by Dawn Metcalf
“It was a convenient culmination of circumstance that resulted in providing a necessary scene that could be passed along to interested parties.” The dimples betrayed his nonchalance. “Besides, she owed me a favor.”
Casting a last glance at the blond man, bruised and bleeding, Joy gave an overexaggerated shiver. “Remind me not to owe you any favors.”
Ink laughed. Really laughed. It transformed him for an instant into a person. Joy smiled.
“I cannot blame him,” Ink added, looping his chain around his finger. “She is very pretty.”
Joy stopped smiling.
“You think she’s pretty?” she asked.
Ink shrugged, slicing their exit. “And I said that you were beautiful.”
Joy’s mouth was open and she tasted the strange, cool rain of him as they walked through the breach. It infused her sinuses like wine and lemon, a vapor of Ink soaking into her brain.
“No, you didn’t!” Joy said. Her words came out mist. A February chill filled her room—the electricity must have gone out. She rubbed her arms, pushing past Ink to grab a fleece out of her closet. His eyes followed her as he struggled to puzzle out her words.
“What did I not do?”
“You never said...” she started as she pushed her hands through the sleeves, her breath ghosting in the room. “You said that about...my arm. About the brand. Not me.”
Ink cocked his head. He stepped closer. Joy shyly tucked her hair behind her ear.
“That may have been what you heard,” he said softly. “But that was not what I said.”
The words hung like mistletoe.
Joy stumbled beneath them, trembling slightly.
“I saw your face when I said it,” he whispered. “You did not understand. I see that now.” Ink struggled with something internal. Joy watched, transfixed.
It was his innocence that allowed it. His hand slid inside her unzipped fleece, pushing the sleeve aside, heedless of anything other than the most direct path to touching her skin. Joy shrugged her shoulder free as Ink cupped his hand over the rose, smoothing his palm against its rippled surface. He ran a thumb over it lightly.
“You are strong, Joy Malone,” he said, acknowledging, admiring. His eyes flicked to hers. “You are brave. And you are beautiful.”
Even with the cold, her bare skin burned. The fresh-fallen rain scent rose between them in summer storm crackles. Lifting her face, she nearly brushed his cheek, looking from his eyes to his perfect Joy-alike ears. Ink stood tentative and still, unsure of what to do—one hand on Joy’s arm, their chins almost touching, their eyes darting over details, yet to settle on any one place.
Joy’s lips parted, but there were no words for what she felt. Ink tilted his head as if waiting to hear what she would say, what hadn’t yet been said between them. Each tiny motion brought them closer. Each ticking moment asking a question. She tried to think of something to say, something to do, but she kept slipping further, unable to come up with one coherent, rational...
Joy felt his smooth face against the downy edge of her cheek. Lips hovering, barely touching, they were breathing one another’s air. His hand squeezed her arm as if about to push or pull.
Joy touched the silky edge of his sleeve.
Pulled.
No one had ever just kissed her—just a kiss—and just kissed. There was no confidence or eagerness or have-to’s or getting somewhere. No agenda. No next. Nothing else. There was only the kiss.
They kissed that first kiss for a very long time.
When it broke, they were breathless, their cloudy exhalations the only sound in the dark.
Ink spoke through quiet gasps, his hands kneading her skin.
“Again, please.”
She did.
They both heard the door opening as her father came home. Their kisses subsided and the lingering began—they stayed within breaths of one another, ready to start again.
“Joy?” her father called out. “I’m home. Gah! It’s freezing in here!”
“Tomorrow,” Ink whispered. Joy felt the word puff on her skin. She nodded slightly. He made no move to leave or let go. She didn’t want him to. Stay, she begged him silently. Stay.
“Joy?” her father called again.
“Tomorrow,” Ink repeated, convincing himself more than her. He backed away. Joy moved to follow, but stopped at the door.
“Tomorrow,” she said. And when she blinked, he was gone.
“Be out in a second!” she shouted, and looked back at the space where Ink had been, adding in a whisper, “If that.”
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS THERE like a kiss good-morning.
Meet me at the Carousel. Nine o’clock tonight.
Joy pressed the note to her chest. She laughed at herself and at him. Whoever heard of anyone actually writing the word o’clock? She adored that little detail and read it over and over again. She loved it. She loved him.
She loved Ink.
She carried the note, a tangible reminder of him, with her—tucking it into her binder or her pocket, using it as a bookmark, rereading it and reliving it through class after class. Joy memorized Ink’s perfect penmanship and tried to imagine what he had planned.
The Carousel’s Under 18 Night. Thursday night. Tonight. The trick was getting there, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Monica so owed her. Joy readied herself in the lunch line. Negotiation was a delicate business, so armed with a lunch tray and an extra fudge brownie, she was in a good, strong position to start begging her friend for a ride. Joy approached their table with an opening bid on her lips.
Monica grinned. “Hey! Want to go dancing tonight?”
Joy’s mental gearshifts did a full reverse. “Huh?”
“I told Gordon that I am not going out tonight unless you come with us,” she said sternly. “And I didn’t want you feeling like a third wheel, so I asked if he’d be willing to set you up with his hottie friend....” She hesitated. “Unless your mysterious Mr. Someone-A-Guy would be willing to reveal himself to witnesses?”
“You mean grilling?” Joy said as she took a seat.
“I mean serious grilling,” Monica confirmed.
“Pass on the grilling and the hottie, but otherwise, count me in,” Joy said, biting into her brownie.
“You sure?” Monica pressed. “Gordon’s got this friend, Luke, who is seriously luscious.”
“Pass,” Joy said, thinking of Luiz and Nikolai and the other Cabana Boys. She doubted hottie Luke would even make the grade. “I just want to go to the Carousel and dance.”
“The Carousel?” Monica said, shrugging. “Okay. You got it.”
Joy played with her fork, congratulating herself on the win. It would be kind of like a double date, and not. Ink would be there, with her in public...but nobody else would know. A secret date. She nibbled frosting off her thumb.
“Hey, Mon,” Joy said. “Can I borrow your mesh top?”
* * *
The air licked Joy’s skin as she entered the club. Feeling nearly naked with the fine metal mesh tied over her chest, Joy tried locating Ink in the crowd. Her hip-hugger jeans drew the eye dangerously low and she knew that a lot of guys were looking. Neon-colored lights danced erratically over her broken-silver surface. She wore her hair up with long earrings dangling down. The borrowed clothing helped Joy feel beautiful and mysterious. She wanted Ink to be the one who was surprised tonight.
Monica had been shocked by the briar rose brand, but insisted that they “pump it up” with silver glitter gel. A breeze kissed the spot in delicious, cold tingles. Joy felt it all, like the eyes in the club. She smiled and didn’t care if her teeth glowed purple.
“You look great,” Gordon shouted over the grinding bass hum. He gave Monica a squeeze to show where his loyalties lay.<
br />
“Thanks,” Joy said. “It’s Monica’s shirt.”
Gordon cuddled his girlfriend closer. “I think I recognize it,” he teased. “But it looked better on the floor!” Monica swatted his chest. He laughed and tickled her back. She squealed. Joy rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh.
Monica smoothed her hair to one side. “So are we here to chitchat, or are we gonna dance?” The three of them forced their way onto the rotating floor.
Forming a wedge, they were able to dance without having to fight for room. Monica and Gordon didn’t mind being squashed together, but Joy widened her feet, defending her meager territory.
Joy waved her hands above her head, sparkling with glitter and sweat. She arched her spine, feeling the nostalgic burn in the back of her calves, welcoming the stretch like an old, familiar friend. Joy drew herself up slowly, keeping her knees bent and bouncing lightly to the beat, eyes always searching the slowly turning perimeter.
Swimming in the sound, Joy kept a lookout for Ink in a shock of black hair or a flash of shirt, each burst of excitement souring when she’d realize that it wasn’t him. White fairy lights, black tattoos and bright afterimages flashed in her eyes, but no Ink. Where was he? What if he didn’t show? What if something had happened? What if he left her waiting all night?
Joy stomped her feet to the driving rhythm. Dancing alone was never a problem until you were expecting someone else.
The tempo of the song grew faster, a soprano solo climbing the scales, inviting everyone on the floor to go wilder, higher. Joy tucked her chin and crossed her wrists and spun, feeding the rush, losing herself. She raised her eyes to the carousel ceiling and watched the mirrors spin, remembering not that long ago...the first time that she’d seen him, the first time that they’d met.
The painful lick of a silver blade—like his voice slicing through the din—Flash-Flashed! in her memory. But this was now and so much had changed.
She saw him. He saw her.
The music slowed, coaxing the crowd’s energy like the tide. Ink rode the undulating waves as if walking through water, people parting for him though they were unaware that he was there.
The song was slow and sensual. Joy smiled, her eyes half-closed as Ink placed his hands along her waistline, his smooth skin sliding against hers. The silver mesh of her top winked pink-purple-black. It shone in his eyes, a thousand midnight sparkle stars. Ink followed her body’s rhythm as he had traced the shape of her ear—wholly absorbed, fascinated, mesmerized with open wonder. Ink was caught in her currents, moving as she moved, his body gliding naturally along her ebbs and swells.
Joy danced with Ink’s hands and his fingers and the touch of his lips, unseen, smack in the middle of a crowded room.
She felt the music change as the tracks combined, the first chords overlapping and pulling more couples to dance. The DJ pumped his fist and cranked the sound higher. The music kept thumping, thick as a pulse. The sound beat their bodies. Ink leaned his face close to hers.
“Joy,” he breathed into her ear. The warmth of it made her shiver.
She closed her eyes and murmured into her neckline. “Ink.”
“I am here,” Ink whispered, clear as glass. His fingers trailed down her arms. “I am very, very here.”
He leaned even closer, his face just touching hers. She felt a million tiny hairs on his skin rise.
“Can you feel me?” she whispered.
His voice was soft in awe. “Yes.”
“Move the feeling,” she said, kissing her fingertip, indenting her lip. She touched her finger to his lower lip and pressed lightly. “Here.”
Ink smiled and closed his eyes, a flicker of his eyelids, concentrating. Her finger gave a little as his lips grew pliant, more tactile and supple. He drew his head sideways, feeling her finger slide over the newly sensitive skin. She watched his eyelids soften, his lashes flutter.
“Feel this,” she whispered and kissed him.
He groaned and folded around her.
They were both so very, very there.
* * *
Joy floated into the house, somehow getting from the car to the gate to the hallway to the door of her room. She couldn’t remember details. She’d said something to Monica and Gordon at the end of the night, but it didn’t matter. Her body buzzed. Her lips tingled. She could smell Ink’s rain-scent in her hair. Everything everywhere was a gorgeous midnight fog.
She was drunk on him. Ink.
Joy unhooked her earrings, scrubbing her fingers through her hair stiff with spray and sweat. She could call him just by saying his name. She knew she shouldn’t—he’d left her with a caress before she’d ducked into Gordon’s car—but she could. She knew that. And the temptation sang inside her.
Joy needed a shower, but she wanted to hold on to this feeling as long as she could. All of it. Down to the last flake of glitter stuck on her skin.
Her cell phone rang. Joy scooped it up, smiling.
“Hello?”
“Joy?”
Her heart slammed. She sat down.
“Stef?”
She burst into tears, which she knew was ridiculous, and they both were babbling, soothing one another as they had when they were kids scared by thunderstorms or their parents fighting, huddled together under Winnie-the-Pooh blankets.
The initial downpour finally settled down into a trickling silence. Joy sniffed.
“I got your calls,” Stef said. “And your texts. And emails. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t hire a skywriter.”
“I’m sorry!” Joy said, cutting her brother off. “I should have said ‘I love you’ when you told me.”
His silence was painful. “Yeah,” Stef said. “You should’ve.” Joy swallowed and popped her ears. “But now you have. So, thanks.”
They sat on the phone while Joy picked at her cuticles and Stef did the same bad habit several hundred miles away.
“When did you know?” she finally asked.
Stef chuckled in his tired, worn-out way. “You mean when did I know that I was in love or when did I know that I was gay?”
Joy shrugged, a gesture unseen. “Either. Both.”
“Same day,” he admitted, which sounded strange, but kind of awesome.
“How about you?” he asked back. “Is there a guy?”
“There is a guy,” Joy confirmed.
“Okay, good.” She could hear Stef’s grin right over the phone. She drank it like hot cocoa. With marshmallows. “So? When did it happen?”
Before he yanked out Briarhook’s heart. After he caught the milk jug. Before we walked on the beach. After he stabbed me in the eye. Tonight, most definitely.
“I don’t know when, exactly,” she said. “It sort of surprised me.”
“Yeah.” Stef laughed. “Me, too.”
“So...do I get to meet him?”
“Someday,” Stef hedged. She couldn’t blame him. They hadn’t even managed to figure out how to do things like Christmas without Mom.
“How about your guy?” Stef asked. “Do I get to meet him?”
“I don’t know...” Joy began.
“Aw, c’mon,” Stef said. “It’s my sacred duty as your older brother to harass your boyfriends. It’s practically my birthright!” Joy laughed as he carried on. “Can you at least send me a picture so I can have him followed?”
“Ah...no.” Stef could never have a picture. No one could. And as for following Ink—fat chance! Joy smiled at the thought.
“Well, he’d better be nice to you,” Stef warned.
“He is,” Joy said. “Same goes for James.”
“We take care of each other,” Stef said. Then there was this long, long pause of nothing to say when there was everything to say. It poured into her veins and pressed on her chest.
&
nbsp; “How did we get here?” she asked.
Stef considered the question. Joy heard doors opening and shutting, the background noise of U Penn.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you happy?”
Am I happy?
“I think I am,” Joy said. “You?”
“I know I am. Yes.”
“Then we’re good?” she asked.
“Yeah. I think we’re good.” Stef cushioned his exit with a friendly pause. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll ping you with a time when we can talk over the weekend. I want to know everything that’s going on. Everything. I mean it.”
“Me, too,” Joy said gratefully.
“And, Joy—does Dad know?”
“About you or the guy?” Joy asked. “Either way, the answer is no. Why?”
Stef hesitated. “He’s not like Mom, Joy—he needs to know things. You’ve got to tell him.”
“Oh, yeah?” she said. “What about you?”
“I’ve got to tell him, too.”
Joy swallowed around the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t picture how to handle either of those things.
“Well, then, good luck to both of us,” she said.
“Remember,” Stef said, “one conniption fit at a time.”
“Great,” she muttered. “You go first.”
“How about I’ll tell Mom about mine and you tell Dad about yours and then they can yell at each other about who’s more at fault and that’ll keep them off our backs for a while.”
Joy laughed aloud. It felt good. “You’re evil!”
“I try my best,” Stef quipped. “Seriously, gotta go.”
“Then go,” Joy dared.
“Bye!”
“Bye!”
They both hung up and Joy grinned through tears. She hugged a pillow to her chest and laughed into the fluff, kicking her feet against the mattress in delight. Everything was going to be okay!
It was the absolute perfect ending to a perfect, perfect night.
* * *
Joy was busy ignoring Mr. Soares, writing a playlist to capture the feeling of right then, right now, when a weird pressure powdered over her eyes.