Sexy Ink!

by Jamie Collins

  He would remember the image of her well. It would be just one of many such moments he would forever hold. And in retrospect, it was the exact moment he knew that he was going to fall all the way in love with her.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Henry decided that initiating contact with La Costa would require a clever and non-threatening approach. In the spirit of romance and ingenuity, he took an active leap of faith and sent her a cheerful hand-tied bouquet of flowers through her agent, Tess Kardamakis, with the East Coast agency, but did not sign his name on the enclosed card. He had figured that he would follow up with an equally unassuming gesture, perhaps reintroducing himself to her at another book signing.

  No one was more surprised than he was when he checked his phone for messages the next day and found that La Costa had called to thank him for the delivery. And moreover, that she actually lived right there in Los Angeles!

  “How did you know I was the one who sent them?” Henry asked.

  “My agent and I tracked the order through the florist,” she later told him over a bottle of Cabernet at a quiet table in the middle of LA’s busiest restaurant row. “I told them that the driver must have dropped the card, and they gave me your name. I mean, I had to know who it was. It’s not every day that I get flowers—and from a curated flower farm, no less.”

  “It’s definitely the ethical aspect of it all for me.” Henry chuckled. “The wrapping they use to tie up the bouquets are actually recycled burlap coffee bags. It’s all locally sourced and socially conscience.”

  “I really love that,” La Costa said.

  The two agreed to meet for dinner, once Henry divulged who he was, and that they were actually old acquaintances. They talked for hours, seemingly non-stop. “I can’t believe it,” she kept repeating, touching her face and blushing in the most delightfully shy way as she began to remember. “Henry, from the club! We used to time the end of our shifts by your unfailing bar routine: At one forty-five a.m., precisely, you began clearing all the condiments and shelving the premium bottles into the cabinets. Didn’t matter if there were fifty patrons standing there. At two a.m., sharp, man, you were closed for business!”

  They both laughed.

  “Yeah, Lucy had strict policies, especially when it came to paying overtime. Besides, I really hated that place—no offense. I did my job, and BAM! I was out the door. Besides, I had a graduate course to muddle through,” he said pensively. “I guess that’s why we never really hung out.” His eyes were fixed on the candle’s glow, which, in the half-light, revealed a deep dimple in his left cheek when he chuckled.

  “I guess so . . .” La Costa’s voice trailed. “It is as if it all was another lifetime ago. Someone else’s life, huh? At least, it is that way for me.”

  Their dinners went mostly untouched and were soon cleared away. They finished off a second bottle of wine, talking for several hours more that seemed to pass like minutes. The two, reminiscing about the old days, as Henry liked to call them.

  “I remember you, though, so vividly.” Henry sighed. His voice was deep in tone and rich with texture. La Costa was now transfixed by a tiny scar on his upper lip. She had never really regarded Caucasian men any differently from other races. Only insomuch as she did find their demeanor a bit softer and their charm more subtle. Still, no less appealing. So many questions, she thought. There was so much that she wanted to know about him beyond his coy, boyish grin; about things that she saw there in his gentle leaden eyes. Strangely, she trusted him and the way, in that moment, he made her feel as if she were twenty years old again.

  “I guess I was just too shy, or I felt too invisible to approach you. I would have asked you out in a second,” he said.

  This made La Costa smile even more. A tinge of excitement stirred inside of her. She didn’t have many friends, really, let alone a gentleman friend. It had just always been easier to keep things at a distance. Connecting with someone from her past made her feel oddly validated. It was good that someone like Henry could see her today, as a successful, accomplished woman; someone who had made something of herself in spite of a troubled and sordid past. Even though she didn’t owe anyone anything. It was all self-acquired. It was something to be proud of, and it made her feel wonderful to be celebrating that fact there and then with him.

  When the check arrived, she let him pay. Not having anticipated the possibility of spending adult time with Henry, La Costa was especially happy that Louis had previously arranged to spend the weekend with a friend from school, whose family was taking a boating excursion to Catalina Island. With this in mind, she surprised herself when she asked boldly, “Would you like to see the city from a modest high-rise overlooking the country club, Henry?”

  La Costa’s home was a work of art, perched nearly at the very top of the luxury condo complex on the twenty-first floor above Club View Drive in the Wilshire Corridor. Colorful abstract paintings lined the walls of the expansive loft-style gallery. Stone and metal sculptures dotted the built-in shelves, and pristine modern furniture created a cozy yet eclectic air to the pristine modern minimalist décor. Track lighting and marble floors spanned the thirty-eight-hundred-square-foot unit with walls of floor-to-ceiling sliding windows creating a passage onto a shelf balcony that looked out onto the Hollywood Hills, and offering a breathtaking view from the master bedroom of the city skyline and a crescent glowing moon in the distant sky above.

  “High-rises make me happy,” she explained. “But anything over thirty floors is enough for me.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, speaking directly into her shining eyes.

  The wine was giving everything a dreamy hue, causing her to blush and giggle a little too much for her liking. She had a thought spring to her mind that made her light up even more, remembering an old photo album she had kept of the club, filled with color four-by-five prints and square Polaroids. She excused herself to go retrieve it from her work office.

  After rifling through several storage boxes in the closet, she found the faded cloth-bound album, stuffed to the gills with loose photos and memorabilia. It had been her farewell gift from her roommates, the other Kittens, so many years ago.

  When she returned to the living room, Henry had selected a John Legend CD and was adjusting the knobs on the stereo. “I can’t believe that you actually have a CD player. That’s so old school. I love it!” Henry said.

  “Why fix what ain’t broke?” La Costa said, reaching for a bottle of Beaujolais Reserve from the wine rack in the great room, and then retrieving two glasses from the lofty designer cabinets of the stunning Malibu-Modern kitchen galley. Tess had sent her the bottle as a gift for the completion of the final draft of her last novel in the Rebecca Steele series a few years back. La Costa had never had the notion to drink it herself, or an occasion to share it with anyone, until now. She uncorked the wine with expert flourish and poured the expensive liquid into the two round goblets, then handed one to Henry, who smiled. She settled next to him on the couch, and, together, they sank a little into the exquisite leather and more easy conversation.

  Opening the photo album, she let the memories spill into her lap. They devoured the pictures with relish, curiosity, and good humor. Faces and names floated back to the surface, along with some memories better left forgotten. La Costa stirred when she saw a photograph of Panther striking a CoverGirl pose. Louis had her smile, no doubt. Anyone with eyes could see it. She grew suddenly tense at the flood of pain that seared through her veins, along with the numbing red wine. Would Henry be able to tell if he met Louis? she wondered. Would he see it? It had been so many years, but still, she feared ever revealing the truth to Louis, and the irreparable damage that knowing the truth about his birth mother, Panther, could cause. Louis knew that he had been “adopted” by La Costa from infancy, but nothing more beyond that. And La Costa planned to keep it that way.

  “Hey, I remember her well. She called herself Panther, right?” Henry said, his eyes bouncing from one image to the next, rel
ishing the walk down memory lane. “You two were tight, right?”

  La Costa glazed over the inquiry. “I do think we were, back then. Look, here’s Lucy with all of us, posing for a group shot on New Year’s Eve.”

  Henry let his hand linger on hers as they laughed and talked, exchanging war stories like old college chums, just the harmless, surface stories that somehow needed to be remembered; needed to be told.

  “Look at those heels! A lot of the time, we would put our sore, blistering feet into the toilet bowl after a shift to soothe them. And then do you know what we would do?”

  “No. Tell me. You didn’t actually—”

  “Oh, yes, we FLUSHED it! You bet we did. That was the best part. Very refreshing. An instant foot massage!”

  He shook his head, imagining the scene of sixteen young women in G-strings, stilettos in hand, waiting in line to stuff their feet into the two working toilets. “No wonder they were always stopping up!”

  “Do you know what else?” La Costa was now covering her face coyly with her hand.

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Sometimes, we took beer bottles from the cooler and rolled them under our arches. Anything to soothe our aching dogs!”

  “So that’s what that was all about!” He brightened. “You girls were always coming over to me asking for a cold brew, unopened. And come to think of it, by at least two thirty, every morning, the floor manager had us pack a couple dozen Bud’s on ice, which were sent to the dressing room. I always assumed that you all drank them.”

  “Oh, we did—afterwards!”

  Henry smiled. He looked handsome and inviting in his black silk T-shirt and Italian blazer. A trace of aftershave wafted from his neck from time to time when he moved in close to help her turn the pages of the scrapbook, or take a closer look at a faded photograph. His pants were pressed and his shoes, shined to perfection. That was Henry—perfect to the nines. She liked that. She liked that he cared about the little things.

  He looked exactly the same as she had remembered, except maybe for various improvements painted by time. His were the eyes of a compassionate man who had seen some things in his life; done some unforgettable things, no doubt. She liked knowing that this, too, was something that they had in common. Henry managed to blur all the lines.

  And when they finally kissed, it was a sweet, stolen kiss, catching her off guard. She reciprocated in kind with a soft peck to his cheek, and when he pulled her close again, their mouths and bodies merged in a deep, soulful fusion that left her breathless.

  Henry stayed the night, and he and La Costa made love—it was more heartfelt and honest than she had ever known. La Costa abandoned her fears, if only for the few fleeting hours of nighttime that remained. She did not want the coming dawn to disrupt the sweet and dreamy state into which she had fallen—let herself fall—for once. She lay awake and listened to the soft, rhythmic breaths, watching as Henry’s chest rose and fell with each one, allowing herself to believe that with the coming dawn, that maybe they were destined to be something more than old friends. Perhaps, for the very first time in her entire life, La Costa thought, she could let another person in without the fear of compromising her dignity or her heart. This must be what they mean by kindred spirits, she thought. She gazed out through the glass windows, at the starry sky that bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. But was she truly worthy? All she could do was to try to believe, and to hope that what she was feeling deep inside, was real.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  From that point forward, La Costa and Henry never spent more than three days in a row separated from one another. Business trips to the East Coast meant lingering airport goodbyes and long, late-night phone calls, when, at the end of the day, one would call the other on their cell phone and talk or text as long as the batteries would last. La Costa would often drive to La Jolla to Henry’s bistro to find him picking up a shift in the kitchen or unloading crates of wine through the service entrance. She just wanted to be close to him. Some days, she would sit, sipping a cappuccino, at a corner table with a fickle Wi-Fi connection, tapping away at her laptop, working on her daily word count or writing her blog as Henry worked managing the restaurant. Occasionally, the two would meet for dinner in the city, steal away an evening or two at the LA condo, or plan an impromptu fun escape weekend at the beach house.

  It was two months in before La Costa introduced Louis to Henry, and it was not without much trepidation. La Costa thought it would be less intimidating for Louis to meet Henry on his own playing field—or, court as it were. She had arranged for Henry to join her for one of Louis’s Friday night games at the high school, and then for the three of them to enjoy a casual meal at Louis’s favorite pizza joint. Much to La Costa’s delight and relief, Louis was on board.

  “Mom, it’s not like I haven’t known about this Henry dude for all this time. I have eyes and ears, you know,” Louis said, kicking off his high-tops and sliding across the shiny marble floor over to the fridge. “Do we have any Fresca?”

  “Well, I just wanted to prepare you, that’s all. Henry Paige is a great guy, and I’ve actually known him for many years now. It’s just recently that we started getting to know one another better,” Las Costa said.

  “Uh-huh.” Louis was half-listening, riffling through the freezer for the Hot Pockets.

  “So, is Friday good, after your game?”

  “Yeah, that’s okay with me, Mom. Really, it’s not a big deal. Chill.” He kissed her on the cheek, and then reached for his earbuds. “Oh, can you nuke these for me, please?”

  It was as simple as that. They all had a date.

  As expected, Louis and Henry hit it off, and La Costa could not have been happier. Louis had played one of his best games ever. As a power forward at nearly six foot two, Louis had inside game, for sure. He could shoot, get to the hoop, and rebound like the pros. He was all-star varsity and it showed, making thirty out of fifty shots, sinking every free throw, and breaking the tie score with the win at the buzzer.

  “Dude, that was some game!” Henry said, leaning in for a handshake, and then slapping Louis firmly on the back. “I’m your mother’s friend, Henry Paige. So nice to meet you. Call me Henry, all right, Champ?”

  Louis, fresh out of the shower and wearing his finest street clothes—athletic pants, a Clippers T-shirt, and Jordans—grinned and hoisted his gym bag over his shoulder. “It was a good game for you guys to see. Nice to meet you too.”

  “Are you kidding me? You were amazing!” La Costa proceeded to cover Louis unabashedly with kisses all over his cheeks and forehead—red lipstick marks, be damned! She was a proud mama!

  “Aw, okay. Now I have to go back in and wash my face.” Louis dropped the gym bag and turned back in the direction of the locker room. “Love you too, Mom!”

  “Be quick, baby! We’ll meet you at the car.”

  La Costa smiled. “He’s my superstar, you know.”

  “I do think I know that, yes,” Henry said, grabbing Louis’s gym bag. “La Costa, he’s a winner, I can tell. Just like you.” Then he took her hand and kissed it sweetly. “Let’s go.”

  Life, it seemed, had begun for La Costa the moment Henry walked back into her life. Not three months into the courtship, he professed his feelings and promised to love her and to take care of her forever. When the prospect of making a lifetime of it, however, they had both shared a mutual belief that getting married was not the goal. Such institutions were for “other people.” It was not necessary for them, they believed, to compartmentalize their love with contracts and clauses of betrothal. This made the relationship flourish and enabled La Costa to relax into it, knowing that her life was still her own. That she and Louis were still a team of two. She and Henry had a commitment bonded in trust and free will, something far more sacred to them than any ceremony or contract could offer.

  She was, to him, the promise of a lifetime dream fulfilled. And he was to her, the dream she had long given up on believing in. Every day forward, she
had to pinch herself to see if she was living her real life, or a dream.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  November 2014

  La Costa loved little else more than the holidays. Thanksgiving was never an occasion for celebration when she was growing up, but ever since Louis had been able to chew solid foods, she was on board with making every holiday one for the record books. Especially the years that they had lived with Georgia, plates were ever filled with delightful, scrumptious meals and baked goods suitable for a patisserie.

  “So, you learned how to do all of this from Georgia?” Tess asked, holding a glass of mimosa and parking herself on a high kitchen stool at the imported stone counter. “This is gorge, my Ketzel. What is it, Italian?” Tess said, running her hand over a stretch of the gleaming marble.

  “It’s actually enameled lava. And shhh, don’t tell anyone. I Googled the turkey and Pinterested the dessert parfaits. The pies and the casseroles are all Georgia all the way. Of course, I had to Facetime with her two weeks ago for a run-down on how to get the squash casserole going. It’s a southern delight, right out of her recipe vault,” La Costa said, elbow-deep into the oven to check on things. “I’m so glad that you guys could join us for this little family gathering—and what a family we all are! Right?”

  “What? The pleasure is ours. It’s an honor to be invited to this stunning palace in the sky. As for me, I don’t cook. Demitri knows that he didn’t marry Martha Stewart. We usually just make reservations somewhere, and then head over to the folks’ for dessert. Which reminds me, can I have one of those pumpkin pies to go? We’re driving to San Diego in the morning to see Demitri’s parents before we fly back to Jersey on Sunday.”