by KC Decker
He walks back into the bathroom and spits into the sink. “It’s not like I didn’t already see your lacy ass this morning,” he says, coming into view once again. The toothbrush is back in his mouth while he shrugs with indifference.
That comment imparts the knowledge that he did see my uncovered ass this morning. Which means he knows I was snuggled up against him too.
“Just hurry up,” I say on a sigh. If it was possible for my words to blush with embarrassment, they would have.
As soon as he is in the shower, I spring out of bed and grab my clothes for the day. I don’t have a ton of time to think about it, so I snatch the leather halter top and short pleated skirt. This is the outfit Miles had in mind for me to wear with the garter belt. It’s really sexy because it will provide little peaks of the garter instead of an overtly showy announcement. After a few seconds of wicked contemplation, I decide to fight fire with fire, and grab the thigh highs and garter belt.
If he is going to strut around here half-naked and flexing his perfect bod, well then, I’m going to have to try a little harder to get his attention. Two can play at this game. I am worried, however, that I won’t play it nearly as well as he can, but I figure, I can’t be afraid of the wind and sail.
I undo the pile of hair from the back of my head and shake it out—fortunately for me, my hair is always better day two. I also want to get some makeup on before he’s done in there, so I better hurry the hell up.
When he does come out of the bathroom, it’s in a swirl of steam like a sexy apparition, and he’s wearing jeans, but nothing else. I try to remain unflustered as I apply lipstick in the full-length mirror, but there is no chance of that. His half-nakedness is too big of a personality—it takes up the entire fucking room.
While he moves around the hotel room sprinkling his pheromones like pixie dust and leaving the scent of clean lumberjack in his wake, I go into the bathroom and pee what must be a ten-minute stream of nervous urine.
As I stand in the bathroom holding my toothbrush at the ready, I have to push back his words that keep bubbling to the surface of my consciousness—You aren’t my type either, I don’t even like redheads.
In case you think I haven’t noticed the irony in this situation, let me assure you, I’ve noticed. And this particular dose of karmic justice tastes just like fat, greasy crow. I’m not sure if Gavin and I can ever move past our initial meeting, but I’m going to infuse a little of Miles’ intention into everything I do from this point forward. I’m not much for big guns, but I can pull them out when absolutely necessary.
When Gavin leans against the bathroom door jamb to see if I’m ready yet, I lean over the counter a little more because I can’t quite apply my mascara right unless I’m closer to the mirror—aaand bent over so he can see the dangling straps from the garter belt along with the backs of my bare thighs.
“You all…..set?” he asks, faltering the tiniest bit.
“Yep, I just need to get my stockings and shoes on.” I breeze past him wondering if the faint scent of my lotion infiltrates his senses the same way his body wash does mine.
When I sit on the end of the bed to slide my thigh-highs on, Gavin remains in the bathroom, presumably to give me some privacy while fiddling with his grooming products and shaving cream.
I can’t bring myself to wear the super high heels from yesterday, but the ones I choose are still really hot because of the double strap around my ankles. They are only marginally more comfortable than the ones I wore yesterday, but they are sexy as hell.
“Hey, Gavin? Can you come give me a hand please?”
“What do you need? We are going to be late,” he says as he makes eye contact with me, full annoyance firmly in place.
“Can you attach the backs of these? I can never get them on straight,” my request comes as I turn around in front of him, knowing damn well he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
He exhales a gruff sigh and then squats down behind me. “I gotta be honest, I’m usually the one taking these things off—not putting them on.” His words steal my breath as effectively as a punch in the chest, and when his hand grazes just a hint of skin above the lace, his touch sizzles a concise path straight to the nerve center in my brain. Or, more accurately, the nerve center in my clitoris.
When he’s done attaching the straps, he smacks my ass like a football coach telling me to go get em, Champ. When I recover from that and turn around, he is holding the door open for me and appearing impatient. Looks like round one goes to him.
Chapter 15
If I based my tattoo convention knowledge on yesterday, then I clearly need to readjust my expectations because today is like day one— with an exponent of five. The insanity of trying to keep up with everyone’s purchases and doe-eyed obsession with Gavin has the cube on his phone damn near smoking and me opening the second to last box of egomaniac paraphernalia.
“Gavin, what’s this stuff?” I ask as I pull a smaller box out of the inventory under the table.
“Oh, those are art prints. You should probably get them out and put them on display,” he says as I slide the lid off of the box. There is a leather-bound book sitting on top of the stack of plastic sealed prints. It looks worn and well-loved, and it beacons me to open it.
“There’s my sketchbook!” Gavin exclaims as he pauses mid-autograph. “I’ve been looking for that for weeks.”
I put it back in the bigger box for now so I can get the art prints displayed with the rest of the dwindling merchandise, but I’m definitely going to be revisiting it. The sketchbook is clearly important to Gavin, so it must be a treasure trove of insight into his mind.
“Don’t leave that out—someone will swipe it. Then I’d have to murder you and dump your body,” he says over his shoulder. His threat only intensifies my urge to study each and every page.
For now, I look at each batch of prints as I start to organize them. The first image is of a Native American Chief wearing a full feather headdress and beaded chest plate. His face is old and grizzled, but there is so much life in his eyes—the detail is astounding, from the wispy blowing strands of hair to each perfectly notched bead.
The next set of art prints is a woman’s face painted for Día de Los Muertos. Again, the detail is staggering, her irises alone have three or four different levels of color. The other stacks of prints display the same artistry. There is a wolf, a cow skull, an angel, and a soldier.
I hardly get the prints arranged for sale before Gavin’s client is handing me back the clipboard with his paperwork. I can tell he is antsy to get his tattoo underway and that Gavin’s multitude of fans is unsettling to him.
“Alabama, can you get him prepped for me? The top of his arm needs to be shaved and cleaned. Disposable razors are in the top drawer.” When he asks me this, it isn’t really a question, nor does he look at me when he speaks. I’m a little surprised he wants my unskilled help, but there are still a handful of people that want to ask him questions or shake his hand, or bathe in his exhalations, or whatever.
By now, I’ve gotten somewhat used to the women fawning all over him. But more than anything, I’m ready for him to get started on the tattoo so the crowd can finally disperse. The longer he stands there, the more people are going to migrate over. Fricken celebrities.
***
Once Gavin finally gets to work on the tattoo, it’s not long until the convention goers begin to drift away. Let’s face it, no one is here to see me, so people generally wait until he is available before swarming the booth. I have only scheduled a few appointments for him, and for the most part, I try to stay out of his hair—consequently, there is not much to do. I’ve already decided to plan my excursions away from the booth around the shows and demonstrations that I want to watch, so, for now, I’ll stay put.
Remembering his sketchbook under the table with the boxes of inventory, I stealthily pick it up and then move the laptop so I can sit on my tiny allotted desk.
Gavin looks over when he realizes
I’m sitting on top of the chair-less reception table and then does a double-take when he notices my upper thigh. My legs are crossed demurely, but after I see his reaction, I realize he can see the garter against the back of my thigh. Maybe he isn’t as unaffected as he let on. That flash was an accident, but I’ll make sure it happens again—very much on purpose.
He seems to make a point of not looking over at me, but that fact holds its own measure of power. That’s right, Gavin. You focus on your work and try not to think about the bare skin that’s exposed right above the lace of my thigh-high stockings. Yes, but don’t forget that you were the one who fastened them for me.
As I page through his sketchbook, I see everything from dark and twisted demons to cartoonish figurines. He has drawn every conceivable type of animal, bird, and fish, but the drawings that really blow me away are the people. Rock legends, pop stars, athletes, presidents, religious leaders, movie characters, children, sexy women—everyone completely recognizable and drawn with such precision that I—
Wait.
What the…
Holy shit!
I feel like a solar flare has just flashed over the convention center. It’s scalding hot in here all of a sudden, and I can feel the flush of my skin like an over-heated electric blanket. All this suffocating heat happens the moment I turn the page and stare into my own face. The one that’s peering out at me from the pages of Gavin’s sketchbook.
I buzz through a few more pages of myself, some of them shockingly posed and nearly all of them missing some essential clothing, before I become profoundly self-conscious. I sincerely doubt he intended for me to see these.
It takes an extreme effort on my part to quietly close the book instead of studying every last detail of his drawings of me. I don’t even know how many there are because I am so afraid to be caught looking at it.
I quickly busy myself with the merchandise, placing my body between the leather-bound book and Gavin’s attention. I fiddle around re-folding t-shirts until I’m absolutely sure I can replace the sketchbook without being noticed. It feels heavy in my hand, as the constricted breath in my chest tries to work its way up and out my nose.
Gavin has drawings of me. Pages of them. Sexy and beautiful drawings pulled from his imagination…of me.
Chapter 16
Ok, the truth is that the Fuel Girls show was really cool, I’m gonna give them that—but that’s it. Because unfortunately, a couple of them have taken a shine to Gavin. Now, going out tonight will be a little more high octane if you know what I mean.
The whole thing makes me want to gear up for a catfight because they are hanging on him like barnacles. Besides that, they are really beautiful—and their show was crazy sexy, so my insecurities are at a level fifteen on a ten scale.
Not that Gavin is mine to claim, I know this, but I’m just saying I’d like to scrape off the extra hitchhikers. I was looking forward to the same group as last night, but that’s not going to happen because Gavin has too many friends at the tattoo convention—and too many Fuel Girls.
Seeing my images in his sketchbook is messing with my head. Bad. I’m trying not to go to the place in my brain that wants to believe there’s a chance for us because that only sets me up for disappointment. Colossal, heart splitting, disappointment.
Especially with beautiful pierced and tattooed women, who are clearly more his type than the stuffy, red-headed, advertising executive standing in my corner of the ring. I dressed as sexy as I dared to this morning—and had some definite success turning his head—but now we’ve all seen the Fuel Girl’s pasty-covered tits and barely-there outfits, so any images of my garter have been vaporized from Gavin’s memory.
The doors don’t open until noon tomorrow, and we are only two blocks from the hotel, so I make a necessary decision and order a double vodka and soda. Actually, that’s a lie. I order two double vodka and sodas because I’m going to need to double fist it tonight simply to tolerate the additions to our group.
Unlike the place last night, there is no band playing, no good-natured dancing—no real distractions from the Gavin worship that I can’t seem to get away from. Just a jukebox at the front of the bar, and a rather thin crowd.
I’m having a hard time keeping the look of disgust off my face while I watch one of the Fuel Girls rub her crotch on Gavin’s leg. The way he is sitting on the stool with one foot on the floor and the other on the bottom rung places his sloping thigh in the perfect position for her slowly grinding hips.
“Is this chick in heat or something?” I ask Phillip and Sunrise, but it’s not really a question, it’s more of a horrified declaration.
“I don’t think he likes it, look how he is trying to lower his leg,” Sunrise points out. I’m unconvinced, these two women are throwing their sexuality at Gavin like fucking Frisbees, and he is probably fantasizing about the impending threesome to come.
The thought of him having sex with them tonight turns the liquor in my stomach sour. Would he bring them back to our room? Would he go M-I-A until tomorrow at the convention?
“Well, he better be careful, or she’s going to leave some diesel on his jeans,” I sneer. I’m aware that I sound really petty, and the vibe I’m giving off is more than a little jealous, but I can’t seem to reel it in.
Phillip laughs at my comment harder than he should, then takes off to use the restroom while I strain my neck looking for our server. Another drink is clearly in order, along with something greasy and fried. Maybe some cheese sticks will distract me from the leg humping going on right next to me.
“Sunrise, how is the convention going for you? You staying pretty busy?” one of the Fuel Girls asks. It’s better now that it’s down to just two of them, but I still don’t know their names.
“Yeah, I’m staying busy,” she answers. I think Sunrise feels conflicted about talking to her knowing how I feel, but they clearly know each other, so I’m not going to say another nasty word about them.
“And you? What do you do for work?” the blonde Fuel Girl—not to be confused with the dirty-blonde Fuel Girl asks, as if she is interested in a single thing about me.
“Mostly I just complain and make bad decisions,” I answer her flatly. Strangely enough, I can feel Gavin’s chuckle right next to me more than I can hear it. I know she is challenging me to establish female supremacy, but I don’t want to talk about myself with her.
“Really? So, you’re a pretty valuable employee then?” she asks while looking penetratingly into my eyes. Looks like she took my comment as aggressive rather than deflective.
“My value lies more in my inappropriate remarks than my work ethic,” I say. Then, as if God Himself was trying to shut me up with a lightning bolt straight to my face, someone plays Sweet Home Alabama on the jukebox.
The riddle is solved when Phillip returns with a huge grin on his face and announces, “Man, I love this song!” then he grabs Sunrise and does a little dance spin-hug with her while she giggles.
“Not me, I think it’s a dated, hick song that never should have been written, much less played,” Dirty blonde says. I’m not sure if they know my name or not, so I’m withholding judgment on her snarky comment.
“Yeah? It’s one of my favorites,” Gavin says, and one of three things is happening. One, he is teasing me—which is most likely. Two, he is defending me. Or three, he is speaking in code to either Phillip or me. I have no idea which.
“Since you are at a tattoo convention and obviously into ink, why don’t you show us some of your tattoos, Alabama?” Dirty-blonde says to me. Yep, they know my name, so that slam on the song was definitely strategic. I don’t know if they are just trying to get rid of me, or if they thrive on dismantling other women. It’s not important, I guess—either way, they are making me look stupid and ineffectual.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate to show us her tattoos right now, but trust me—they are pretty special,” Gavin says, and I’d say he was coming to my rescue except that he is still so chummy with them. He p
robably doesn’t want to blow his shot at a three-way tonight.
“That’s a real shame,” blonde says as condescendingly as possible, but not to Gavin—she is speaking directly to me.
I’m feeling kind of vulnerable to these Fuel Girls, and I’m all done watching them eye-fuck Gavin and practically come on his leg, so I turn away from the three of them and say to Phillip and Sunrise, “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just head on out. I will see you guys tomorr—”
“Hold it, Sassafras,” Phillip states as he puffs up his chest and moves to stand in front of me. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look up into his eyes because I’m afraid my chin might quiver. Gavin is going to fuck these women, and I can hardly stomach the thought.
Phillip seems to think better of his objection as he glances at the threesome then lets out a sigh. He concedes, “Let me at least walk you back to the hotel.”
Sunrise pulls me into a hug and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m gonna go pick out some songs, so we don’t have to listen to Jack and Diane again.
I don’t say goodbye to Gavin because now the blonde has moved between him and me, completing her perfect trifecta and erasing me from his view and his mind.
When we step out onto the artificially lit Los Angeles sidewalk, I immediately feel the need to derail Phillip from his imminent line of questioning about Gavin and me.
“So, you and Sunrise seem to be hitting it off.”
“Yeah. I love that girl. It’s always good to catch up with her at these things,” he says wistfully as he shoves his hands into his pockets. I knew they were something to each other, but I think he means it when he says he loves her.
“You guys only see each other at conventions?” I ask, surprised. “Why? You guys seem so much deeper than a hook-up here and there.” This, of course, is none of my business, but if he is talking about Sunrise than he is not asking about Gavin or filling my head with all sorts of unrealistic thoughts.