But then he says, “I guess I just want to know where the obsession comes from. Try to make some sense of where you’re coming from.”
I thunk my cup down on the table and lean forward in my seat. “Obsession?”
He gestures to basically all of me and says, “You’ve practically got no bare skin anywhere and you’re what? Mid-twenties? You must have got a tattoo a month or more.”
Some of my bigger pieces were all day sits. And he’s wrong. “There’s no obsession. This is how I make my living. There’s not many tattoo artists who don’t have ink.”
“What made you wake up one day and decide you wanted to be a tattoo artist?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What made you wake up one day and decide to be an occupational therapist and prude?”
He bristles, squirms in his chair. I smirk at the direct hit. Until he says, “My brother, Ian. He’s why I changed direction. I was heading towards physiotherapist.”
“Did he get hurt?”
“He died.”
My stomach sinks all the way into my one good leg. “God, I’m sorry. We both just manage to keep putting our foots in it, don’t we?”
He nods. Takes another sip. “I’m not sure we’ll ever be on the same page about this.”
I want to ask about his brother, what happened, but if he wanted to talk about it, he probably would have said more. I distract myself with coffee instead, it needs sugar, but I see Ben in a new light. He’s obviously had to deal with some trauma of his own and we’ve seen this year, with Jo, how much that can shape and change a person. I want to give him a break but I want him to give me a break too.
I take a long, slow inhale and then ask, “What can we do here? We’re going to have to work with each other, be in the same room, professionally. How can we get past this so it doesn’t have us at each other’s throats?”
His gaze drops to my throat. There’s a Victorian style lace collar tattooed there. It’s intricate, delicate, beautiful. He probably hates it too. As much as he dislikes me, I need to crack through his shell.
He makes a suggestion. “We could spend some time together maybe? Hang out?”
“I don’t think that’s smart.”
“Because you might see I can be right sometimes?” he says with a wide grin.
“Never,” I promise him, but I smile to soften my response. I want to mention the age gap but that would sound like he’d asked me out on a date and he didn’t. “You’re a surfer guy and I have a newfound hate for the sand.”
“I do other things besides surf,” he says.
“Like what?”
It’s almost like the cogs are turning in his brain but they’re not working to their full capacity. “I like movies,” he says.
“And long walks on the beach?”
“It’s just that I work a lot,” he explains.
“So do I,” I counter, reminding me to check the time. I have a late appointment to tattoo nipples onto a cancer survivor.
“I’m free evenings,” he offers. “Maybe we could get dinner?”
I frown. Is he asking me on a date? “You don’t want to have dinner with me.”
“Have you got other plans?”
No, but I plan to. I made a decision last night to get back on the bike. If I don’t put myself out there, my vagina is going to dry up and be totally unusable. “Maybe.”
“Look, you can just say, not interested, I won’t lose any sleep.”
That’s the problem though. I am interested. He touched me so gently yesterday. Only laughed a little bit at my granny undies. Didn’t cringe or back away from my stump. “I’m rarely good company by the end of the day.”
“Does it hurt still?”
“I tend to favour my other leg too much and not trust the prosthetic. I spend my nights with my legs up, on the couch, in front of the telly.”
“I could bring dinner to you? Eat in?”
“Whoa, slow down there, stranger.” But the thought is almost like a match to the world’s tiniest candle in my nether regions.
“Nothing sordid,” he promises and I almost giggle. Who says sordid? “Just food, conversation, friendship,” he reiterates.
I think of the profile I created last night. I want to put myself out there, I do. But it’s terrifying. Maybe this can be my first step? Get comfortable with a guy rather than jumping into bed on the first date. “Okay. But no shop talk. For either of us.”
He thinks about that for a moment, and then nods but he adds, “Silence it will be.”
I laugh and it feels nice. He’s nice. I’ve never had a Brayden situation like my sister, Jo, had but something tells me Ben is the very dictionary meaning of gentleman.
We go our separate ways, me to tattoo the afternoon away and him to… I don’t even know where. He doesn’t go back into the surf. He gets in his car and drives off. I walk back to the studio and wonder what the hell I’ve got myself into. It feels like we’re about to have a date. Only, it’s more like a friend date, dinner and a movie. He didn’t even ask me what food I like, only to text him my address and he’ll be there at seven.
I send the text real quick before I forget. Then I send one more to my client to ask if they can come in early. I have to tidy my apartment and find clean, non-granny underwear…
Chapter Nine
Ben
I’m going to blame it on too much work and little to no free time. Why the hell did I suggest hanging out?
Maybe because despite what she does, what she looks like with ink covering almost every inch of her body below the neck, she’s sassy and cute and has a beautiful smile. She’s so full of life.
Ian was never full of life. Even before his cancer diagnosis he was dark and brooding, preferring his own company to mine or our parents’. I still blame them a little. They think they did no wrong, that Ian fell in with the wrong crowd and that was the end of it for them. They basically washed their hands of him after that.
At seven-years-old my little brother lost his leg above the knee to osteosarcoma. Primary school was okay because his friends lived his sickness with him. They were sympathetic. High school was hell. He couldn’t find acceptance anywhere. He couldn’t play sports like the other boys. He couldn’t run or tackle or wrestle like the other boys. It didn’t take long for the misfits to take him under their wing, introduce him to weed, convince him to stay out late and do god knew what. My parents tried everything they could think of to keep him on the straight and narrow but that mostly meant youth groups, groundings and church counselling. He never wanted to be there. Never wanted to be a good boy. He just wanted mates. He wanted the pain and misery to go away. With drugs, it did. For a while.
Jen was half right when she called me a churchy. My parents are religious but I’m not. I realised a long time ago that if there is an almighty God, bad things wouldn’t happen to good people.
I’m hoping if I spend some time with Jen, I might be able to swing her thinking on how soon is too soon for amputees to get inked. If Ian had been able to accept his loss he may have gone on to live a long, happy life rather than trying to cover up the ‘ugly’.
At seven pm sharp I knock on a bright pink door with a flamboyant palm tree in the shape of a 1 on it. Ground floor unit at the end of the block. Private. Her.
The door swings open and I forget to breathe. She’s not wearing her wide leg, long, long jeans. She’s actually wearing denim cut offs, the edges fraying almost to her…
“Hi,” she says, leaning against the door’s edge. “My air-con shit itself so it’s like an oven in here. Brace yourself.”
I’m still staring at her legs, vibrant ink on display except for where her prosthetic starts. She’s so petite she almost appears breakable like this.
“I can put my jeans back on if this bothers you? Or you can tell me you forgot you had other plans, leave the food and run away?”
I give myself a hard mental shake. It’s rude to stare. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”
Her gaz
e snaps to mine and she quirks an eyebrow.
I’m quick to explain this time. “I’ve only ever seen you in long pants. It’s different is all.”
“I figured you can handle the view since it’s sort of what you do.”
“What I do?” Is my mouth watering? Jeez. I can’t think straight and all because a bit of skin?
“Is the heat getting to you? Come in and have a drink.” She turns and walks away but it’s even worse from this side because her shorts are so short, I can see the edges of her pale bum cheeks through the frayed blue cotton and patterns on her skin.
I’m a professional. I know skin. I can handle this. My clients often wear gym shorts and god knows, I’ve learned to ignore the constant flash of panties from the ladies. I’ve had to remind more than enough guys not to come to my sessions commando. I can handle some bum cheek from Jen.
I walk into her unit and it’s kind of dark considering it’s still light out. Exposed brick lines one side of the kitchen she leads me into. I’m mesmerised by the splay of her toes against the tile when she stops by the counter.
“You do have a problem with this don’t you? I can’t put pants on, it’s too fucking hot in here.”
I place the bag of food on the counter and then put my palms on the tops of her arms. She’s silent in a heartbeat. “I don’t have a problem with it,” I assure her. “It’s just distracting is all.”
“Distracting?” She’s frowning and confusion fills her expression.
“You’ve got really sexy legs, Jen.”
She takes a step away from me and then another before she opens the fridge door and pulls out two glass bottles. “The heat is cooking your brain, mate. You need this.”
She hands me an ice-cold cider and I gratefully twist the top off and drink half of it in a few loud gulps. She sips hers and continues to stare like I’ve grown a second head since coming into her home. Until she remembers the food.
Opening the paper shopping bag, Jen starts to unload the plastic containers and take the lids off. “What have we got here?”
“I know the owner at the Thai place on Brighton. He’s hooked us up with a nice selection, a bit of everything.”
Her hands still and her back is to me when her chin drops. “I probably should have told you I’m vegan.”
My stomach drops. I’d really hoped to surprise her with some of the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten in a restaurant. “Shit, Jen, I should have asked. Double checked.”
Everything has meat in it from the broth to the spring rolls to the special fried rice. I consider dropping her favourite four letter word when I notice her shoulders are shaking. “You’re not vegan at all. You had a full-fat latte this morning.”
Her laughter fills the kitchen. “Gotchya. If I was vegan, I would have told you before now. Hey, how do you know if someone is vegan?”
I shake my head. Sassy.
“Don’t worry, they’ll tell ya!” She’s still laughing and I consider spanking her for freaking me out. Which makes my dick twitch because no one is spanking anyone no matter how much of her arse cheek is on display.
She takes out two plates from a high cupboard. They have gold stars on them, cheery. We spoon food onto the crockery and then she leads me out onto a covered patio where there’s three faded, green striped chairs and an old glass table on a short, weathered deck.
“Too hot to eat inside,” she says as I sit opposite her.
“That’s okay,” comes my lame reply. I’m a confident guy but she’s thrown me. I have to stop thinking about her bloody legs.
When her moan fills the air between us, my brain almost shuts down completely.
“This is soooo good,” she gushes with her mouth full.
I smile because I know the food is good. “Wait until you try the spring roll. I promise it will be the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth.”
She stops chewing, swallows and looks me directly in the eye. A grin dimples her cheeks and she raises one brow. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she says with a wink.
I knock back the rest of the cider in another two gulps. Why did I have to say that?
There’s a speculative gleam to her as we eat the food and it isn’t the sun this time. Mine is tasteless and might as well be soggy cardboard, I’m so distracted. The deep cut to her halter top is distracting. The way she licks her lips is distracting. Her ink is distracting. When she gets up to get two more ciders, I have to fight the urge to follow her backside with my gaze as she leaves the patio.
I am not a horny teenager. I am not a horny teenager.
That doesn’t work.
She leans over the table to put the drink next to my meal and then sits back down. Her stare is direct. It seems she doesn’t have another setting she can switch to. “So, do you surf every day?”
I crack the lid on the drink and wash down what should be the most amazing beef and black bean. “I wish I could. I try to hit the waves at least three times a week but work keeps me busy most daylight hours and I do some jobs on the side for patients who need more care once they’re discharged out of the system.”
“I take it there’s no girlfriend in the picture?”
I choke a little. “Why wouldn’t I have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?”
She tips her chin to the sky and laughs. “You are so not gay.”
“Why not?”
She looks me up and down around the edge of the table and then licks her lips. “I’d know.”
This time I laugh. Relax a little into the banter. “I could be bi, pan, omni.”
“You didn’t answer the question. No significant other?”
“No,” I relent. “No girlfriend, not gay.”
“Not bi either?” She tilts her head but her gaze is no less sharp. Her deep blue eyes are dancing with humour.
“No. I like women.”
She grins and swigs her cider. “So, you said you do a little on the side for patients who need it. What are we talking? Full service?”
Jeez. She likes to talk in double-entendres. It’s hard to tell if she’s playing with me or this is her level of normal. I’ve heard the way she flirts to take a person’s mind off the tattoo when the pain starts to get too much. I’ve heard her on the phone and with people around the studio. I think it’s her normal.
“Not the full service. Mostly it’s massage and balance work.” I decide to see if she’s playing but maybe it’s the cider making me brave? I get up and move to stand behind her chair. Her hair is soft as silk when I sweep it from her back and over her shoulder. She leans forward when I push gently on her spine. I tell myself this is all in aid of making her relax around me so we can really talk about our differences. “When a person has to rely on one good side, their bad side muscles don’t get used as much.” I press into her shoulder and the sides of her spine, moving lower until I hit the chair back. Then I journey north again, higher, still pressing. I find a knot and work it with my fingertips until she’s moaning and her hair is nearly mopping her empty plate. “You’re tight,” I tell her.
“Never stop doing that,” is her response.
I chuckle and reluctantly move my hands away, back into my space and out of hers. “Do you see anyone?”
“Nah. I got kicked out of the public system a while back, once they judged me ‘whole’, whatever that means.” Her painted fingernails catch the evening light and sparkle like she used glitter when she makes air quotes.
I sit, drink more. “You could see a physio? Get those kinks worked on.”
Her grin is back in no time. “There’s nothing wrong with having a few kinks.”
She’s definitely playing with me. The question is…do I want play with her?
Chapter Ten
Jen
If I’d known about Ben’s magic hands, I wouldn’t have tried my hardest to push all his angry buttons. He only touched me for about thirty seconds but the bliss when he hit one of those spots on my back that have been annoying me lately is lovely.
“How would I become one of your on the side patients? Get a massage for real?”
“Are you serious?” he asks, his eyes wary, his frown setting in.
I laugh. “Of course I’m serious. My back is tight as f…tight. Leaning over all day every day, then add in the balance thing, good side, bad side, I need work.”
He seems to be considering it and anticipation winds up my insides. I try to think about it as purely professional but it’s hard for me when he’s sitting there all hot and shit and I haven’t had a man’s hands on me, in me, for too long.
He breathes deep, steeples his fingers under his solid, bristled jaw line and says, “I have my gear in the car? I could loosen some of that tension right now if you want?”
But it’s not the tension in my back I’d like him to loosen right now. I nod anyway because my neck and shoulders do hurt all the time. I just add it to the bag of silent woes I carry around every day. “Thanks. That would be awesome.”
I tidy up the dishes while he goes out to his car. I wonder if we’ll have to use the bed. It’s the only flat non-floor surface I have. My couch wouldn’t work. My insides tighten another notch and my nipples pebble against the surface of my lace bra. I wasn’t kidding when I said I had to get home to find non-granny panties. I also put on a bra, not that I wear them often. I have nice cleavage but my tits aren’t plentiful. This little push up baby is pretty great. For the first time in a long time, I feel sexy, feminine, like I need to be admired by a bloke, even if it’s Ben.
When he comes back in, he has a huge suitcase like object in his hands. “Where do you want me to set up?”
“What is that?” I point to it.
“Massage table.”
“You just happen to drive that thing around everywhere you go?”
He grins. “Yep. I actually do.”
My apartment is small and it’s bloody hot with the air-con out. “Is this going to be PG?” I ask. “Because we could do it out the back?”
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