by Grey, R. S.
He wants to continue.
Sure, I’ve technically forced him into this role as the devil on my shoulder, but if he didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t be suggesting another task. My heart leaps in my chest at the prospect that the second mission could be anything as wild as the first one. I took my panties off in front of him. I stuffed them into one of Jake’s books! I let him hide me away in a corner, his body and scent and touch all but stealing the life right out of me. I’ve been thinking a lot about that moment when our bodies were pressed together, when I let his hand graze the edge of my breast. I think about it most at night, when I’m alone in bed. Last night, I unbuttoned my pajama top and ran my hand across my stomach and then…lower.
My stomach dips from the memories then Colten walks back into the kitchen. I jerk forward for the wooden spoon and get busy mixing the pasta.
He looks at me like I’m weird. “What are you doing?”
I wave my phone. “Just looking up the recipe to make sure I’m doing it right.”
He frowns as he opens the fridge and reaches in for an apple. “Haven’t you made it a dozen times?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at the boiling water and waiting for inspiration to strike. “But…well…sometimes I salt the water and sometimes I don’t. I forgot which way I like it.”
Lame. Bad. Very unconvincing, Madison.
He levels me with one more skeptical glare then turns back for the living room without another word. I hear him take a big bite of the apple and then I sag against the counter.
I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I tell myself.
I wasn’t fantasizing about Ben with my brother and dad in the next room. I was thinking about fantasizing about Ben. There’s a big difference!
Still, I decide there’s no point in texting him back now. I wait until Colten’s gone and the leftovers have been put away. I’m cleaning the dishes when my dad walks in with his adult softball league shirt on. I forgot he has a game tonight. It means I’ll have the whole house to myself for the next few hours. I let him kiss me on the head and wish him luck before he walks out the door. Then, with speed usually reserved for X-Men and dudes running from the cops, I dart across the kitchen for my phone. My hands are still covered in suds. I can’t even unlock the screen.
“Gahrrrr,” I grumble impatiently, wrenching the towel from where it hangs on the stove and drying my hands as quickly as possible. I toss it over my shoulder. It lands on the ground. I’m typing out a text as fast as my little fingers can tip-tap-type on my iPhone.
Madison: Okay, I know what I want to do. Are you free tonight?
My hand is shaking so much, my phone screen is blurry. I can’t even read my own words. Why did I text him? Oh my god, he has friends. He’s probably at a dinner party or like a fancy fashion show. I don’t know—how do rich people spend their time? I’m pacing now, chewing on a nail, angry at myself, angry at Ben for turning me into this version of myself. Everything is dark and abysmal. I hate my phone and whoever invented texting. Mr. Apple, Elon Musk—they all suck. I bite my lip and resist the urge to shove the offending device down the disposal, and then it vibrates and it’s him! He’s replied and my whole world is bright and beautiful again. Butterflies float around my head like a halo.
Ben: I’m still up at the office, but I’m leaving soon. What do you have in mind?
Oh my GOD.
This is my moment. I have to take life by the balls, and then because that sounds gross, I decide to take life by the hand, but forcefully.
Madison: Great. Come pick me up. I’ll tell you where we’re going then.
I have no idea what he means by “leaving soon”. It could be ten minutes, could be an hour, so I rush upstairs and yank my dress off as I go. I won’t repeat the same mistakes I made over the weekend. I’m not going to wear the same boring dress I wore all day at work. I pick out a pair of jeans and a short, flowy white peasant top. When I move, it exposes the barest hint of my midriff. It’s probably the sexiest thing I own, which is a little sad now that I think about it. I should at least have some kind of black leather dress that suctions to my skin hidden away in a glass box with a label that reads Break in case of emergency.
I slide on some brown leather boots I splurged on last year when Anthropologie was having a sale and then I step into my bathroom. My hair is in a braid, so I shake it out and assess the damage. The long brown waves still have a little volume left in them. It’s kind of a wild mess, but it’ll have to do. I don’t have time to become a hair wizard—for all I know, Ben’s only five minutes away.
I pull out my makeup, eternally grateful that I let Eli talk me into getting some new products at Sephora last summer. I had no idea what contouring or highlighting was before that day. I still know very little about it, but the enthusiastic employee taught me the bare minimum for what I need to do to make my green eyes pop and my skin a little more flawless.
Who am I kidding? I have to wipe off my eye shadow four times before it looks halfway decent, but when I step back and look at myself in the mirror, I’m kind of impressed. My eyes seem even bigger than usual. My lips are a soft pink. My cheekbones are accentuated. Most important of all, I still look like me, just a little…sexier.
My phone buzzes on my bed and I leap into action, answering it as I run down the stairs. I’m at the door, yanking on a jacket when I realize I forgot to say hello.
“Madison?” Ben says on the other end of the line. “You there?”
I laugh and pause, remembering to breathe for the first time in what feels like forever.
I hold the phone up to my ear. “Hey, sorry.”
I can see him through the window in the foyer. He’s sitting at the curb in a sleek black SUV.
“I’m outside.”
“Okay,” I say, forcing myself to lie. “I’ll be right out, I just need another few minutes.”
“Take your time.”
He hangs up and I stay right where I am, willing my heart to slow its wild pace just a little. This is going to be a big night. I’m about to get into Ben Rosenberg’s car, and just the idea of it feels wrong. My dad didn’t ask me what I was doing tonight, so I’m not deceiving him by going out. I’m allowed to leave the house. I just never do, so it feels strange. I heave a sigh, reach for the door handle, and step outside to begin an adventure I’ll likely never forget.
Ben gets out and rounds the front of the SUV to meet me at the passenger side door as I walk down the front path. I have a sudden urge to walk in the exact opposite direction. My confidence has left the building. He didn’t change after work, but he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If he was wearing a tie, he’s not anymore.
He’s as out of my league as he’s ever been. Handsome, confident, and poised, he moves like he’s never spent a single day wishing he were in someone else’s body.
How did we get here? I wonder as he pulls the door open and then watches me walk the last few yards toward him. When I get close, he tips his head.
“Madison.”
I bite down on my smile and tip my head right back at him before I step up into his car. Black leather seats warm my tush. Ah, rich people really do know how to live.
He closes the door behind me and I watch him circle back to the driver’s side. He hops in with the confident grace of a panther then turns to me, one hand casually draped over the steering wheel.
“Where to?”
11
Ben
“Funny. This is a first for me too.”
“You’ve never been inside a tattoo shop?” she asks.
I’m staring up at the wall covered in intricate designs when I shake my head.
“Hey, if you’re a walk-in, you’ll have to come back,” a grizzly voice says behind us. I turn and assess the guy behind the counter. He’s probably in his mid-thirties, black concert tee, jeans, buzzed hair, colorful half-sleeve on his right arm. “One of my artists is out sick and the rest are booked solid.”
Madison’s smile fa
lls. “Crap. I didn’t even think about scheduling an appointment.”
She turns to me with brows tugged together, her bottom lip sticking out just a little. I don’t like her expression. I also don’t like the idea of our night getting cut short.
“Do you tattoo?” I ask the guy.
He crosses his arms over his chest and aims a disdainful glance at me. “This is my shop.”
Good—he won’t fuck up her skin.
“I’ll pay you five times your normal rate if you can shuffle some things around. The tattoo she wants won’t take long.”
I actually have no idea how long it’ll take. I’m just assuming at this point, but I think it’s fair to guess Madison doesn’t have anything too crazy in mind for her first tattoo. I glance over to her and she nods, mouth agape.
The guy considers my offer for a second, frowning. He’s annoyed, but not so annoyed that he won’t do it.
With a sigh, he turns for his office. “Yeah, fine. Give me a second.”
Madison walks over, tilting her head to whisper, “You didn’t have to do that. It’ll probably be ridiculously expensive now.”
“So what? You’re about to permanently ink your body—at least now you’re in good hands.”
A few minutes later, the owner introduces himself as Paul and leads us toward the back. He takes more of an interest in Madison than me, walking beside her and asking her how she heard about his shop. There’s music playing loudly overhead and a constant whirring of needles as we pass other artists at work. Paul has his own private room—perks of owning the place, I guess—and once we’re inside, Madison describes what she wants.
“Really, just an outline of a rose.”
My heart lurches in my chest.
“Small,” she continues, “and I mean small—microscopic even.”
Paul chuckles.
“Here, I have an image saved on my phone.”
He steps over to where she’s sitting and she holds it up for him to see. I’m still wondering if I heard her right. She said rose, didn’t she?
“Okay, so more geometric than organic,” he says, nodding in understanding.
“Exactly. It’s almost like a stripped-down version of a rose. Someone else might not realize what it is at first glance.”
“And no stem?” She nods and he steps back. “Right. I got it. Let me sketch something and I’ll be back in a second.”
When he leaves the room, he closes the door behind him and Madison glances over to me, brows raised.
“So I guess I’m really doing this,” she says, her mouth hitched up in a nervous half-smile.
“Why a rose?” I ask through a clenched jaw. My nerves are all pulled taut. I feel like a live wire.
She doesn’t notice, too self-conscious about her choice of tattoo. She thinks I’m judging her.
“I don’t know,” she says, blushing. “It’s supposed to be a tattoo in memory of my mom, which is…I don’t know, probably idiotic because I didn’t even know her. I’m not even sure she liked roses all that much, but I just thought—”
“My mom’s name was Rose,” I blurt out, appreciating the air that rushes into my lungs right after.
Her eyes widen in shock. “Really?” Then realization hits her as she remembers. “Oh right, Rose Rosenberg.” She all but whispers the name, as if she’s conjuring a ghost.
“What a name, right?” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “She always joked that she must have really loved my dad to marry him and take that name.”
Madison looks down at her hands as she twiddles her thumbs. “I don’t know…I kind of like it.” Then she jerks up and her eyes lock with mine. Under the fluorescent lights, she should look washed out, but instead she’s lit up—fair skin, red cheeks, bright green eyes. “I don’t have to get it, Ben.”
I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against and walk toward her, hand outstretched. “Let me see your phone.”
She fumbles for it and holds it out to me. It’s like she thinks I’m angry with her for wanting to get a tattoo of a rose, but it’s actually the exact opposite.
“It’s a cool design. Where are you wanting to get it?”
“Left butt cheek.”
I blink, my face a mask of horror, and it takes me a solid three seconds to realize she’s completely joking.
“Ben, I’m kidding. I’m thinking I want it along my ribs, somewhere I can hide it.”
“From your family?”
She smirks. “From the world. This tattoo is just for me.”
And for me.
I’m the only one who will know it’s there. Me…and Paul.
When he returns with the finished design and Madison happily approves, he walks her through the steps of what to expect and then tells her she’ll have to go sans shirt and bra.
Her eyes widen. I guess she didn’t think that far ahead.
Paul senses her discomfort and produces a paper drape and some micropore tape.
“It’s fine if you’d rather cover up, but I don’t want you fidgeting around while I’m trying to tattoo. Just put the drape on so it’s open in the back, and leave your left arm out. Your boyfriend can tape it down along your breast so I’ll only have access to the skin along your rib, where you want the tattoo.”
“Oh he’s not—”
“That’s fine. Got it.” I step forward and take the tape from him before Madison can protest. Paul shakes his head at me like I’m a jealous boyfriend. Little does he know, I’m just jealous. I don’t get any of the perks that come with the second word.
When Paul leaves the room again, Madison is glaring at me suspiciously.
I shrug. “It’s either this or no drape at all. I’ll turn around while you get situated.”
She laughs as I turn to face the door.
“This is hilarious. It’s like I’m doing it on purpose—continuously undressing around you, that is.” Her voice lowers. “I swear this wasn’t my intention.”
I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and will her to hurry up. I hear her slipping her shirt over her head and then unhooking her bra. Jesus. I imagine the entire thing in excruciating detail. My mind fills in the gaps with a fantasy, and now I’m wishing I’d just gone straight home after work.
“Where should I put…”
She’s wondering where she should put her clothes. Who the fuck cares?! Put them on your head. Throw them on the ground. Just do…something.
“The table, Madison,” I snap impatiently. “Just put them on the table.”
“Oh, okay,” she says with a shaky breath. The paper drape whips open and it rustles loudly as she tries to finagle it in place. “I think I’ve got it. Here, come tape.”
I turn and she’s sitting on the edge of the table with her feet dangling over one side. The thin blue material covers her, but I can still see the outline of her breasts. I tilt my neck side to side, willing the tension to leave my shoulders. She’s staring down at where her hand is holding the drape in place then her gaze slowly drifts to me and she waits, patiently, with her green swirling eyes and her soft pink lips…
I need to move. My legs need to propel me toward the table, the table on which a beautiful woman sits, nearly naked.
Blood is rushing south.
My dick assumes it’s go-time.
“Turn around,” I say brusquely, both to give my body time to control itself and so I can actually reach the spot where I need to tape.
She gives me an odd look and then props her feet up on the table, angling her exposed side and back toward me. She has a delicate spine. Small waist. Fair skin that looks silky to the touch.
Angrily, I step forward and yank off some tape, leaning down to press it against her skin and the drape. I’m not gentle, by any means, and Madison tells me so.
“Good thing you’re not the one giving me the tattoo.”
Yes. Good thing.
I do a bang-up job with that tape. I use half the roll. Paul won’t see the barest hint of Madison’s breasts. Al
so, she’ll probably have to wear the drape for the rest of her life because it’s permanently attached to her skin now. I step back, proud, before Paul reenters the room.
“All set?”
I chuck the tape at him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t smack him in the head like I want it to.
“All set.”
* * *
I was already aware that Madison is a talker in normal circumstances, but in instances of high stress—like now—she’s a veritable chatterbox. Paul’s moments away from getting started. He’s assured her we’ll only be here thirty minutes, forty-five tops. Madison is lying on her side with her head resting on her right arm so Paul can access the area of skin along the edge of her ribs. I’m sitting on a stool near her head, out of Paul’s way but close enough that I can see what he’s doing.
I steal quick, intense glances at her bare back. I wished I’d taped the other side of the drape to her skin as well. It pools on the table, exposing all of her trim back down to the top of her jeans. Her hair splays out across the table. It shouldn’t be sensual, but it is. All of this is, even as she describes her job at the library to Paul. She’s outlined the various programs they offer and her favorite children’s authors, and now she’s in the middle of explaining a spring reading initiative when Paul interrupts to tell her he’s going to start.
“Oh god, really? Okay. Did the needle just get louder or is that just me? Did I already tell you guys I don’t like needles?”
Twice.
Her eyes jerk up to me. “Will you hold my hand?”
Paul glances to me. “Actually, try drawing on her hand. The movement will distract her from the pain more, but don’t tickle her. If she flinches, I’ll mess up.”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh god, I thought he was going to say, If she flinches, I’ll kill her.”
Wow. Her brain has left the building. She’s a mess. I reach for her hand and rest it on my knee. Her body is still angled where Paul needs it, but now I have better access to her palm. I spread it flat, amazed by how small it is. How can a human adult have hands this small? This soft?