First Love (Winning at Love Book 2)

by Gillian Jones

  “Yeah,” I smile, as I tap out a reply.

  Me: Shit. I forgot to give you the aftercare instructions for my masterpiece!!!

  I’m such a prick. I grin ear-to-ear, knowing Kam’s probably fuming like a cartoon character right now, with smoke coming out of every hole in her head.

  Tristan, my way-too-observant full-timer, comes back around the counter with Becks and me, reaching past us to grab a copy of aftercare instructions along with a tin of Tattoo Goo for his client.

  “So, when are you going to admit you like this girl more than anyone else on the planet?” he says. “You smile like a love-sick tool whenever you’re around her.”

  “It’s not like that, man, and you know it.” I don’t bother looking up. It’s just the same conversation on a different day.

  “Sure thing, boss,” he snickers, “you keep telling yourself that. B and I know the truth. And we’ll be here for you when reality smacks you in the face.” He slaps my back and heads down the hall to his room to finish the portrait piece he’s been working on for the last four hours.

  “I seriously don’t get why you just won’t give her a tattoo,” Becks says. She’s been asking me this forever. And I love tormenting her about it almost as much as I do Kami. “I’ve seen what she has in mind. It’s pretty cool, actually.”

  I raise my hand to stop her. “Don’t tell me about it. I’ll see it when I decide to give in. Eventually.”

  “You’re such a shit, dude,” Becks chides. “Twenty-seven aliases and twenty-seven cancelled appointments? It’s cruel.”

  She doesn’t understand there’s a method to my refusals to Kami and not giving her a tattoo. A method I’m not ready to share with Becks or anyone else for that matter. So naturally, I deflect and take the asshole route.

  “It’s fun,” I say defensively. Which is true. Seeing Kami all flustered and angry at me gets me jacked. The way her cheeks flush and her voice hitches is hot as hell. Since we’re destined to only ever be friends, I need to take what I can get. And a pissed-off Kami is just what the doctor ordered, at least twice a month, up close and personal.

  “Is it like some kind of foreplay for weirdos?” Becks asks, arching a brow, her face serious, like it could actually be a possibility. I burst out laughing.

  “Have you ever sparred with a Hellcat?” I ask her, cocking my head.

  “See, I always knew you were a weirdo. Who even asks that?” she laughs, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Becks, seriously, it’s the most fun.”

  “Lord help that poor girl. You’re such a shit. No wonder your sister keeps her away from you.”

  I pause, and swallow the words that want to seep out so badly to correct her: It’s me who keeps myself away from her.

  “She’ll be fine,” I say. “This is what we do, always have. Kami has been around almost my entire life. We’re friends,” I shrug, to play it off.

  “Ha!” Becks squeals. “Do friends eye fuck? ’Cause I’m pretty sure you both stood here and fucked the shit out of each other just now. But, hey, what do I know? The only thing I have going on right now are crappy, self-induced handgasms while José’s out of town.” With that, she gives me a bit of sharp elbow, then adds, “Don’t ask, it’s pathetic. I can’t go without for more than a couple days, it seems. I clearly am my own brand of weirdo.”

  She beams at me and leaves the counter, heading back to stock our suites with the supplies that were delivered earlier today.

  “You better give me the normal-coloured adhesive bandages to make up for that particular overshare of ours, and not those damn neon pink ones Tristan loves. Jesus, we need some boundaries around here, stat!” I shout over my shoulder to Becks. She shakes her head and flaps a hand at me as she walks away, and I go back to looking at my phone, smiling at my latest exchange with Kami.

  She really is the most fun.

  3

  The Masochist

  Kami

  Keaton: Shit, I forgot to give you aftercare instructions for my purple masterpiece!!!

  Me: I’m done talking to you. Go forth and ink the rest of the masses.

  From the kitchen I currently share with my sister, I hear the front door open and close as I finish my text. I lay my phone facedown on the table so I can better ignore it.

  I bought La Petite Maison Jaune just over a year-and-a-half ago, and recently took in a stray: my older sister, Jane, who had broken up with her longtime boyfriend Jeremy (the one who wouldn’t put a ring on it). There was no way she was going to move back home. Sure, Tracy and Wayne Sutherland are amazing. But for my 28-year-old sister, the idea of moving back home seemed almost as devastating as her breakup with Jer. Like the amazing sibling I am, I offered her my spare room—along with my stellar company—for the discounted rate of free! How could she resist? Funny enough, she almost did. Jane insisted she pay her own way, therefore we compromised. I pay the mortgage and Jane keeps me fed, as well as paying the cable and internet bills while she’s here. I’m pretty sure she’s holding out on the idea that Jeremy will eventually come around. And I have a feeling he will too. But in the meantime, it’s a win-win for both of us. Well, more so for me, since I detest grocery shopping.

  Jane’s been living with me for the last six weeks, and it’s been really nice having her here while she and Jeremy attempt to sort their shit out. Which I know they totally will. Jeremy loves my sister. He’s just afraid that a big, sparkly ring equals the Big Bang of life-changing things he thinks he’s not ready for, but my sister is: kids, joint banking, a mortgage, Sundays at Home Depot, and all that. And, scariest of all, a possible Janezilla, once that ring hits her finger. Anyone who knows Jane well knows how anal she is, and planning a wedding is an anal retentive’s dream come to fruition. So I don’t really blame him for proceeding with caution, because we all know that particular beast is in there, just under the surface, waiting to be awakened like the Kraken.

  “Well, pull down your pants a little, lemme see how it looks?” Jane calls excitedly as she barrels into the kitchen, arms full of brown paper bags, her light blonde hair a stringy mess in front of her face. Jane seems almost as excited as I had been about the idea of finally getting my first piece of ink.

  I huff out a long breath and shake my head in a silent “No” as I start rifling through one of the bags she’s set on the table.

  “No?” She sighs.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “He didn’t? He cancelled the appointment on you again?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Sure did.”

  “Such a shit!”

  “Sure is,” I say in a clipped tone, pulling out the box of Froot Loops and placing them in the lazy Susan with the other ten boxes of sugary cereal, to which Jane has a child-like addiction.

  “For a healthcare provider, you sure eat a lot of crap,” I say, closing the cupboard.

  “It’s a vice. Being the oldest, I always used to miss out. There were these two little brats who always beat me to them, leaving me to eat mom’s bland bran crap,” she says dramatically.

  “Oh, the horror!” I tease. “Surely you’ll book an appointment with a therapist at the hospital as soon as possible to help you deal with the emotional impact of violation by sugar cereal, right? Not all is lost, is it? I mean, you can still function and love, right?” I tease. She tosses a loaf of bread at me.

  “Whatever, just keep your grubby paws off my box of sugar. Now, focus!” Jane snaps her fingers twice. “What’s Keaton’s deal?” she questions, while putting yogurt and Black Bomber cheese in the fridge.

  “No clue. Keeps saying he won’t give me something I’ll regret. Yet the ass hasn’t even seen the new idea. The biggest mistake ever was showing him that stupid foot lotus I found on Pinterest. Temperamental artists.” I mumble the last bit.

  “You could always go somewhere else. It’s not like Keaton Hatfield is the only person on the planet who does ink, yeah?”

  This isn’t the first time we’ve had this same conversa
tion. No, it’s closer to the twenty-seventh time. After each time I’ve been turned away, Jane asks me the same thing. And I still can’t explain it. I just want it to be Keaton. I trust him, and I know he’s the best. And, well, it’s Keaton.

  “I want Keat to be my first,” I say. As soon as the words slip past my lips, I know I’ve set myself up for probing to the nth degree.

  “I bet you do.” Jane arches her brow, her golden eyes so much like mine, and full of mischief.

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” At least I don’t think I meant it that way, but then again, I am a 26-year-old virgin. Maybe it’s some Freudian thing? Do his theories apply to women? I need to Google that shit later. I exhale loudly. “I want him to give me my first tattoo, Jane. I just want it to be perfect, that’s it.” I think.

  “I know that,” she says, snatching the bread from my hands and tossing it in the breadbox resting on the blue-tiled countertop.

  “You’re impossible.” I lean against the counter, squeezing the bridge of my nose in exhaustion. I lied, before. It’s not nice having her here. I need to help Jeremy get his shit sorted and her back with him, stat!

  “Okay, okay. I’ll concede…for today,” Jane says. “I know you want the tattoo to be perfect but I do think that if he isn’t willing, you may want to go elsewhere.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Too bad he told me that no one else will ink me. He basically said he’ll blacklist me.”

  “Oh, please. That would be impossible. You could use any name at any other shop, and they’d never know it was you. What’s he going to do, hang your picture up like some wanted sign in every tattoo shop in the province of Ontario?”

  I can’t keep a smile from crossing my lips. She’s right, and we both know it.

  “You’re such a masochist. It’s a game, and you’re freakin’ loving it, Kamilla Sutherland. Such a brat. You’re getting off on this shit, aren’t you?” she squeals, and I can’t stop myself from laughing out loud at the incredulous look on her face. “You two are fucking weirdos. Just admit you love each other and set off into the sunset. Lord knows, you’ve been in love with him forever; he’s your ‘ending’, after all,” Jane says—making air quotes—and I blanch, hating every time she brings up that night.

  Stupid Truth or Dare, and dumb-ass alcohol. It was the perfect mix for creating a comment I’ve yet to live down, and both my sister and Eastlyn still throw it in my face every chance they get. Despite the thousands of times I’ve tried to deny that I still feel that way, neither one of them will let it go. Thank God, neither of them know about that night two years ago at the bar where I practically threw myself at Keaton at the party for Inkredible, or they’d never let me have any peace at all.

  “He is so not my ‘ending’,” I say defensively, crossing my arms.

  “Whatever. I remember a certain Labour Day confession that leads me to believe otherwise.” She tosses a powdered donut at me after shoving one in her own mouth. Good, at least she’ll be quiet for a few seconds.

  “You know—” she says around a mouthful of fluffy goodness, white powder falling down into the boob crease beneath her black V-neck T-shirt.

  So much for those precious seconds of silence.

  “Classy.” I nod my chin at her messiness, and she waves me off.

  “You know, it’s too bad you can’t get over—or under—that one. He is kinda fine in that bad boy meets sexy CEO way.”

  I pause, confused at the comparison. “What do you mean? He doesn’t wear a suit.”

  “I know, but, damn, a man who owns his own business—suit-wearing or not—is hot, hence the bad boy/CEO descriptor. What’s more, don’t even try to pretend that the image of Keaton in a suit while holding his tattoo iron wouldn’t make you combust. We all know how much a man in a suit gets you riled.”

  “I hate you,” is all I can manage to say, as an image of Keaton all suited up pops into my mind, and I instantly feel it in my lady bits.

  “Sure, you don’t. You just don’t like that I know you so well.”

  I roll my eyes, with a whatever look. “And for the record, I’m over him, so the last place I need to be is under him,” I volley, before taking a big bite of my donut, needing a few seconds to think.

  “You can lie to yourself all you want, Kami, but we all know the truth. You see Keaton as your ending, you always have, and you’re totally hung up on the guy. You need to admit it so you can either put yourself out there to him, or give up and allow someone else to have a chance. Anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re a catch, even if you are practically a nun.”

  “Hey, I’ve done stuff. Lots of sexy times I’ve had.”

  “Easy there. Who are you…Yoda?”

  “Shut up.”

  We both laugh, reaching for more mini donuts.

  “I want you to be happy is all. If Keaton will give you that, then I say you need to take a risk and talk to him about how you feel.”

  “I was 18 when I said that stuff. He’s not about commitment, we’ve seen this firsthand. He’s only ever dated, Keat’s never had a steady girlfriend. And I’d want that from him. I couldn’t be a fling, not with him. Even if he did want me,” I waiver, “would it be worth the risks to go there? My relationship with Eastlyn, with Keaton himself, not to mention how close our families are, too…it’s a lot to consider. Could we ever go back to being the us we are now if things didn’t work out?” I shrug, reaching deep into my arsenal of rationalizations. “We’re really good at being friends, and I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that, either. There’s safety on the sidelines.”

  I sigh as I finish, because despite what I’m saying, I know I’m full of shit. A part of me still holds on to a sliver of hope, unfortunately, but I lack the courage to find out if there is any real hope. There’s a part of me that—no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise—wants Keaton, and hopes for a day when he’ll declare his love for me. And be the man at my side until the end. It’s stupid, I know, but there’s too much to risk, and I’m scared of being rejected. Too bad the heart wants what it wants, and mine’s always thumped a little more heavily around Keaton Hatfield. Even if I beg her to self-regulate, she beats to her own rhythm when that man is near.

  “Maybe he’d be different with you compared to the girls he’s dated in the past? He’s older, wiser, more mature…” Jane says, regarding me with a hopeful smile.

  “Maybe,” I conclude, like a real scholar. “He’s my favourite, as is,” I let slip, and don’t bother trying to take it back because it’s true. The flirting, the never knowing where I really stand—even with the harem that seems to migrate towards him—I wouldn’t change him. I don’t want to change him. I only want to change the him and me to be an us. Only, I’m scared.

  “I know he’s your favourite, babe. But I think it’s getting to the point where you need to ‘piss or get off the pot’, as those wise bastards of the past so eloquently phrased it.”

  “Ah, and there we have it: Deep Thoughts by Jane Sutherland,” I tease, although I know she’s making sense, especially after today.

  “You once said he was your ending, Kam. That was a serious statement, one you need to either deal with or bury. You can’t keep living in denial when it’s so blatantly obvious how much you care about him as more than a friend. I see it, Eastlyn sees it, even Mom knows, and Dad probably does, too. Seems obvious to everyone around you but you.”

  No, I feel it, and see it. Trust me.

  “I was drunk.”

  “You were sincere. Thank the alcohol for that. They don’t call it truth serum for nothing.”

  “I was barely eighteen, I was really, really drunk,” I repeat, “and my heart hadn’t exactly caught up to my big brain yet.”

  It was after that particular Labour Day party that Keaton changed. He started blatantly dating more; in my mind he must have been handing out membership cards to the Keaton Hatfield Harem (KHH) to girls anywhere and everywhere. They seemed to be flocking in droves. He’d started
to bail on plans East and I would try to make and, mostly, he seemed to move me far down in his list of priorities—we didn’t text or go out just the two of us anymore, we were almost strangers for a while. We’d even stopped running together.

  It’s actually only been since he opened Inkredible that the Keaton I thought I once knew has returned. And it’s this version, Keaton 3.0, that has me confused. Does he want me, like I want him? Can I trust that he won’t revert back to that other guy again? Can I trust him, trust that his flirty and almost possessive behaviour means something? These are the questions that plague me, making me wonder if I can muster up the courage to try and put myself out there again to find out.

  “Do it, Kam. Piss or get off the pot.” Jane’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “Eww, stop saying that, would you? That’s such a disgusting metaphor. Don’t you get enough urine working in the ER?” I cringe, and she giggles.

  “Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in self-defence. “You know what I mean. Either go for him, or get over him. I only want what you want, and maybe, just maybe, I’d like to see you stop waffling.”

  “Hey! I do not waffle?” I say, despite knowing that I really do.

  She pins me with a look.

  “Fine. I get what you mean,” I huff, over this conversation.

  “I’ve said my piece. I love you is all, and I want you happy.”

  “I am happy,” I assure her, because in all honesty I really am. I have a great job as a teacher, own my own house in the city of Guelph, and have the best friends and family.

  “I want to see you happy and in love—or rather, ’cause love blows right now—I want to see you happy and blissed out on a bunch of Big Os. I highly recommend it.”

  God, I love her. “I’ve had orgasms, Jane! I’m not that deprived. Jeez,” I scold, my voice a little squeaky because truthfully, lately, I really kinda have been.

  “Right, but the dick-induced ones—the Cockbooms, as I call them—are where it’s really at. They’re the best—they leave you virtually speechless.” She sighs, pausing before adding, “It’s like being on the most thrilling roller coaster, arms in the air, wind kissing your skin, while you’re braless and in your most comfy p.j.’s.”