Punk Like Me

e-Books

What Reviewers Say About BOLD STROKES Authors
g

“
A riveting novel of suspense
seems to be a very overworked phrase.

However, it is extremely apt when discussing Kim Baldwin’s [
Hunter’s
Pursuit
]. An exciting page turner [features] Katarzyna Demetrious, a bounty hunter…with a million dollar price on her head. Look for this excellent novel of suspense…” –
R. Lynne Watson
,
MegaScene
g

“…her characters seem fully capable of walking away from the particulars of whodunit and engaging the reader in other aspects of their lives.”
–
Lambda Book Report
g

“Course of Action
is a romance…populated with a host of captivating and amiable characters. The glimpses into the lifestyles of the rich and beautiful people are rather like guilty pleasures.…[A] most satisfying and entertaining reading experience.” –
Arlene Germain
, reviewer for the
Lambda Book Report
and the
Midwest Book Review
g

“
The
Walls of Westernfort
is not only a highly engaging and fast-paced adventure novel, it provides the reader with an interesting framework for examining the same questions of loyalty, faith, family and love that

[the characters] must face.” –
M. J. Lowe
,
Midwest Book Review
g

RADCLY
f
FE

“…well-honed storytelling skills…solid prose and sure-handedness of the narrative…”
–
Elizabeth Flynn
, Lambda Book Report

“…well-plotted…lovely romance...I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough!”
–
Ann Bannon
,
author of
The Beebo Brinker Chronicles
Visit us at www.boldstrokesbooks.com

by

2006

© 2006 BY JD GLASS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

ISBN 1-933110-40-6

THIS TRADE PAPERBACK ORIGINAL IS PUBLISHED BY

BOLD STROKES BOOKS, INC.,

NEW YORK, USA

FIRST EDITION: JUSTICE HOUSE PUBLISHING 2004

SECOND EDITION: BOLD STROKES BOOKS 2006

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND

INCIDENTS ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR

ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES

IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

THIS BOOK, OR PARTS THEREOF, MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN ANY

FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2005939244

EDITORS: SHELLEY THRASHER AND STACIA SEAMAN

PRODUCTION DESIGN: STACIA SEAMAN

COVER PHOTO BY EMMA SHEAHAN HARMON

COVER DESIGN BY SHERI ([email protected])
Acknowledgments

I want to publicly thank my beautiful Shane for putting up with me and the long hours of “Huh? Oh yeah, I heard you…um…could you repeat that?” and supplying me with tea, chicken soup, and dinner so that I wouldn’t have to leave my keyboard. Cousin Heather, I would have never walked this road if it weren’t for you—I owe you. Ah, music, and the people who play it…yes. Thanks. For everything I’ll ever be.

I’d also like to thank Shelley for showing me that editing could be fun and of course Radclyffe, for her enthusiastic support.

and keep it going on

PUNK LIKE ME

Yeah, okay, I come off as tough, and I like that. I’m only about Þ ve foot seven inches, but I know how to handle myself in just about any situation, and if not, I know where to Þ nd backup.

I’m Nina, and I write the lyrics and guitar for Adam’s Rib, even though Stephie, my bud, does most of the lead vocals. ’Sokay with me, I don’t worry much about it.

Like I told you before, I’m not too tall and I’m not too short. I like to keep in shape, so I dance and do martial arts and stuff—healthy in wind and limb, just like they say about horses.

My hair’s black—well, okay, it’s really red-brown, but I make it shiny raven black, and I’ve got a bloodred streak running down the center length of it.

I’m not just any old punk; I’ve got to be myself. My hair is long, and I mean really long, down the back and top. I’ve got the sides shaved (to the skin, yeah!) to the top of my ears. Then it’s a straight-up tight buzz for about another two inches before we hit the top where it runs down my back. I love the smooth skin, I love the fuzz, and I love the don’t-fuck-with-me attitude I give with this mop.

I might sound like an egomaniac and that’s okay—I’m not one really. It’s just that I really, really like my hair—and I’m not the Þ rst to ever feel like that.

My eyes are blue, though they can look a little gray sometimes, and my mom used to tell me that I have a nice smile, but moms are supposed to say things like that, as well as other things such as, “When are you going to settle down?” or “That’s not a real job,” and “I could introduce you to this nice young man…” Okay, there, time to tune that

• 11 •

one out.

Yeah, let me get this over with right now. I’m gay. Not confused, not experimenting, not bi (although I think Keanu Reeves is great), and not a phase. Gay.
Gee-aye-wye
. If that’s a problem, get out now, ’cuz I don’t deal with ’phobes too well.

In case you were wondering, I don’t have a “type.” What attracts me to someone is a very individual thing, so I might date a short brunette or a tall blonde or whatever. It’s really about personality for me, the tilt of the head, tone of voice, you know, stuff like that. But—and this is a secret between you and me—green eyes kill me.

So help me, I’m fascinated; I just can’t help it. Present me with someone with green eyes, and I mean deep, dark forest green, not light new grass, and I can get lost looking at them, looking into them, trying to Þ nd, well, I don’t know. But it’s my fatal ß aw.

Good thing they’re sort of rare, right?

So here we are, the four of us, hanging out and getting ready to play our Þ rst real gig. Stephie looks like she’s ready to puke, and I have to stop the Jerkster, also known as Jeremy, also our bassist, from sucking down any more beers before he actually pukes on the stage.

Not that it would hurt the stage, though. There are burn spots, holes, and dried splotches of what could be anything from booze to blood on the nasty green carpet that covers the back half of the stage.

My brother and some of our friends are taking bets as to whether or not the wood is stained with blood or dirt, although a faction is guessing roach carcasses.

There’s something about being at CBGB’s that makes you want to shake your head in wonder—and the rest of you in fear.

Now if you’ve never heard of CBGB’s, which is located at 315

Bowery Place right on the edge of the East Village (and that’s New York City, y’all), then you’ve never heard of rock ’n’ roll, at least not here in the good ole US of A.

From Blondie, to Talking Heads, Joan Jett in her Runaways daze and the Police, John Mellencamp when he used to be John Cougar, Tom Petty,
and
the Indigo Girls, everyone has played there, stomped, sweated, dreamed, and poured it all out on that stage.

The scrawl of grafÞ ti’s everywhere—on the walls of the stage, the base of it, all along the stairwell, and, of course, every inch of the

• 12 •

PUNK LIKE ME

bathroom that isn’t painted black, the rock ’n’ roll version of hand-and footprints in cement—everyone leaving their mark.

You might have guessed by now (if you didn’t know already) that CBGB’s is sort of an icon in and of itself on the rock ’n’ roll landscape, and it honestly never occurred to us that it’s one hell of an arrogant thing to make this the site for the Þ rst inß iction of our material on the public.

Tucked up against a wall off to the side of the stage, I Þ nally get a chance to sit back and wait for a while with my friend, Trace—short for

“Tracy,” of course—who’s coming on to me. This is a little unusual—

not that she’s coming on to someone, she’s come on to lots and lots of people—it’s just that she’s coming on to
me
. Not that I really mind, of course—I know she’s just showing off and I’m okay with that.

Trace is absolutely beautiful, tall and slender, almost elÞ n (but incredibly strong), with long wavy black hair and eyes the color of steel, a shade of gray like I’ve never seen before or since. I love her as a friend, and I think maybe a little something more, too. She has this incredible appeal for me, but Trace is scary, too, in a lot of ways, to a lot of people. Ask anyone.

When you’re with her, Trace leaves you with the feeling that if she were a ß ame you’d be a suicidal moth, and pretty darn happy to burn, too.

Tonight, during my little break from Jerks—um, Jeremy—Trace is seducing me into one of those moments of torture and righteousness where you kick yourself later, sometimes years later, for being so good and darned noble. She knows, because she’s been checking up on me for the last several hours, I’ve been a little achy and feverish all day (hey—the ß u does not stop for gigs, and gigs do not stop for the ß u. Them’s the rules, and that’s the way I play), and she’s damned and determined to make me feel better—any way she can. Darn that chivalrous stuff, anyway!

I suppose I forgot to mention, Trace and I live together. No, not in that eternally bonded way, or even as roomies. I live in a three-ß oor brownstone apartment building, one apartment per ß oor. Two friends and I share the top ß oor, Trace lives on the second, and the mom of one of my roomies (a nice guy we call “Cap,” short for “Captain,” ’cuz he can be a little bossy, ya know?) lives on the Þ rst ß oor.

• 13 •

Since we’re all pretty tight with one another, we have an open-door policy between the second and third ß oors (Cap’s mom can’t climb stairs very well—lucky for us), and it really is anyone’s guess as to who’ll stay where—third or second ß oor—on any given night. Okay, well, maybe that part only applies to me, but you get the idea. We’re one big fucked-up family.