Train Wreck

by T Gephart

  Instead, I kept talking, vomiting out words so I was distracted from looking at his beautiful face. I needed to keep my objective in my sights—I was there for a purpose. Plus surely the longer I spent in his presence the more desensitized I’d become.

  And lucky I hadn’t seen Josh before I’d paid off Matt, or I’d have easily offered a thousand.

  I blamed my mental impairment on hormonal imbalance or maybe we just stick to my original diagnosis—insanity. Because there I was, less than a minute away from actually picking up a tattoo machine and giving it a serious try.

  Idiot.

  “Wow. You’re beautiful.” The man who walked in and saved me from making a huge mistake blinked at me. “Josh.” He tilted his head but kept his eyes on me.

  He—the new guy—was tall too, but a few inches shorter than Josh. And while he didn’t measure up to Josh’s level of panty melting, he could easily set off a smoke alarm or two of his own. Who knew all these hot men were hiding in tattoo shops in Queens? That’s something the city should put in their travel brochure or something.

  But for all my keeping it together, I had now frozen, like a deer in headlights. Words? Who even knew what they were anymore or how to use them. Because I had zero explanation for what I was about to do, or why I was acting like an absolute lunatic.

  “She paid Matt to take a walk, said she was an artist,” Josh answered when I didn’t, his voice rumbled out of his throat. Lord, he was sexy. “I thought she might have been a friend of yours.”

  “Oh no, I’d remember a friend who looked like her.” New guy’s eyebrow rose and gave me a very suggestive smile. “Especially those tits.”

  And thaaaat was all it took, snapping me back from la-la land to the man who was undressing me with his eyes.

  “I’m standing right here, you know.” I waved; the attention the second guy was giving me making me feel defensive. “And my eyes are up here.” I pointed in case he had a hard time locating them, most of his focus being on my breasts.

  “Dallas, apologize to Eve.” Josh swung his legs around from his fancy chair, letting his heavy boots drop to the floor. “And considering you’ve been on my ass about hiring another set of hands, I would hope you’d keep it polite.”

  “Whoa.” Dallas held up his hand in surrender, taking a step back from both of us. “You’re a tattoo artist?” A mixture of shock and surprise flashed through his eyes.

  “No, I’m not.” It shot out of my mouth instinctively. “I’m an artist,” I tried to annunciate it clearly to try to show the distinction. “Singular but my mediums are varied—paper, canvas, sometimes ceramic—”

  “Wait a minute.” Now it was Josh’s turn to hold up his hands and wear the look of surprise. “You aren’t a tattoo artist? Why would you agree to give me a tattoo?”

  “WHAT!” Dallas’s booming voice spun the attention back to him. “She was gonna tattoo you? I mean I saw she had gloves on and you were in the chair, but I assumed you were going to . . . you know, get freaky or something.”

  “No! What kind of girl—” No point adding do you think I am to the end of that sentence because they had no idea who I was. Hell, at this moment I didn’t even know who I was.

  “I wouldn’t have done it.” I shook my head, locking eyes with Josh. “You just seemed so convinced that I could and I guess . . . look, it has been a really strange week.”

  Strange week would be the understatement of the century.

  “Dallas, can you give us a few minutes.” Josh shot a meaningful glance to the man who had been ogling my breasts.

  “Dude, I want to hear this.” He tried to protest, not making any moves to leave.

  “I said, get out.” Josh left no room for interpretation.

  “Fine,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he stepped out of the room. “But I want to hear this story later.” He closed the door behind him.

  “So, Eve.” Josh nodded to the stool I had been sitting on before I’d leapt to my feet. “You want to help me understand what this is all about, because I’m a little confused.”

  “Okay.” I blew out a breath, knowing it was the kind of conversation that needed at least three visual aids and probably a testimonial. Hell, where to even start. “I walked in on my boyfriend getting a blowjob from Kitty.”

  Probably not my best start, but oh well, I guess I had committed now.

  “Kitty, your friend?” he clarified, his eyes squinting like he was having trouble following. “The Botticelli back piece?”

  Yeah, so maybe this was going to take four visual aids.

  “Well, she wasn’t my friend when that happened, we sort of became friends after,” I clarified, which didn’t really explain anything other than I was possibly mentally imbalanced.

  “After the blowjob, interesting.” He lowered himself back onto the chair but surprisingly didn’t show judgment. Which was odd because if this were the other way around, I would definitely be judging.

  “I know, I know.” I felt the need to explain further because . . . really who became friends with the girl your boyfriend cheated with. Oh, that’s right. Apparently I did.

  “But, really, it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know he had a girlfriend.” And she was probably doing me a favor. What kind of guy cheats on his girlfriend, in her own house? “And then we started discussing art.”

  Weird segue, but I figured I needed to get to the point.

  “O-kay.” More squinting, more trouble following.

  Wow. I really sucked at this.

  “Actually, I should back up a bit.” Perhaps a little bit more information would be helpful, even if it wasn’t really relevant to why I was here. “The reason I wasn’t completely freaking out about the boyfriend thing was because my career was basically in the toilet.” The truth. And it got no easier no matter how many times I’d said it. “I’d had my first show, and I was massacred by critics.” The hurt and anger still raw. “Like epic level carnage.” Pause. “In print.” Pause. “On the internet.” Pause. “Everywhere.”

  Strangely his expression was vacant of pity, which was usually the reaction that I got. And I really liked its absence considering I’d seen so much of it from everyone else.

  “Go on.” He nodded when I stopped talking.

  “So then we discussed art, like good art and bad art, personal preference.” I skipped over how I’d basically blamed everyone but myself because I figured I’d make my point quicker. “And then she took off her dress and showed me her back.”

  “Hold up.” He laughed, his hands held up as he watched me closely. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but were any kind of drugs consumed that day?”

  Did I even bother telling him that we hadn’t even started drinking the wine yet and confirm the insanity? Better not.

  “I know it sounds crazy.” Hopefully by telling him I knew it wasn’t normal behavior I’d demonstrated I still had some cognitive reasoning. “That I was standing in my kitchen with a half naked girl who had previously had my boyfriend’s penis in her mouth, and I was then staring at her boobs.” The words rushed out of my mouth in one breath. Another breath needed before continuing. “She promised me there was a point to all of it.”

  “She wanted you to be Jack, and to draw her like all of his French girls?” He smirked as he folded his arms across his chest.

  “No,” I laughed, amused by his comparison. “To show me the Botticelli. Which,” my head tipped in his direction, “as I have already said, is amazing. I’ve seen the actual painting, yours was breathtaking.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled, the light hitting his eyes.

  Crap.

  That blue.

  He was so freaking hot.

  Don’t get off track now, Eve.

  “You’re welcome.” I quickly recovered. “So after that, we started talking about you.” Shit, that sounded creepy. “About your talent, I mean.” Better. “And not that the naked stranger in my kitchen wasn’t a reliable source or anything, but I Googled. You’re
quite impressive.” And now I was back to creepy. “Your work, I mean. Your work is quite impressive.”

  Seriously, it wasn’t my exhibition that was the train wreck, it was my life. And possibly that long and convoluted explanation. My mouth was the other causality.

  “As much as my ego likes to hear that.” That smile of his almost as amazing as those eyes. “I’m still not really sure what brings you here, and why you were pretending to be a tattoo artist.”

  “I wasn’t pretending,” I fired back quickly, not liking the inference that I was deceitful. “I said artist, you,” my finger pointed at him, “assumed.”

  “We’re in a tattoo studio.” His arms spread wide indicating the space. “And you said you wanted to work for me. Not a lot of work here for anything other than tattoo artists.”

  “So, I should have clarified,” I added, still only willing to take half the blame for the misunderstanding. “But the reason I wanted to work with you is because, despite us having different mediums, your work comes to life. So much emotion is translated in your pieces. That is difficult to do on a page, but on a living canvas, it’s even harder. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost it. That ability. Who knows, maybe I never had it? But the biggest complaint about my work was while it was technically fine, it had zero emotion. I was called soulless. I have a freaking soul, goddamn it. But I don’t know . . . I guess I need help putting it into my work. Like you do.”

  It was like I was spewing out every thought and couldn’t stop.

  That was what desperation did to me, and I wasn’t even sure he was the answer.

  Why was I even here?

  Why didn’t I lock myself in a room and starve myself for days, let exhaustion and hunger motivate me like Edgar Allan Poe. Okay, terrible example because he died broke under mysterious circumstances, but still. There was something about that Botticelli. Venus’s eyes. I was drawn to her and to the man who created her. And while irrational, for which I had no solid basis for it, in my gut I knew this was the right path.

  Because I was crazy.

  Clearly.

  “Eve, while I’m honored that you think that.” He shook his head, the but sure to follow. “But,” and there it was, “I’m not a life coach. Hell, I’m not even a teacher. And even if I was, what the hell am I supposed to teach you?” He ran his hand through his hair.

  He did bring up a very valid point.

  I wasn’t looking to give up fine art and start a promising career as a tattooist.

  Repeatedly putting a needle into someone’s body part sounded like a special brand of torture, and if I didn’t understand it, then I should damn well not be implementing it. Could have used that kind of wisdom a few moments ago before I’d contemplated tattooing the hot man in the chair.

  “Let me observe you,” I suggested. “You have the X factor. I need it. Help me get it.” I moved closer, hoping whatever it was could be absorbed like osmosis.

  “I’m not some art Yoda. You know, I have no formal training.” He looked me dead in the eye. “Sure, I finished high school, but the rest of my education I got at the bench.”

  “Which is why this is so remarkable.”

  I hated those words the minute they flew out of my mouth. They sounded so arrogant, so elitist. And regardless of where my address was, I wasn’t one of those people who believed money or education made you a better person. It was offensive, and if I’d been on the receiving end, I would have told myself to get fucked.

  “Because I don’t have a degree hanging on my wall?” He tilted his head, waiting for me to continue—the irritation, offense and rudeness lacking in his voice. He was just simply asking.

  “Yes, because I bet half my graduating class couldn’t draw with as much passion and emotion as you, and I went to Yale,” I breathed out.

  And not one of those classmates would have listened this long without calling the cops, or laughing me out the door. He was different. He was soooo different and maybe that’s what I needed.

  It wasn’t about him being hot.

  Honestly, it wasn’t. Well, not entirely.

  It was about the electricity I felt when I looked at his walls.

  At all his drawings.

  At a plain outline of a Japanese fish.

  I had been led here. The gallery sending me home early. Oliver cheating. Meeting Kitty. Her being naked in my kitchen. The tattoo. It all had to be for this, right? The universe closing the door but opening a window.

  “Eve, you seem like a good person.” His face softened, treating me to a wonderful smile. “A little crazy, but nice all the same. And I’m going to be honest with you, because you were honest with me. Even if I knew how to get you where you need to be, I have no time. Illustrated by the fact that no one returned your call. Along with the five thousand other calls I haven’t had time to return and the work I need to turn down.” He shrugged and I knew what came next.

  Thanks for stopping by, good luck or some other bullshit that was supposed to make me feel better. The gentle let down. And I wanted none of it.

  “I’ll answer your phone.” It fired out of my mouth.

  Desperation.

  There could be no other reason why I would offer to become a secretary.

  “What?” He laughed, probably knowing the idea was as ludicrous as it sounded and I couldn’t be serious.

  Except, I was.

  “I already took leave from the gallery.” Which also explained why I was able to be in his shop on Friday during business hours when I should have been peddling ridiculously priced artwork to people who had more money than taste. “Technically they asked me to take it.” There was no point lying about my sudden departure from my day job. “I think the embarrassment of having me there while the debacle was so fresh was more the issue. It’s hard to sell art when the person who is selling to you was basically called a fraud.”

  “Ouch.” He winced.

  “Yeah, and that was from one of the nice ones.” They’d said so much worse. “Feel free to Google me, it seems like everyone else seems to have an opinion.”

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t seem convinced.

  “Seriously, what have you got to lose?” As far as I could see, he was the one who had the upper hand. What was the worst that could happen? I forget to write a message down? They’d still be better off than they were currently. “You need help. I need help. We help each other.” I gestured between us. “I can work with people, trust me. You haven’t seen the type of characters I had to deal with at the gallery.”

  “There’d be other stuff.” He was considering it, I could tell he was. “Helping out around here.”

  “I’m totally good with whatever, within reason. I’m not going to have to shave someone’s balls or anything like that, am I?” Because ewww, and I was positive no one wanted me to accidently slip and cause an injury. I didn’t have the strongest stomach when it came to blood.

  “Err no. If there are balls that need shaving, I’ll get Dallas to do it.” He smiled, and if I were reading between the lines—which I totally was—it sounded like he might have agreed.

  “So it’s settled?” I wanted him to say the words, for there to be no confusion he was agreeing to help me.

  “I can’t pay you what I’m sure you’re worth. Minimum wage probably isn’t the kind of cash you are probably used to.” He looked genuinely sorry, his eyes watching for my reaction.

  “It will be fine, I promise.” Little did he know I didn’t need the money. “Besides, you’re doing me the favor, I should be paying you. So when do I start?”

  “I’m not really sure what the hell just happened.” He took a step closer and stuck out his hand. “But I think I hired you.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” I bypassed the handshake and threw my arms around him.

  Wow, he worked out.

  A lot.

  Shit.

  I was hugging a stranger who had recently become my boss.

  My arms quickly released and I took
a step back out of his personal space. Thankfully he didn’t look mad and/or disgusted.

  Small mercies.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he warned, holding up his finger and politely not mentioning my full-body press against him. “This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. I’m going to pay you, and while you sort through this—whatever it is for you—I’m going to need you to work.”

  “I promise.” I crossed my heart. “I will be your number one employee.”

  “Considering your competition is Dallas, I’d say that’s not going to be hard to achieve.”

  “Even still, I’ll work so hard you’ll wonder how you guys ever managed without me.”

  He wouldn’t regret this.

  I would make sure of it.

  Josh

  “IF YOU WANT TO FUCK HER, YOU should just fuck her. Offering her a job seems like a lot of effort for sex.”

  The man was like a heat-seeking missile, walking into my room the minute Eve had left. And in true Dallas style, he wasn’t subtle and he was thinking with his dick.

  “This isn’t about sex.” I shot him a look that made it clear that hadn’t been my intention. “I didn’t offer her a job to get her into bed.”

  “So you’re blind? Or not interested? Just so I know what I’m working with.” He smirked, knowing the eyes in my head worked just fine and I could see Eve was beautiful.

  Beautiful was actually an understatement; she was more than that. Stunning would be one word I’d use. Eve was the kind of gorgeous that knocked you straight onto your ass. And those curves of hers, dangerous in all the right ways.

  “No, of course I’m not interested.” I lied. Had no choice, if I fessed up and told Dallas half of what I was thinking, I’d never hear the end of it. And that would be bad for everyone. “I don’t have sex with employees.” And that part was definitely true. I preferred to not get involved in a sexual harassment case, thank you very much.

  “But I can, right?” His eyebrows sunk into a deep v. “Because seriously dude, someone needs to.” His arm waved to the door she stepped out of.

  “No, you can’t, and more importantly you won’t.” I walked over to him, my finger jabbing him in the chest. “She isn’t a toy for you to play with and I don’t need the kind of trouble your dating life brings in my shop.”