the helmet over her head, then reaches into her bag and
pulls out a pair of men’s all-black sunglasses, and hands them to me.
I smile and take them, then slide them over my eyes.
I hold out my hand, so she slips her soft little fingers in my rough
palm before she swings her leg over the other side of my bike and
sits behind me. With her hand in mine, I curl her arm around my
waist, and she does the same with her other arm. Her fingers fan
over my abdomen, then she leans forward, pressing her chest into
my back.
Just a little taste, I tell myself, starting the engine.
Skylar’s arms tighten around my waist, making me smile before I
back out of my spot and exit the parking lot.
On the open road, the air whipping past us is hot, but the speed
forces even the hot air to soothe the burn from the sun. It’s
exceptionally hot for this time of year. Even for Texas. It’s as if
winter conceded to summer before spring even had a fucking say in
the matter.
I take a country road that lines the border of East Texas and
drive about fifteen minutes before Skylar wiggles her tiny fingers
across my chest, making my pants tighten around my dick.
I turn my head to the side, and she points to a dirt road straight
ahead. I slow, taking the turn, then drive about five more minutes
before she points to an open field of tall grass. I veer to the left and
drive across the field until we hit the edge of a thick nest of trees.
I kill the engine, flip the shades to the top of my head, then get
off my bike and hold my hand out to help her climb off. She gets off
my bike, then pulls the helmet off her head and shakes her hair out.
The cinnamon highlights almost glow in the direct sun and call
attention to the auburn freckles speckled across her nose and
cheeks.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
“Where are we?”
“River Rock. A little swimming hole off the river.” She smiles.
“Trevor, Dixie, and I come here all the time. The water runs off the
Gulf of Mexico, and this time of year it’s still relatively cold from the
winter. Perfect for days like today. Come on…”
I hang the helmet off the handlebars, then follow her through
the trees to a clearing of pebbled dirt and sparse grass. The trees
create shade along the shore. We stop at a large rock formation to
remove our shoes and socks.
“Are we going in?”
“Our feet are.” She giggles.
I follow her down a small wooden jetty that stops about ten feet
past the water’s edge. She sits and lowers her feet into the water,
and I roll up my jeans to do the same. Her toes, unlike her
fingernails, are perfectly painted with a lavender polish, and she has
a tiny silver toe ring hugging her middle toe that sparkles when she
lifts her foot from the water.
“This feels so good.” She smiles. Her face shining brighter than it
has since I’ve met her. “I’m sure it doesn’t compare to anything
you’re used to, but it’s my little slice of heaven.”
 “Yeah, and what am I used to?” I lift an eyebrow.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “You tell me. Anything must be better
than King, Texas.”
“It doesn’t matter where you live, Rat. Not if your demons follow
you wherever you go.”
“Then tell me about your demons, Pope.” She splashes my feet
with a little kick.
I grin, wishing I could reach out and connect the freckles on her
face with my tongue.
“Pass. Tell me about yours.”
“I have no demons.” Skylar stretches her arms out in a lazy
stretch. “I live a charmed life.”
“Bullshit. Your life is as charmed as mine.” I take my beanie off
and swipe my fingers through my unruly hair. “What keeps you up at
night, Skylar?”
She delivers me an apprehensive smile, then picks at her
fingernails. “I’ll make you a deal, Pope. A question for a question?”
Fuck no.
“Sure…” I say. What? You stupid asshole. I’m talking to you, dick.
“What keeps me up at night?” She asks. “Is that your question?”
I nod.
“Easy. Edgar Quinn,” she starts. “Everyone called him Edge. He
rolled into town a drifter—a teenage runaway—had every intention
of rolling back out, but he met my mom. Very first day they made
eyes at each other, he came knocking on her bedroom window with
hearts in his eyes.”
“Ah, showing up at a girl’s bedroom window. The international
sign for I’ve got it bad.”
“Yeah. They were a tornado from the start. That’s what I was
told, anyway. Since I was young enough to hold on, my dad took me
on night rides on his motorcycle. We’d drive for miles and miles.
We’d stop somewhere before heading home and study the stars in
the sky. He’d tell me stories about the legends behind the
constellations, and we’d make up our own stories to go along with
the real ones. It didn’t matter that I was too young to be out at four
in the morning, because what he taught me was so much more
important. He taught me unconditional love. He taught me to hope
and dream. He knew I’d never learn it from my mom.”
She skims her foot across the water, creating small flickers of
light from the reflection of the sun in the ripples. “He’d say, ‘You’re
my guiding light, Little Star. Without you, I’d lose my way.’”
Little Star. I didn’t have to ask why he called her that. I know
why. Because her eyes are as dark as the night sky with flecks of
flickering stars.
“Where’s your dad now?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. He vanished when I was twelve. But
the minute I graduate, I’m leaving King to find him. My dad and I
were working on fixing up a Scrambler for me to ride. When I wasn’t
in school, we’d hang out in my garage—”
“Wait…” I turn my body to see her more clearly. “You and your
dad were fixing up a Scrambler for you to ride?”
She chuckles. “Uh, yeah. A 1974 Honda twin cylinder 450
Scrambler, more specifically.”
Oh, my god, I love you.
I pull my face back, looking over the most enticing creature I’ve
ever met.
“I’m insulted that you’re so taken aback, Pope. I can ride, I can
fix, I can build. I know more about motorcycles than most
mechanics.”
God. Say you’ll marry me.
“No…” I say, shaking off the light-headedness from all my blood
pumping straight into my cock. “I’m not shocked because you’re a
girl… okay, maybe I am. But not because I think you’re inferior or
incapable. It’s just, most girls aren’t interested.”
She narrows her eyes on me and arches one eyebrow.
“Okay.” I grin, taking a deep breath. “Mouth, meet foot. I guess
what I’m trying to say is, I’m not shocked, per se, I’m impressed.
I’ve been in love with classic motorcycles since I was a toddler.”
“I can tell. Nobody rides and modifies a Triumph 6T Thunderbird
if they only mildly appreciate motorcycles.” She smiles flirtatiously,
then bites her bottom lip. “That bike was made for men like Marlon
Brando, James Dean, Elvis, and Dominic Pope.”
 I fight the urge to beg her to marry me from my humble spot on
my knees.
“Anyway,” she continues. “Now I can’t step foot in my garage.
The Scrambler’s just sitting there waiting for me, but I’ve been
frozen. I haven’t worked on it since he went missing.” She expels a
deep breath. “So, long story long, he’s my demon. He’s what keeps
me up at night. The fact that the whole fucking town—my mom
included—thinks that he bailed, kills me. But I know better. Without
me, he’d lose his way—he said so himself. He would have taken me
with him. And now no one’s looking for him because they think he
finally rolled out of town the way he was always meant to.”
Watching defeat slay Skylar’s eyes makes me want to find his ass
myself. She thinks her dad went missing like a little kid on a milk
carton, against his free will. A grown man—a drifter no less—and his
motorcycle. It’s likely he bailed. She thinks his love for her would
have kept him from leaving a mundane life behind. But it’s her love
for him that prevents her from seeing him for what he truly is: a
man.
Night rides at four in the morning screams drugs or restlessness.
King has a way of driving you to both.
“Okay, your turn,” she shifts gears. “What tap dances on your
brain while you’re trying to fall asleep?”
Revenge.
“Nothing. I sleep like a baby.”
Skylar laughs, swatting at my shoulder. “Come on, Pope. Tell me
something. What eats at you?”
That I want to throw your legs over my shoulders and feast.
“Alright,” I concede. “Um, this isn’t my home. It’s hard to sleep
peacefully when the roof over your head isn’t yours.”
Skylar blinking her big brown eyes at me does nothing for my
restraint to let her in. There’s a pull in my gut that makes me want
to tell her everything. Everything. I know I can trust her, but I know
I shouldn’t. For anything else, but for her sake. She just opened up
to me and truth is, I haven’t opened up to anyone in fuck knows
how long. It’d be nice to let her know even the smallest truth about
me.
 “Where do you live?”
Don’t fucking do it, dumbass.
“My uncle’s house on the outskirts of town.”
You fucking moron.
She tilts her head to the side and peers at me with genuine
curiosity. “What made you move here? What’s so important you’d
move from a coastal paradise to King, Texas—where the
tumbleweeds outpopulate the people.”
Don’t. Telling her this would be going too far. Don’t ruin your plan
because you want into her pussy, Pope!
“Uh… family, mostly.”
You’re fucked.
“Who is your family? I’ve lived here my entire life, I probably
know them…”
Enough.
“That’s three questions, Rat. You owe me two more. I’ll cash in
later.”
Time to sway the drift. I look up with a flirtatious smile—the one
that wipes away all thoughts unrelated to me in the female mind.
“We should go in…” I tilt my head toward the water.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for you to see me in my underwear,
Pope.” She smiles sweetly, giving me a side-eyed glance.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for you to see me in mine, Skylar. I’m
shy.”
“Bullshit.” Her brows tic playfully. “You wearing granny panties?”
I laugh. “No. Are you?”
A devilish smile curls her lips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me
yours…”
Fuuuuuuuuck. This is happening. I nod before I even know I’m
doing it.
We stand, keeping our eyes fixed on each other. Without
warning, she pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it to the
ground. She lowers her head but keeps her eyes on mine as her
cheeks flush to light pink. She fidgets with her hands, picking the
paint from her nails for a half a second before she catches herself
doing it, then lays her arms at her sides.
 She’s nervous, and possibly insecure about her body, but she’s
brave—I don’t know if I’ve ever been more turned on by a quality so
much in my life.
And she has zero reasons to be insecure about her body. She’s
petite, but thicker than your average magazine model, and fuck if
that doesn’t make my cock hard.
Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I use all my strength not to let
my eyes travel to her tits until I know she’s ready. There are so
many reasons she shouldn’t trust me but being a pig shouldn’t be
one of them. I pull my shirt off and drop it next to me. She,
however, lacks the strength and immediately drops her eyes to my
abdomen, focusing on a tattoo inked across my ribs.
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. The road from earth to the
stars is not easy.
“Shit,” she mutters, beginning to fidget with her hands again.
“What?” I silently laugh.
“Your body…” she whispers, rolling her eyes. She curls her arms
across her stomach to cover up. “It’s like you’re not even real.”
“Your body is beautiful, Skylar,” I say, unzipping my jeans. “Don’t
worry about that with me.”
She smiles shyly, then unbuttons her jean shorts. I push my
jeans down my legs and she mirrors my actions as we each pull our
legs out, one by one. Then we stand in front of each other, me in my
black boxer briefs, her in her black cotton panties and maroon lace
bra. A long silver necklace with a small moon pendant at the end
rests between her breasts, reflecting a sliver of sunlight across the
delicate curve of her chest.
Both of us stand physically and emotionally vulnerable with
nothing to hide behind, so we swallow the view of each other with
our eager eyes. Her gaze travels along my lines as mine travels hers.
I can see her insecurity and her bravery equally as they complement
her curves. Ragged breaths hitch in my chest as I calm the blood
rushing through my veins, threatening to pump straight into my dick
for the third time in less than an hour.
She’s fucking perfect. So perfectly imperfect, it’s sickening.
 “Hop on my back,” I say, cutting through the tension—awkward
and sexual.
She giggles and knits her eyebrows together. “No.”
“Come on,” I say, pulling her arm toward me, and bending at the
knees.
The pink in her cheeks deepens to full-blown red as she hops on
my back. I stand, grip her thighs, and wrap her legs firmly around
my waist. She curls her arms around my neck and rests her chin on
my shoulder.
I step back a few paces, then secure her legs tighter around my
waist.
“Hold on tight, Beach Rat.”
I take off running, Skylar squealing in my ear the entire distance
of the jetty. When I reach the end, I jump as high as I can, then
hold my breath before we hit the water.
Cold washes over us as we sink deeper into the water. I hold on
to Sky’s legs tighter so she can’t let go of me. When we reach the
surface, her unabashed laughter breaks free, blanketing us in pure
happiness—a sound that makes me proud to have witnessed it.
I know Skylar doesn’t have it easy. I’ve heard some things
around school in the past week. Most of which I’m sure is false
gossip, but it’s clear there’s a lot going on in her life. Something I’m
no stranger to. Her mom is clearly into some illegal, non-motherlike
shit, and her dad bailed on them without warning. I wonder how
long it’s been since Skylar’s been this happy.
Those assholes at school shit on her, and I don’t know why. She’s
supercool and hotter than hell. If she went to my last school, she’d
get eaten alive. Most likely by me—I would eat her a-fucking-live.
Laughing, I reach back and grab Skylar’s arms to flip her to the
front of me. She laughs heartily, splashing water in my face.
“You were right,” she says. “It was a good idea to go in. The
water is perfect.”
“I’ll never lead you astray, Rat,” I say, floating on my back.
Skylar swims lazy circles around me, eyeing me like she knows
something I don’t.
“What?”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Hinrich Döscher. Hanß Jacob Höltig. Georg Christoph Sievers.
Johann Jacob Haberland. Alexander Barthold von Gevern Todt 1847.
Johan Schulenburg. Wilhelm Ludewig Kähler (S. 14). Gottfried
Hinrich Andreas Gätgens. Gerlieb Conrad Casper Roggeman, gest 6
Jan 1851. Hans Friederich Philipp Albers, gest 11 Juni 1847. Johann
Christoph Heinrich Pfeiffer. Johann Rudolph Gätgens Ano. 1843.
Heinrich Martin Ferdinand Bötger 1846. Peter Alexander Heinrich
Lange 1848. gest 1854. Carl Georg Heinrich Ockelmann 1852.
Johann Christian Theodor Sötebehr 1858. C. W. Heinrich
Ockelmann 1876. J. H. F. Beuck 1879. A. C. H. Muhly 1883. Eduard
L. A. Ockelmann 1883. Theodor C. W. Ockelmann 1891.

Vorstehender Kontrakt der Firma Ockelmann und Konsorten,

zuerst veröffentlicht im Hamb. Correspondent vom 17. März 1907, ist
genau nach der Urschrift abgedruckt. Er findet sich in einem
Kleinquart-Schreibheft von 16 Seiten, wovon die ersten zwei
unbeschrieben. Die meisten Namen sind durchstrichen, mit der
Beifügung „thodt“.
„Matten“ gleich Genossen (Maat).

*
Anlage 2

Abdruck des Folioblattes:

Hamburger Quartiersleute
Ein Stück echt hamburgischen Gewerbes, das nicht nur seinen
uralten Charakter, seine ererbten Sitten, seine sprüchwörtlich
gewordene Ehrlichkeit und Treue, sondern auch seine äußere
Erscheinung, der wechselnden Mode zum Trotz, bis auf den
heutigen Tag beibehalten hat, bilden die Hamburger Quartiersleute.
In schwarzer Tuchjacke mit massiven silbernen Knöpfen und
rindsledernem Schurzfell repräsentieren sie immer noch den
althamburgischen, wohlbewährten und zuverlässigen Arbeiter, dem
der Kaufmann sein Hab und Gut, soweit dasselbe in Waren und
Kaufmannsgütern besteht, unbesorgt anvertraut, in der
unzweifelhaften Überzeugung, daß sein Interesse und sein Vorteil, in
welcher Beziehung es auch immer sei, in gute und sachkundige
Hände niedergelegt ist.
Die Quartiersleute verdanken ihren Namen dem Umstande, daß
gewöhnlich vier derselben ein Konsortium bilden, das
gemeinschaftlich eine kleinere oder größere Zahl von Kaufleuten zur
festen Kundschaft hat, deren Speicherarbeiten sie selbst und
erforderlichen Falls unter Beihilfe von Arbeitsleuten, den
sogenannten Eckenstehern, verrichten.
Der Kaufmann, der eine Partie oder eine Ladung irgend welcher
Güter empfängt, überläßt es seinen Quartiersleuten, dieselben von
der Schute aus, vom Lastwagen, von der Eisenbahn, oder mit
welchem Transportmittel sie sonst geliefert werden, ab und in seinen
Speicher aufzunehmen. Doch nicht allein der Transport, die
Lagerung und Ablieferung liegt dem Quartiersmann ob, beim
Empfang hat er sich von der Richtigkeit der Marken und Nummern
der Colli zu Überzeugen, das Gewicht derselben festzustellen, den
Zustand der Emballage und den Inhalt jedes einzelnen
Gegenstandes zu prüfen und eventuell stattgefundene Ramponagen
und Beschädigungen zu konstatieren. Über alle diese einzelnen
Punkte hat er ein genaues, gewissenhaft aufgenommenes Register
zu führen und dem betreffenden Kaufmann aufzugeben. Bei
Einkäufen und Empfangnahme von Waren muß er Proben beurteilen
und mit der Ware vergleichen, bei der Ablieferung hat er ebenso
genau und gewissenhaft den Abgang zu registrieren. Umpacken,
Sortieren der beschädigten Teile von den guten sind alles ihm
obliegende Aufgaben; in den Speichern und Warenlägern überhaupt
ist er die rechte Hand des Kaufherrn, der, auf seine Zuverlässigkeit
und Fachkenntnis bauend, ihn in allen einschlägigen
Angelegenheiten schalten und walten läßt, wie er es am
angemessensten findet.
Der Quartiersmannsdienst ist in den weitaus meisten Fällen ein
einträglicher und wird es auch noch lange bleiben, weil, wenn auch
neuere Unternehmungen für billige Preise arbeiten, die
Kaufmannschaft nicht wegen einer Ersparung am Lohne weniger
fachkundigen und vertrauenswerten Händen die von den
Quartiersleuten und ihren Arbeitern vollführten Arbeiten überlassen
wird. Ein Quartiersmannsdienst ist ein wertvoller Besitz, der sich
vom Vater auf den Sohn, oder auf die Familie vererbt, die denselben,
wenn sie ihn nicht durch einen ihrer Angehörigen fortführen kann
oder will, oftmals für eine beträchtliche Summe, die die Höhe von
Tausenden Marken erreicht, einem Dritten überläßt, der dann in alle
Rechte des früheren Besitzers eintritt, wozu aber die Zustimmung
der übrigen Teilhaber des Quartiers erforderlich ist, da ihre
gemeinsame Ehre und ihr gemeinschaftliches Interesse bei der
Gewinnung eines ebenso tüchtigen als ehrenwerten neuen
Konsorten in Frage kommt.
 Viele dieser Leute haben sich im Laufe der Zeit ein Vermögen
erworben, das sie wohl befähigen würde, in glänzender Stellung ein
bequemes Leben zu führen, was jedoch sehr wenige benutzen, da
ein echter ergrauter Quartiersmann viel zu sehr an rastlose Tätigkeit
und den Umgang mit dem Arbeiterstande, dem er entstammt und
dem er lange Jahre seines Lebens angehört hat, gewöhnt ist, um
sich in seinen alten Tagen auf die faule Bärenhaut zu legen.
Mit seinem Schurzfell und seiner Jacke kommt er ebensowohl zu
seiner Arbeit, auf seinen Speicher als auf das Comptoir seines
Kaufherrn oder in die Börse. Überall wird er mit gleicher Achtung, mit
gleichem Ansehen gern gesehen und willkommen geheißen, sein
biederes, schlichtes Wesen verschafft ihm überall gleichen
freundlichen Empfang, der durch das gewöhnlich bei ihm
vorhandene oder doch vorausgesetzte Vermögen umsomehr an
Herzlichkeit gewinnt, als der Hamburger den materiellen Besitz als
den Hauptgrundstein zur Menschenwürde zu betrachten geneigt ist.
Wie der Volkswitz überall den niederen Ständen, ist er auch in
Hamburg ganz besonders dem Arbeiterstande eigen und der
Hamburger Volkswitz versäumt nicht, jede Sache oder jede Person,
mit der er in Berührung kommt, mit einem mehr oder minder
zutreffenden, jedenfalls aber drastischen Namen zu bezeichnen. So
haben denn auch die Quartiersleute dem Schicksal nicht entgehen
können, ihre „Ökelnamen“ zu erhalten, die, obgleich in mancher
Weise nicht mehr zutreffend, sich von Generation auf Generation
vererbt haben und so populär sind, daß kaum ein Arbeitsmann oder
ein Ewerführertagelöhner ein Quartier zu finden wüßte, wenn es bei
dem Namen seines ältesten Inhabers, wie dies im Adreßbuch
gebräuchlich, nicht aber bei seinem sogenannten „Ökelnamen“
genannt wurde.
Kein Hamburger, der mit den Quartiersleuten mehrfach zu tun
hat, wird im Zweifel sein, wen wir meinen, wenn wir hier eine Reihe
von Namen nennen, die nirgendwo als offizielle aufgeführt sind und
dennoch jeder Einzelne ein Quartier bezeichnet.
Da sind zuerst die „Krindlers“, deren Hauptinhaber bei der
Schillerfeier und der Märzfeier ebenso wie bei den Sammlungen für
die Notleidenden in Ostpreußen die Leitung übernahm und überall
mit gutem Beispiel voranging und der deshalb auch stillschweigend
als der Senior des löblichen Gewerbes anerkannt worden ist.
Ein anderes Quartier, früher „Melkers“ genannt, hat sich geteilt
und demgemäß die Namen „Rohmmelkers“ und „Watermelkers“ oder
„Zegenmelkers“ erhalten. „Smökers“, „Puttlüd“, „Schosters“,
„Stohlmakers“, „Höhnerplückers“, „Korfmakers“, „Kaffeebrenners“,
„Fielers“, „Wustmakers“, „Kugelers“, „Wullkosacken“, „Theebuurn“,
„Krahnlüüd“, „Kutschers“, „Slachters“, „Jägers“, „Plackenhauers“,
„Nadelmakers“, „Solospeelers“, „Bültenhauers“, „Wullmüüs“ und
„Sackneiers“ sind Namen, die entweder in der früheren
Beschäftigung ihrer Träger, oder in dem Artikel, worin die mit diesem
Namen benannten Quartiere vorzugsweise arbeiten, ihre
Begründung finden mögen. Weniger harmlos sind Namen wie
„Höllenjägers“, „Thünbüdels“, „de Trübsinnigen“, „de Möden“, „de
Duhnsupen“, „de Heiligen“, „Grotsnuten“, „Doodsmieters“,
„Minschenschinners“, „Lüttsnuten“, „Barmherzigen“ usw. Dem
Tierreich entlehnt sind die Bezeichnungen „Wanzen“, von denen es
gar zweierlei gibt, die „Dacklünken“, „Witten Hunn“, „Wilden-Swien“,
„Löwen“, „Swienhunn“, „de Hasen“ (wovon übrigens sich alle bis auf
einen schon verlaufen haben), „Bunten Höhner“, „de Bück“,
„Eseltreckers“, „Imm“ (Bienen), „Müüs“ oder „Rotten“, „Luus un Floh“,
„de Kreihers“ (Kräher) und „de vierspännigen Ratten“.
Der Körperbeschaffenheit, resp. dem Aussehen ihres Gesichts
verdankten ihre Namen die „Magern“, „de Veerkantigen“, „de lütten
Roden“, „Söte Jungs“, „de Fienen“, „de Scheeben un Graden“,
„Veilchenblauen“, „dat Armenspann“, „de scheeben Hamborgers“,
„Scheef un Liek“ u. a. m. — „Franzosen“, „de Engelschen“,
„Möhlenbrückers“, „Coldorpers“, „Bayern“, „Hollanders“, „dat
Judenspann“, „Harborgers“ un „de drögen Franzosen“ bezeichnen
diejenigen, welche vorzugsweise mit dieser Nation zu tun haben;
das „Dreespann“ fährt stets zu dreien, die „Manchestern“ sind an
ihren Hosen von diesem Stoff und „Spring um Stender“ ihrer
Gewandtheit wegen kenntlich. „Nagelbüdel und Consorten“,
„Seelenkinners“ und „Schultenhöbers“ Namensursprung mag schwer
zu entziffern sein, womit wir denn die Liste schließen wollen, ohne
die „Schimmels“ zu vergessen, deren weißhaariges Oberhaupt
seinem Quartier diesen Namen eingetragen hat.
Von J. D. J. Pingel Senior 1880.

*
Anlage 3

Ökelnamen der Hamburger

Quartiersleute
Dat A r m e n s p a n n (Bodenstein u. Consorten), D e B a i e r n
(Lührs u. Cons.), D e B l i c k e r n (Wilkerling u. Cons.), D e -
B o t t e r b u e r n (Siemers u. Röpke), D e B r u m m e r s (Niemann u.
Cons.), D e B ü c k (Burmeister u. Cons.), D e e n g e l s c h e n B ü c k
(Trier u. Cons.), D e B u l l e n m e l k e r s (Kruse u. Cons.), D e
B u n t b ü x e n (L. Hecht u. Cons.), D e C o l d o r p e r s (Hinrichs u.
Cons., Weiscke u. Cons.), D e D a c k l ü ü n k e n (Spellerberg u.
Cons.), D e D o d t s m i e t e r s (Thiel u. Cons, Suhr u. Cons.), D e
E n g e l s c h e n (H. Martens u. Cons.), D e E s e l t r e c k e r s (Dreyer u.
Cons., Hoppe u. Cons.), D e F i e n e n (Grotkaß u. Cons.), D e
F i n n e n k i e k e r s (Neddermann u. Cons.), D e F r a n z o s e n (Kleen u.
Cons.), D e G r a d e n (Bargstädt u. Cons.), D e G r ö h l m ö l l e r s
(Möller u. Cons.), D e G r o t s n u t e n (Schwarze u. Cons.), D e
s c h e e w e n H a m b o r g e r (Pohlmann u. Cons.), D e H a r b o r g e r s
(Albrecht u. Cons.), D e H a s e n (Reinstorf u. Voß), D e o h l e n
H a s e n (Kesler u. Cons.), D e H e i l i g e n (Stöver u. Lembcke), D e
b u n t e n H ö h n e r (Groth u. Cons.), D e H ö h n e r p l ü c k e r s (Brandt u.
Cons.), D e H o l l a n d e r s (Helmers u. Cons.), D e f i n e n
H o l l a n d e r s (Lüders u. Cons.), D e w i t t e n H u n n (Escherich u.
Cons., Parbs u. Cons.), D e J ä g e r s (Rehse u. Cons.), D e I s e r n
A r m (Daniel Jessen), D a t J u d e n s p a n n (Ascher u. Cons.), D e
K a f f e b r e n n e r s (Lienau u. Cons., Gädgens u. Cons.), D e
Knupprigen (Glimann u. Cons.), D e K o r f m a k e r s (Denker u.
Cons., H. W. Meyer u. Cons.), D e K r a h n l ü d ’ (Quitzau u. Cons.),
D e K r a h n t r e c k e r s (Bodenborg u. Cons.), D e K r e i h e r s (Jürgens
u. Cons.), D e K r i n d l e r s (Willers u. Cons., Petersen u. Pingel), D e
K u g e l e r s (Fesefeld u. Cons.), D e K u l e r s (Heeger u. Klindworth),
D e K u t s c h e r s (Meiners u. Cons.), D e L ö w e n (Schultze u. Cons.),
D e L ü t t s n u t e n (Krohn u. Schröder), L u u s u n d F l o h (Volmer u.
Cons., D. Hinsch u. Cons.), D e M a g e r n (Suhl u. Cons.), D e l ü t t e n
Magern (Hellmann u. Cons.), D e g r o t e n M a n s c h e s t e r n (Rose u.
Cons.), D e l ü t t e n M a n s c h e s t e r n (Prignitz u. Cons.), D e
M e l k e r s (Meyn u. Cons.), D e M ö d e n (G. Voß u. Cons.), D e M ü s ’
(Brasch u. Cons.), D e N a d e l m a k e r s (Cordes u. Cons.), D e
P l a n k e n h a u e r s (Oelmann u. Cons.), D e P u t t l ü d (Koch u. Cons.),
D e l ü t t e n R o d e n (Asmus u. Cons.), D e R o t t e n (Leßmann u.
Cons.), D e Sackneihers (Wendt u. Klindworth), D e
S a g e n f i e l e r s (Köhncke u. Cons.), S c h e e v u n L i e k (D. Möller u.
Cons.), D e S c h e e v e n u n G r a d e n (Bargsted u. Genossen), D e
S c h i n n e r s (Hinsch u. Cons.), D e S c h o s t e r s (Peters u. Cons.),
D e S c h o t t s c h e n (Martens u. Cons.), D e S e e l e n k i n n e r (Martens
u. Cons.), D e S l a c h t e r s (Nimbach u. Cons.), D e S m ö k e r s (Meyer
u. Cons.), D e Solospelers (Brandt u. Cons.), D e
S p r i n g u m s t ä n d e r (Müller u. Pflughaupt), D e S p u n j e r s (Jürgens
u. Cons.), D e S t o h l b i n n e r s (Ockelmann u. Cons.), D e S t o r c h e n
(Cords u. Cons., Gechter u. Cons.), D e w i l l e n S w i e n (Dührkoop u.
Cons., Opitz u. Cons.), D e T h e e b u e r n (Schaper u. Cons.), D e
T r ü b s e l i g e n (Moritz u. Cons., Hasenbalg u. Cons.), D e
T ü n b ü d e l s (Gechter u. Cons, später: d e S t o r c h e n ), V a d e r u n
S ö h n (Hinsch u. Krüger), D e V e e r e c k t e n (Ellerbrock u. Cons.),
De V e i l c h e n b l a u e n (Rethwisch u. Cons.), D e Wanzen
(Uetzmann u. Cons.), D e W u l l k o s a c k e n (Gebel u. Cons.), D e
W u l l m ü s ’ (Mathias Glimann), D e W u s t m a k e r s (Stapelfeld u.
Cons.).
Eine Liste wie die vorstehende, die durch Herrn W. J. Krüger
(Prignitz u. Cons.) mit Hülfe älterer Kollegen zusammengestellt
worden ist, wäre nach Verlauf weniger Jahre schwerlich mehr in
gleicher Vollständigkeit zu erreichen gewesen, da infolge des
veränderten Geschäftsbetriebes die regelmäßige Anwendung dieser
Ökelnamen schon sehr eingeschränkt ist.
Außerdem sind mir von verschiedenen Seiten, besonders von
Hein Sternhagen (Verf. von „Ut Vadders Tiden“) noch eine Anzahl
weiterer Ökelnamen mitgeteilt, und einige fanden sich auch in
Volgemanns Tafelliedern. So weit sie nicht in vorstehenden beiden
Verzeichnissen erscheinen, führe ich sie hier auf, indem ich
bemerke, daß sie meistens erloschen sein mögen, zum Teil auch
vielleicht nicht allgemein bekannt gewesen sind oder nur für ein
Einzelmitglied eines Quartiers gegolten haben. Sie lauten, unter
Weglassung einiger anstößigen:
De Altnaers. De Ängstlichen. De Bäckers. Kaptein Blitz. De
Blauen. De Blotarmen. De Böhnhasen. De Böhnmeisters. De
Büttenbinners. De Bullenbergers. De Demokraten. De Doben. De
holten Dragoners. De Dunkis. Eisele un Beisele. De Fliedigen. De
Garbers. De Gnaddrigen. Hein Granat. De Grotmonarchen. De
gemütlichen Hamborgers. De Hebammen. De stolze Heringsküper.
Hering un Tran. De Imkers. De Kantüffelschellers. De blauen Kreihn.
De Küpers. De Kupplers. Kaptein Lebberwust. De Lohndeeners.
Millionmeier. Pankoken. Kaptein Piep. De Püttjers. Rechtschaffen un
Breetfoot. De groten Rotten. De lütten Rotten. De lütten Rugen. De
Sackjuden. De Schaap. De Seilmakers. Siedenpudel. Schragebuck.
De Stallbuern. De Stratenköters. De Strebsamen. De Teinpennkerls.
De Uhrmakers. Wie’s heißen tut un so den Kram. Woddelkrut. De
Wolkenschubers. De verlopen Wullkosacken.
 Quickborn-Bücher
Jeder Band 60 Pfennig
Doppelbände 1.20 Mark
Bisher erschienen außer dem vorliegenden und
den auf Seite 63 angezeigten folgende Bände:
1. Holstenart. Von J o h a n n H i n r i c h F e h r s . 6–10. Tausend.
Mit einem Bildnis des Dichters.
3. Schnack und Schnurren. Von F r . W i l h e l m L y r a . Mit einer
Abbildung.
4. Van Jadestrand un Werserkant. Von T h e o d o r D i r k s . Mit
fesselnden Erzählungen.
5. Cili Cohrs. Irnsthaftig Spill van G o r c h F o c k . Der
Finkwarder Speeldeel 1. Stück. (1 Aufzug, 5 Rollen.)
Umschlagbild von Ad. Möller.
6. Briefe Über Hochdeutsch und Plattdeutsch. Von K l a u s
G r o t h . Das für die neuplattdeutsche Bewegung
grundlegende Werk des Altmeisters plattdeutscher Dichtung.
7. Plattdeutsche Straßennamen in Hamburg. Von C . Rud.
Schnitger.
9. Klar Deck überall! Deutsch-Seemännisches von Geheimrat
G u s t a v G o e d e l . — Diese unterhaltenden Beiträge zur
deutschen Seemannssprache sind wichtig für alle Leser John
Brinckmans, Gorch Focks und anderer Seeschriftsteller.
11./12. Slusohr un anner eernste un vergnögte Vertellsels un
Riemels. Von G e o r g D r o s t e . Mit Bildnis des Dichters und
Umschlagbild von Ad. Möller.
13. Leege Lüd. En lustig Spillwark van H i n r i c h W r i e d e . Der
Finkw. Speeldeel 2. Stück. (Ein Aufzug, 9 Rollen.)
Umschlagbild von Ad. Möller.
Die niederdeutsche Vereinigung
Quickborn in H a m b u r g liefert ihren Mitgliedern in der
Regel jährlich 2 Q u i c k b o r n b ü c h e r und je 4 Hefte der
Zeitschriften „M i t t e i l u n g e n a u s d e m Q u i c k b o r n “ und
„P l a t t d ü t s c h L a n d u n d W a t e r k a n t “. Mindestjahresbeitrag
(ab 1. Oktober) für persönliche Mitglieder in Deutschland 4 Mark,
im Auslande 6 Mark, für Vereine, Anstalten und Körperschaften 6
Mark.
 In den Q u i c k b o r n - B ü c h e r n erschienen von

Johs. E. Rabe
außer dem vorliegenden Werk:

Sünd ji all’ dor?

Althamburgische Kasperszenen. 6.–10. Tausend
Band 8 der Quickbornbücher. Preis 60 Pf.
„D i e H e i m a t “, Kiel, schrieb nach dem ersten Erscheinen dieses
lustigen, keineswegs eng hamburgischen Buches: „Das ist eine der schönsten
Gaben für unsere Brüder da draußen im Schützengraben, viel besser als so
viele von Begeisterung triefende, aber gemachte Kriegsliedersammlungen.
Weil es ablenkt von der blutigen Arbeit und der nicht weniger tödlichen
Langeweile des Schützengrabens, weil es tief in jene Zeit hineinführt, da wir
als Knaben mit aufgerissenen Mäulern vor Kaspers Putschenellekasten
standen, und weil es mit dieser Erinnerung alle jene Kräfte wieder lebendig
macht, die einzig aus dem Lande der Jugend uns zufließen ... Aber auch für
alle Daheimgebliebenen, vor allem f ü r u n s e r e J u g e n d sind die
köstlichen Schwankdichtungen mit dem Hamburger Platt, der köstlichen
Komik ihres Dialogs geradezu eine Gesundkur nach unserer naturwidrigen
Kintoppkinderkultur. Der Hamburger „Quickborn“, für den Rabe diese
verdienstvolle Arbeit herausgab, hat mit dieser „Rettung“ einer leider bald
völlig verschwundenen Form des Schauspiels sich e i n b e d e u t e n d e s
V e r d i e n s t erworben!“

Vivat Putschenelle!
Der alten Kasperschwänke neue Folge. 1.–8. Tausend
Band 10 der Quickbornbücher. Preis 60 Pf.
Diese von den Besitzern des ersten Büchleins lang ersehnte Fortsetzung
von „Sünd ji all’ dor?“ ist, wie jenes, e i n e F u n d g r u b e d r a s t i s c h e n ,
v o l k s t ü m l i c h e n H u m o r s . Die wiedererwachte Freude am alten
Kasper findet durch diese Stücke, die sich auch zum Vorlesen trefflich eignen,
neue Nahrung.
 Im Verlag von C . B o y s e n in Hamburg erschien früher von

Johs. E. Rabe:

Kasper Putschenelle
Historisches über die Handpuppen und Althamburgische Kasperszenen.
Mit farbigem Titelblatt von Chr. Suhr und Textabbildungen.
Geh. 5 Mark, geb. 6 Mark.
Die erste Kaspermonographie, von der literarischen und
wissenschaftlichen Kritik mit Recht als „ein geradezu klassisches Werk“, als
„eine unerschöpfliche Quelle für Jung und Alt“ bezeichnet. Wer Kasper lieb
gewonnen hat, dem gilt daher der Ruf eines seiner Kritiker: „Schaff dir dies
Buch an und du wirst dem Verfasser ebenso dankbar sein, wie es Schreiber
dieser Zeilen ist.“
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