Gradation: an enemies to lovers, steamy romance

by KC Decker

  “So, what do you do for work?” I ask while trying really hard to sound interested. My own question bores even me, but I’ve got like, thirty-seven minutes to burn.

  “I run a tattoo shop,” he says with a sleepy, almost growly voice. When he speaks, I get a glimpse of something shiny in his mouth. I think…yeah, his tongue is pierced. I can picture my mom right now, clutching her pearls and looking to my dad for fainting stability. Oh, the horror. Just the suggestion of their daughter going so wildly astray would be preposterous to them.

  I try to picture this guy kissing me, and all I can think about is the little ball sitting on his tongue. It taunts me the whole time he talks. It’s almost imperceptible, but now that I know it’s there, it’s all I can focus on.

  “Enough about my work, how about you? Didn’t you say you just got promoted?” he asks conversationally. Actually, no. My friends told you that.

  “Yeah, I did.” I leave it at that because I have no idea how much he already knows, and I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging if I repeat everything he’s already heard. My answer sounds a bit dismissive, but I’m not really the gloating type.

  “How did that come about?” he inquires before he takes a squinty-eyed sip of his hot coffee.

  “I slept with my boss.”

  He chokes on his coffee, then regains his composure after a few stout coughs. “Wow, that’s impressive,” he is smiling like a hyena, so he either knows I’m joking, or he is legitimately impressed with my methods.

  “Actually, I had to outperform all the other reps. I delivered the highest BDI—sorry, Brand Development Index, eight out of the last twelve months, now I handle all the exclusivity agreements—How many tattoos do you have?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “How many piercings?”

  “Two.”

  After no further explanation about his piercings and roughly twenty more minutes of banal conversation, I circle back to my promotion. I said his eyes were blue and moody before, but now they look sharp and cold. His mood has shifted, and now that he isn’t even smiling, he’s even less my type. I can picture him smoking a cigarette and strumming a guitar in the back of some dive bar. Maybe it’s the hard set of his jaw. Was he this smoldering and tense before?

  “I didn’t really sleep with my boss to get the promotion. You know that, right?” He gives a non-committal nod, so I continue, “I mean, he has grandkids—not that that’s the only reason. I would never do that. Mixing with men like him is not really my style.” I’m starting to wonder if my rambling is to burn time, or if I truly don’t have one single coherent thought besides hitting the timer at forty-five minutes on the dot.

  “Good for you. Now, can I be honest?” he asks, but it’s really not a question, it’s a prelude to something arrogant because his entire demeanor has shifted to cocky arrogance inside of the last five minutes.

  “Go for it.”

  “I get the impression you are humoring me in some way because you keep glancing at your watch,” he says directly. “Do you have somewhere better to be? Because I don’t need you to do me any favors by gracing me with your presence.”

  My first reaction is relief because you can’t force chemistry, and I’d have more fun standing in line at the post office. My second reaction happens simultaneously, as he gets up and I remember that weasel of a man pictured on Miles’ phone.

  “Wait,” I start, as my arm shoots out to try and stop him from getting up. It has no impact on him and hardly slows him down.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day, Prima Donna.” Then he is heading for the door, and I’m chasing him like a jilted lover.

  We are outside the coffee shop before he even realizes I’m at his heels. When I finally succeed in grabbing his inked-up arm and slowing him down, he spins around and turns on me like a slap to the face. Sudden and intense.

  “Stop. Please. Just wait.” I’m not making any sense, but the contempt radiating off of him neutralizes any fight I have left and renders me near useless.

  “Got something to say, Alabama?” he challenges. It sounds like a threat, but none so threatening as the face on Miles’ phone.

  “I can explain.”

  “Do it then, but I doubt I want to hear it. Prissy girls are not really my style,” he hands me back my own words, but now they sound acidic.

  ***

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” It’s out of his mouth before I even finish explaining. His look of sheer disgust has filled the space around us and leaves me feeling kind of timid.

  “You want me to date your pretentious ass for three months when I don’t even want to have coffee with you again?” Now, he can’t decide whether to laugh or stomp away from me. He settles on an exaggerated scoff.

  “Please? You would really be doing me a favor.”

  “A favor? I don’t even like you!” Pressed beneath the weight of his glare, my skin starts to feel tight and itchy all over.

  “Listen, as long as all the pretense is out of the way, I can actually be a nice person. That wasn’t me back there, it was my response to doing something I didn’t want to do.”

  “That sounds just as bad, Alabama!” his hatred bleeds right back into focus.

  “Look at it this way, I have to be responsive to whatever you want to do. You will be driving the ship—you get to pick all the restaurants, no hassles fighting over the remote…it’s all about you. Come on, a few texts a week and maybe a couple hours on the weekends.”

  He scowls at me, completely unconvinced. Funny enough, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with the guy, I just don’t want to date him. He was nice at first, he was a gentleman, and he’s not bad to look at, just not my type.

  “I promise, I will be the most agreeable, doting, fake girl-friend anyone has ever had. And seriously, I’m not usually a bitch, I just felt railroaded by my friends, and you got caught in the crossfire.”

  “If I were to agree to this—which I’m not, you would seriously do whatever I want, how I want, no prissy attitude—ever?”

  “Well, I’m not going to run naked through Downtown, but within reason, yeah.”

  “You realize if I agree to this, I’m going to have fun with it, right? Your stuck-up, holier-than-thou attitude will be pushed to the outer reaches of your limit.”

  “Now you make it sound like I’m going to be your sex slave. I’m not signing up for th—”

  “Oh, please. I’d have to want to sleep with you for that. And trust me, I don’t.”

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  “No, you crazy woman! I need to think about it first. And just for the record, you are not my type either. I don’t even like redheads.”

  “Ok then,” I say, feeling a little stung. “I guess I’ll just wait to hear from you.”

  He stares at me for like, ten seconds before he responds like a dropped bag of wet sand, “Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  Chapter 5

  Gavin waited five solid days before responding to me, and when he finally did, it was with a cryptic text:

  Gavin: Saturday, 1:30. Dress warm. Text me your address.

  Now that the fateful Saturday is here, I can’t get Ivy and Miles out of my place fast enough. I don’t trust either of them to interact with Gavin now that he knows the score.

  If I would have known a ten-a.m. jaunt to the dog park with Miles and his dog, Brutus would saddle me with his company all day, I would have skipped it. I swear, it’s like I have gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe and I can’t scrape it off. Miles and Brutus were bad enough, but when Ivy just happened to stop by, I knew it would take an act of Congress to get them out of my loft.

  “I’m serious, you guys, it’s too soon for you to meet him. We are still getting to know each other. You. Have. To. Scram.” I’m pleading with them now, but neither of them gives a shit.

  “What better way is there to get to know someone, then by meeting their friends?” Miles asks as he scoops all twe
lve pounds of Brutus into his arms and casually leans back on the couch.

  “Miles is right, should we make popcorn?” Ivy asks as she plops down next to him. It just so happens that she really likes the process of us picking a guy for her. We landed on someone perfect, but they have not yet met in person.

  “Fine, but when he gets here, I’m not even going to buzz him in. I’ll just run out, and you fuckers will have to cry in your popcorn until next time.” I spin around and march to the bathroom to take a shower.

  Surprise, surprise, when I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my outfit has been pre-determined and is laid out on my bed. Skinny jeans, a black crochet top that would be shockingly slutty without a black tank-top underneath, and four-inch high heels.

  “I’m not wearing that,” I say breezily as I round the wall that obscures my closet. “For one thing, he said to dress warm, and for another, patent leather stilettos are hardly appropriate for a daytime date.”

  “What!?” Miles exclaims, outright scandalized. “He won’t be able to get the mental image of those shoes over his shoulders out of his head all day!”

  “What do you know about high heels over your shoulders anyway, Miles?” Ivy laughs.

  “What? That’s hot as fuck. Even I can appreciate that.”

  “I’m not wearing heels. Or see-through shirts for that matter. God, Miles, you are worse than a pimp.”

  We end up compromising on jeans, a key-hole top that is sexier than I would like, and some wedge booties, but while I’m in the bathroom blow drying my hair with twenty minutes to spare, my friends buzz Gavin up. So, when I walk out of the bathroom announcing that I need to change my bra because you can see my nipples, I’m caught off guard.

  Miles looks over to Gavin and without missing a beat says, “It’s hard to find an outfit that properly accessorizes with nipples.”

  Gavin laughs at him, then jumps right on the bandwagon, “And I thought nipples were the new black.” I cut my eyes at him, then grab my jacket off the hook before my friends can do any real damage.

  To my absolute horror, Ivy returns from the kitchen area, and hands Gavin a beer before the three of them sit down on my sectional. It’s three against one, and I don’t like my odds. Miles and Ivy have no idea I told Gavin everything, so this is going to get very uncomfortable.

  “So, Gavin, Alabama tells us you own your own tattoo shop, and you do a lot of charity work down at the homeless shelter, is that right?” Ivy further breaks the ice, just enough for me to fall through.

  “Did she now?” he says as he points his smirking eyes in my direction. If it wasn’t clear before who his online conversations were with, it is now. “Actually, that doesn’t surprise me at all because she couldn’t stop talking about how much she loves to selflessly donate her time to similar worthy causes. In fact, did she tell you we are volunteering at the Rescue Mission next Saturday?”

  “Is that right?” Ivy asks, probably wondering if brunch and pedicures are off the table now.

  “Yeah, it’s so nice to connect with another altruistic soul. She has such a beautiful heart,” Gavin says, and I would believe his bright smile if he wasn’t so full of shit.

  “Eyes. I was going to say she has such beautiful eyes,” Miles says. He’s thinking about something, and I don’t trust where he is going with it.

  “But you are absolutely right, Gavin. She is such a giver,” Miles finishes, then they all turn to look at me and catch me mid-eye-roll.

  “Giver, yes. So, she must have told you that her company is going to sponsor my booth at the tattoo convention next month in LA, right?”

  “Now thaaat….is a steep promise,” Miles glares at me undetected by the others. I don’t know if he thinks I was over-selling myself or he knows how hard it is to squeeze money from my company’s CSR program, but either way, he smells bullshit.

  “Are you ready, Gavin?” I ask as I take a step toward the door.

  “Nah, let’s hang out for a bit,” he says as he turns toward Ivy. “I’m a complete stranger to your friends, and I feel like they should get to know me a little.”

  Miles laughs, “Believe me, you are no stranger to us. Not at all, Buddy. Alabama can’t stop talking about you, I feel like we know you already.”

  After Miles’ exaggerated response, I’m worried he’s on to me, and it makes the saliva in my mouth reverse-swallow from the anxiety. Miles is sharper than anyone I have ever met before, and even though Gavin is for sure fucking with me, I get the distinct impression Miles knows what’s up and is also fucking with me.

  “Awww, she can’t stop talking about me? That’s so cute.” Gavin tilts his head at me and gives me the fakest, most condescending smile I’ve ever seen in real life.

  “And I would have guessed that I wasn’t her type at all. It’s good to hear she’s not shallow enough to judge a book by its cover and is excited to get to know me,” Gavin finishes, only just now taking his accusing eyes off me and turning to look at Miles.

  “Trust me, we are all excited to see how this plays out,” Miles says without taking his eyes away from the blazing holes he is staring into my head.

  As soon as the outside door snicks shut behind us, I’m aware Miles and Ivy are watching us from three floors up, so I decide to play it cool for the moment.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you—that was a lot of fun unpacking you in front of your friends like that. Do they even know what a cunt you are?”

  It takes everything I have not to react to his insult. And under the watchful eyes of my friends, I casually take his hand. Even though he stiffens at the contact and reciprocates as if his fingers were made out of wood, he doesn’t yank his hand away.

  “I’ll let you have that one because I was nasty to you when we met, but don’t ever call me a cunt again.” I’m not aggressive when I say it, it’s more about drawing a line. If I let him get away with talking to me like that without standing up for myself, he will assume it’s ok and do it again.

  He scoffs, “I’ve been thinking about this little proposition of yours,” he says as he indicates with his other hand toward a black Dodge Charger parked across the street in a metered spot. “My original plan was to pick you up and take you to the shop so you could sit on your pompous ass all day while I worked.”

  “That sounds…amazing?” I attempt to sound agreeable, but I still recognize a threat when I hear one. This “date” is critical because I will need to do some serious damage control later with Miles, and it will be a ton easier if I can present him with a bona fide date, not just details about what the inside of Gavin’s tattoo shop looks like.

  “And I still will if you make any part of this arrangement insufferable for me, got it?” As if to make his point that much clearer, he flings my hand away like it was covered in warts, then opens my door like a perfect gentleman.

  “Roger that,” I say in the instant before the door slams shut. As he rounds his car, I wonder for the hundredth time since I filled him in on the situation, if the end justifies the means. I have no doubt he is going to treat me like shit just to make a point, and then dump me on my lying ass. Why subject myself to this?

  I know the answer to that already, and it’s that I would much rather contend with Gavin’s psychological warfare than with Miles’.

  “You look handsome,” I try when he gets in. And he would—if he would cut his hair, shave his stubble and wash off all his tattoos. He has that rockabilly haircut that is short on the sides and can look classy if he combed the top part back, but he doesn’t, so he looks like he belongs in a grunge band.

  “Fuck off.”

  His words and tone are completely dismissive, and I have a hard time dealing with conflict, so I look out the window instead of telling him to go suck a bag of dicks.

  After what feels like hours but might equate to, like, six minutes, I find I can’t take the silent treatment any longer. Plus, his choice of music is too base-y with the sub-woofer in the back. The only thing
the ride has accomplished so far, is loosening the leftover phlegm in my lungs from my bout of walking pneumonia last year.

  “So, what kind of tattoos do you do?” I ask, competing with the base that might actually be jiggling my cheeks.

  “What, you mean beyond sorority letters and tramp stamps? What the fuck do you mean, what kind of tattoos do I do?”

  “Never mind, I just thought that tattoo artists specialized in something, like bio-mechanical, or new scho—”

  “Portraits,” he says like he just wants to shut me up, and then moves his thumb slightly over the volume buttons on the steering wheel and turns up the music.

  The rest of the ride is spent with me calculating the cost for an Uber home, which is a lot because now we are way out by the stadium. I’ve learned my lesson about trying to talk to him though, so I haven’t made any further attempts.

  I figure if I come home crying or seething with rage, my friends can’t really consider it a success and couldn’t possibly insist on a second date. Thankfully, I’m not masochistic enough to put myself through this again anyway. I’m also not going out with that other guy. I’m officially revoking my participation in this bullshit intervention as of right now.

  After he parks his growly car and unlatches his seatbelt, he looks over at me like he is expecting me to say something. The fresh new silence in the car is just as loud as the horrible music was. Now, he’s just sitting there looking at me expectantly.

  I’m not even sure what I would say because the last time I was in this part of town it was for the circus and I was twelve. So, I just raise my eyebrows at him and wait for further assholeness.

  “Let’s go, Princess,” he says over his shoulder as he climbs out of his seat. I get out of the car like I’m about to face the firing squad, and adjust my purse strap. He waits for me to catch up, but it’s clear that neither one of us wants to be together.

  I had naively hoped Gavin would soften back into the smiling man I first met in the coffee shop, but it’s clear that is not going to happen. So, I will have to slap a smile on my face and get through the next couple of hours with the bastard.