Gradation: an enemies to lovers, steamy romance

by KC Decker

  “So, you’re saying you don’t like them?” I ask, after a slow recovery from the humming of my nips.

  He spins me around so we are both facing the mirror, and while pressed up against me, he murmurs in my ear, “I’m saying…they are distracting.” He continues to breathe against my ear and stare into my eyes while slipping both straps of the suspenders down my arms. He’s undressing me, but only enough to torment.

  He has a steel arm around my waist, and his gaze hasn’t left mine when I whisper, “Well, that’s too damn bad,” and then slip out of his hold. I have to get some distance because I am powerless against him. Until I can tell if he is flirting or simply trying to reclaim the upper hand, I would do well to avoid his carefully set snares.

  ***

  When we arrive at the convention center, I’m still wearing his tank top and suspenders, but I have added the black lace bralette underneath. Gavin teased me all through breakfast, saying things like, it’s a good thing you layered-up because people would have been asking for your autograph. And, Sunrise could have pierced your nipples without you even stepping foot in her booth.

  His shift from lustful man into teasing frenemy is all but complete, and any flirtatiousness has been extinguished.

  Speaking of Sunrise, I’ve been giving more thought to having a few surface piercings done. If I decide to go for it, it wouldn’t be here at the convention, I would need to wait until we get home. I want them hidden from view and don’t relish the rest of this trip with piercings rubbed raw by my clothes.

  Thinking about piercings makes me remember Gavin’s silver balls right above his shaft, and how good he looked this morning. The fact that I know he trims his pubic hair and is packing an impressive appendage is enough to leach the saliva from my mouth. However, I do want to know more about those two little balls.

  “What made you want to get pierced down there?” I ask as I indicate below his belt. He stops removing instruments from his Autoclave and looks at me.

  “Are you asking me about my pubic piercing, Alabama?” The way he asks is like he is trying to embarrass me or incite a blush—both of which happen.

  “It just seems like an unusual spot to be pierced, that’s all,” now I’m feeling shy because of the way he’s still looking at me.

  “Can you really not think of why I might be pierced there?”

  “I mean…I’m sure you have your reasons—”

  “Holy shit! Gavin Rhodes, in the flesh! I’ve waited a long time for this, man!” says the incoming comet that is Gavin’s first client of the day. Awesome.

  Once the formalities are dispensed with, paperwork is finished, and ink work started, I begin to drift further and further away from the booth. After two days of this, I know people tend to wait until he is not gloved and elbow deep in a tattoo before they purchase merchandise or schedule anything. And, with the exception of a few interested suitors that hang around well past their welcome, no one is here to see me, so my presence is not required.

  “Not so fast, Hot Stuff,” Gavin calls out. “I’m going to have time in between clients today to do some flash.”

  “O-kaaay,” I say, not really sure what that has to do with me.

  “I want you to go through the people from this convention who signed up for my mailing list and find me two people that are interested in quick, easy tattoos.”

  I make my way closer to him so I can see his progress, ever mindful of threatening his sterile field. “I’m just supposed to pick someone?” I ask.

  “No, you’ll need to ask some qualifying questions first, and contacting them by email is not exactly efficient. It will take some time.”

  “What kind of qualifying questions?”

  “Do they have an image with them? Is it a size that can be completed in a short timeframe? Have they been drinking? Stuff like that. I can only do so much with the time I have between clients. Plus, flash is basic work, and not everyone wants basic work.”

  “Got it. Weed out the partiers with thinned blood. And determine who among your minions wants sorority letters or a tribal armband. I’m on it.” Gavin looks down, but not before I see the smile he’s trying to hide.

  I suppose this is as good a time as any to input the names from this convention into a spreadsheet. That way, it will at least be organized, and he can compile it with his master list. Too bad he has seven or eight different files dedicated to his mailing list—it’s hard to say which one is the master list.

  After comparing the files and finding no overlap and even less consistency, I determine that I’m dealing with fifty-eight signups from this convention and thousands upon thousands from God-knows-where-else.

  “Do you have a file with your master list?”

  “Nah, I just start a new one for each convention.”

  “You don’t have them compiled? How do you even work with so many different lists?”

  “I don’t,” he says, and from an advertising perspective, his words burn my ears.

  “I’m sorry, WHAT?”

  “I don’t even know why I have them. I don’t do anything with mailing lists.”

  “For fuck sake, Gavin! You need me more than I thought.” He answers me with a non-committal snort and then tucks his head back into his work.

  I spend the next two and a half hours creating a master file, linking it to his website, and fielding potential flash clients. He is sitting on a goldmine as far as marketing goes, never mind the branding aspect that is almost completely untapped. His website doesn’t even sell merchandise or offer promos.

  I pick the first two flash clients that I deem appropriate—one guy and one girl. Then I have them fill out their paperwork, and prep each of them by cleaning and shaving the work area, I make copies of their flash art and then send them on their way after leaving me with their mobile numbers.

  “Gavin, do you think your receptionist would want to make more money hourly by processing and packing up e-commerce orders?”

  “Sure, she’s bored a decent percent of the time. But I don’t sell merchandise online.” Because I do it behind his back, he misses the incredulous miming of having my mind blown.

  Short of texting the flash clients when Gavin is ready to see them, I don’t do anything for the rest of the day except design him a new website that I will present to him later. He doesn’t have to use mine, but he would be an idiot not to. Design is not my forte, but marketing is, and I can help him.

  I suspect his lack of a social media presence, e-commerce website, and useable mailing list have more to do with him being overwhelmed rather than a lack of desire. He has a mailing list, he just doesn’t know what to do with it. And, although he has merchandise made for him, I can almost guarantee he fumbles through the inventory and reorder process. The fact is, this could all be so much easier and streamlined for him.

  It’s not until he is working on his last client of the day that he takes actual notice of me taking pictures with my phone. They are mostly artistic shots of stuff like his tattoo machine or the little plastic cups of ink, but I can do some cool stuff with them like blurring the background or adding texture. The ones I take of him are on the sneak because he keeps crossing his eyes when he knows my phone is directed at his face.

  Anyway, I’m so focused on my mission, when Sunrise enters the booth with the same intensity of a high school drumline, she startles me.

  “Gavin, come—your guy is a finalist for Best Tattoo of the Day!” Gavin’s back is to us as he labels the sterilization sleeves for the Autoclave, but he remains fairly non-pulsed about the whole thing. He casually finishes what he is doing and then turns to face us.

  “Well, alright then, let’s go.”

  ***

  For the second time this convention, Gavin wins Best Tattoo of the Day. The tattoo that won this time was done in color. His black and gray work is amazing, but I’ve never seen anything like his color tattoos. I’m struck by how humble he is about the whole thing too. I get the impression that he likes being th
e best, but doesn’t like to announce it or be showy about it.

  Once he’s off the stage, he only puts up a minimal fight when I start snapping selfies of the two of us. He even draws me in close and puts his tongue in my ear, which made for a really cute pic. In it, I’m caught in an open mouth laugh while he is facing me with his tongue in my ear, and his eyes turned to the camera looking mischievous.

  One of Gavin’s tattoo buddies tells us everyone is going out after everything gets broken down and packed up, and because I’m starving-hungry, I decide to be very helpful in the break down process.

  The convention doors were supposed to close at eight tonight, but there are still some stragglers as we take down the banner and pack up everything that will be shipped home. The convention was a success if you gauge it by the stupid amount of money Gavin made, but also because he doesn’t hate me anymore. He is not necessarily a fan, but the burning animosity is gone.

  After we are completely finished packing up, I crack open the laptop. Gavin is giving everything a final wipe down with germicidal wipes when I call him over.

  “What do you think about this?” I ask when I show him the website I designed. He does a double-take when he sees his logo and name along with a really cool picture of him from the side. I hold up a finger for him to wait, as I navigate to the product page.

  “You can set it up to reorder when you get down to a certain amount of inventory, and it creates your mailing labels for you.” He leans in, surprised I have his current merchandise itemized and described on the page already. “I also have a mailing list service merged with your site, links to your social media profiles and an—”

  “I don’t have any social media profiles,” he says as he leans in and navigates back to the home page. I took the bio from his old, janky site but it looks a thousand times better now.

  “Sure you do, look,” I show him all the new profiles I set up. “They aren’t live, but I wanted you to see the potential.”

  “Damn, Alabama. Did you do all of this today?”

  “Yes. And look at this, I want to show you an example of something you could send to your mailing list.” Before I click on the navigation bar, I ask him, “What do you think is the most frustrating thing for your clients right now?”

  “Easy. Waiting so long to get in.”

  “That’s what I thought, so look at this.” The page gives his clients a chance to win airfare, hotel, and a six-hour tattoo for $50. I worded it so 50% of that price would be a donation to one of two charities. I chose both charities strategically, one is Susan G. Komen, and the other is The Children’s Hospital, both of which I know he is involved with just from his dating profile pictures.

  “I don’t know if you are aware, but your mailing list has more than 17,000 people on it. With this one promo, you would cover the costs associated with the tattoo, and make some hefty charitable donations.”

  “Damn.”

  “You don’t have to inundate your mailing list with spam either, maybe send something twice a year. Throw them a bone, give them an opportunity to get in sooner.”

  “This is incredible.”

  “I know, now let’s go eat—I’m starving.”

  Chapter 18

  Having been chosen as the designated hangout spot for the final evening of the tattoo convention, the bar is crowded. Not just crowded, but spilling over, and feisty. The clientele of this place is best described with a Yin and Yang symbol. On one side of the symbol are the preppy frat boys, and on the other, are the leather-clad bikers. The women here run the spectrum, but I’m fine with any of them that don’t smell like gasoline.

  Gavin parts the crowd and arrives back at our bar table with five or six shots held recklessly in each hand. I can’t tell what they are, but I’m fairly certain they will put hair on my chest.

  Hands from every direction divest him of the shot glasses while spilling a healthy amount onto the dinged-up tabletop. On an empty stomach, the slug of burning hellfire will go straight to my head, so, I need to order food, and soon.

  I’m blinking away the tears caused by swallowing that nasty shot when Gavin makes a sweeping scan of the crowd and then announces his assessment.

  “I’m kind of sick of the bar scene.” He doesn’t say it with any passion, or even disappointment. It’s more like his shining declaration of boredom. A few of his friends scoff and then promptly ignore the unpopular sentiment, but Sunrise lights up.

  “Me too. Let’s get out of here and order a pizza,” she suggests. I would be thrilled to leave the bar as long as it involves food. I don’t get a chance to answer though because Phillip loudly agrees with her and then grabs her face for an impromptu kiss.

  “Our hotel has a rooftop pool,” Gavin says as he stands up, apparently having made the decision for all of us.

  ***

  The evening air is crisp up here. It’s too chilly to swim, which proves God answers prayers because I was praying like a motherfucker that I wouldn’t have to get in the pool.

  For its part, the hot tub has fallen down on expectations too because it’s warm, but only just. None of us want to get in a merely warm hot tub, so we sit around the edge of it, dipping our lower legs and finishing off the delivered box of pizza.

  I suppose I have the same rules we are breaking to thank for the fact that the four of us are alone up here. But also, for the hot tub timer that ensures compliance of said rules.

  It’s Sunday evening, so the pool closed an hour ago. Had we come last night, the rooftop terrace would have been open until midnight, and someone would be mixing drinks behind the bar. As it stands now, the pool is brightly lit, and the row of four cabanas sit empty except for the double lounge chair and short stack of towels in each one.

  I’m not one for

  breaking the rules, but I’m also not one to stand up to three other people who have no such qualms, so, here we are. A pencil skirt may not be the best option for sitting on the edge of a hot tub, but it’s better than the alternative—which is swimming naked in the pool.

  “So, Alabama, Gavin tells me you two met on a dating site, is that right?”

  ***

  Gavin has this look every now and then where he tips his chin down but keeps his eyes locked on mine. In those moments, he looks like a carnivore braced and ready to pounce. But there is also a certain haughtiness to it, like he outranks everyone else. That look always seems as though he’s establishing himself as the Alpha, or maybe reminding us that we are only visitors in his world.

  The problem with that is that I haven’t gotten to where I am at work by letting people designate me the omega. I have a trait that’s inherent to my being, and that trait makes me want to push back. I want to challenge his authoritative position. Not that I don’t respect it, I just don’t buy into the superiority it imparts.

  If I were to analyze my instinct to challenge him, purely from a Monday morning quarterback’s perspective, of course, I would say I’m trying to claim the footing I was denied growing up. But I’ll let a therapist sort all that out at a later time.

  Right now, we are sitting across from each other on opposite sides of the hot tub. So his chilly, deep blue gaze is mostly trained on me. The naturally superior, Alpha one. The conversation has stalled a bit too, but no one seems to want to fill the empty space.

  Sunrise looks at Gavin—with that look on his face, and then back to me before suddenly wanting to get out and dry off her legs. His look apparently spoke to her—or maybe it was the same look mirrored on my face that made her decision, but she didn’t waste any time pulling the lever on her ejector seat.

  “I’ve had enough of this lukewarm water, what about you?” her question is directed at Phillip, and it lands like a bullwhip before he too jumps up. For a few minutes, Gavin and I just watch them right their clothes and gather up whatever personal belongings they brought with them. If you ask me, I think they are in just as big of a hurry to be alone, as they are to leave us to our sexually charged showdown.


  I like them both, quite a bit actually, but I’m not sad to see them disappear through the huge glass doors. There is a quiet left behind them that sounds like nothing more than a summer’s breeze. The city noise is well below us, so the only real sound to carry on that breeze is the buzzing restraint keeping my body from pouncing on Gavin.

  I should be pretty relaxed now that the hustle and bustle of the convention is over, but I’m not—not at all. I feel like an overfilled, pinched shut balloon that someone’s about to let go of. And the fact that I want to vault over the water and find out what Gavin’s tattoos taste like is not helping my state of mind.

  Now that we are alone, I feel reckless. And the look on his face isn’t helping matters. Nope—not one bit.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Alabama?”

  “I’m not looking at you in any particular way, I just haven’t figured you out yet, that’s all.” I break eye contact for a second because it feels too intimate with just the two of us up here. When our eyes meet again, the same intimacy hovers, but there is caution there too.

  “No? What would you like to know?” He is almost purring, but it also feels like he is setting a trap for me to mindlessly walk into.

  “Offhand? I don’t know—lots of stuff, I guess.”

  “MmHmm,” he mumbles, but it still sounds like a challenge as he drags his palm across the scruff on his chin. “Like my pubic piercing, Alabama?” His eyes are sharp again, and the color of the churning ocean.

  I try to remain undaunted by the thought of those two silver balls right above his shaft, but the way he says my name tickles the inside of my pelvis. We are both stone-cold sober, and he is directing the conversation down a sexy path. This might be unrecoverable for me because I won’t be able to go back to how it was at home before any sexy conversations were introduced.