by Jean Haus
“I’m not getting a tattoo,” I repeat, just thinking about a needle piercing my skin gives me the willies.
His lips twitch. “Scared?”
“Yup.”
Geez, my honesty around him is astounding. I’m an open book without one obscure metaphor.
“Well, don’t be. Allie won’t stab you for looking.”
My eyelids drop as I glower at him. “Are you trying to goad me in to going?”
“Maybe a bit,” he admits with a grin.
The grin is what does me in. “All right,” I say, letting go for once. It’s a foreign sensation, but I like the freeing feeling of it. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing”—I take a step back toward my car—“to anything.”
He opens the truck with a nod. “Point taken. See you in twenty.”
On the sidewalk, Jeff pretends to be in deep conversation with Misha as I walk to my car.
I call bull crap.
I’m aware he paid total attention to Gabe and me. I keep a slight smile on my lips as I move between cars. Slipping into my front seat, I realize Gabe’s idea might actually help me con Jeff in to thinking I am making progress. The notion has me smiling for real as I slip into the car.
Though I’ve never been to Allie’s shop, I know it’s on the far side of our small downtown. While I drive, I’m preoccupied with the idea of Jeff buying into my progress by completing the bucket list. The entire scenario is almost perfect.
There’s just one catch.
Can I handle the emotion of it? Or more accurately can I distance myself from the emotion of it? That is the million-dollar question on my mind as I park behind Gabe’s empty truck in front of Allie’s shop.
Chapter 8
~Gabe~
Though April looks out of place, she appears calm and cool in her preppy, white sweater and pressed pants as she enters the shop. I’m always expecting her to pull out a tennis racket from somewhere with the clothes she wears. It’s kind of shocking that she even dated Romeo. Though somewhat tame compared to the rest of us, he is the extreme wild side for her. I’d expect her to date some rich, prick named Edmond or some shit. The two of them sucking on silver spoons and flipping back their hair.
Allie, who is handing me the key to the upstairs apartment, pauses to glance at the newcomer. “Hey, April,” she says in a surprised tone.
Yeah, I’m betting she never imagined she’d see Romeo’s preppy ex in the shop.
April smiles and returns the greeting. Forgetting the key and me, Allie asks if she can help April with anything.
I pluck the key from Allie’s open palm. “She’s here with me.” Both women’s eyebrows shoot up. “But she might be interested in some of your tiniest masterpieces.”
“Is he messing with me?” Allie’s look to April is questioning since April is scowling at me.
April tones down her scowl. “I’m just looking, maybe interested. And I’m not anything with Gabe.”
That has me laughing. April scrunches her nose and Allie appears confused. But within seconds, Allie does show her the smaller designs on the wall above a glass case, then several photographed custom designs in binders.
I stand to the side, watching mostly April. She seems intent on paying attention, which has me hoping that she’ll agree to my help. Selfishly, my offer is not so much about helping her but myself. The idea of it empowers me, makes feel in control, makes the distress of opening up around her less invasive. As soon as the idea hit me the day after the party, I couldn’t let it go. Witnessing the shaking of her hands and the soft timbre of her voice while reading the list, I felt like such a prick for wanting her gone. But I am a prick and I still wanted her gone. But me helping her, her needing me, helps me somehow feel equal to her.
And if that’s going to help me deal, then I’m going to push.
Carefully.
Allie closes the binder and asks April if she has anything custom in mind.
She shakes her head, pointing to the jewelry in the case below the binders. “Are these for belly buttons?”
Fuck. I should be excited that April’s asking such a question—and I am—since it points to the fact that she might agree to my proposition, but what has most of my attention is the image of prim and proper April with a belly button piercing. That would be beyond hot.
Allie points to the far end of the case before moving around it to remove jewelry. She shows April several pieces while I lean on the other end of the counter and watch them. Auburn haired Allie is sexy with her eyebrow and lip piercings paired with a sleeve tattoo that covers most of her arm. Very dramatic compared to April with her long, light brown hair, aqua colored eyes, naturally flushed pinked cheeks, and matching pink lips. April is pretty in a wholesome, angelic way. Someone like me, should find Allie more attractive. Even though it pisses me off to no end, it’s April who continually catches my attention. I try to tell myself it’s because Allie is taken—and quite caught by Justin—but I’m lying to myself. It seems April grows more gorgeous each time I see her.
“You like that one?” Allie asks as April holds up a silver dangling music note.
The image of it hanging over her belly button has my throat dry.
April frowns at the jewelry. “Yeah…I’m not sure.”
Oh, I’m sure, it would be totally fucking hot.
“Well, Todd, our piercer, should be done any minute,” Allie says, cocking her head and watching the dangling note too. “If you do decide you want the piercing, he has the next hour or so open.”
April gnaws on her lip.
“You could do it another day too,” Allie says, obviously aware April is going through some sort of internal dilemma, which I’m thinking is more about the list than the piercing. “Why don’t you take a look at the apartment upstairs with Gabe and give yourself some time to think about it?”
“Yeah, okay,” she says with a forced smile, her eyes glued to the silver note as Allie puts it back in the case.
Allie glances to me. “The stairs to the apartment are around the corner of the building. Shay will be fully moved out in a few weeks.”
April continues to be transfixed by the jewelry, so I brush her shoulder with my arm as I stride past her. “Come on. Let’s see if this apartment is classy enough for me.”
She absently follows me outside, around the building, and up the stairs. She follows me inside too but waits by the door as I take a walk around the one room apartment. It’s small with a kitchen on one end, a couch in the middle to divide the room and space for a bed on the other end. Yet remodeled a few years ago, everything is new—not that I care—from the tile in the kitchen to the carpet on the other half of the room to the small appliances in the kitchen. Plus Shay—Allie’s employee—is leaving the couch along with a small dining table and chairs, since Allie’s friends gave her the stuff. So I won’t need to buy any furniture. I just plan to take my bed from my dad’s house whether he likes it or not.
More importantly, I need to get out of my dad’s shithole. Prior to the tour, though I technically lived there, I rarely stayed there. Instead, I had spent most of the time at my current girlfriend’s. Like the prick that I am, I made sure to date women who could accommodate me for overnight stays. In the mechanic program at our local community college, I couldn’t afford my own place. Plus, I didn’t want to leave Sharon alone with my dad too much. And although I did graduate, the garage I work for couldn’t hold the full time position I had lined up while I was on tour, but they’re offering me two to three days a week. Now with a mechanic certificate, I can live on those three days of work with somewhere cheap to live, unless I want to dip into the money from the tour and indie album sales that I put away, and I don’t.
I glimpse into the small, but clean, bathroom off the kitchen. “Compared to my pop’s, this place is a castle.”
As I expected, that declaration jerks April from the cloud of deliberation she seemed to be stuck inside. She glances around the room with a frown. “You still live with your
father?”
I shrug. “He may be a dick, but he has never asked for rent to live in his shithole.”
Her frown grows. “No, he just probably used you for a punching bag.”
I shrug again. “A slap upside the head keeps me in line sometimes.”
Her eyes grow wide and her mouth twists in outrage.
“Relax. I’m messing with you. After this long, I know when to stay away from him.”
She stares at me, worry lining her face. Her concern hits a nerve. I hate people feeling sorry for me. I come from a shithole and a shithead. Feeling sorry for me doesn’t change shit. It just belittles me and pricks at my pride.
And yeah, I’ve learned to hold on to my pride like a motherfucker.
I stalk across the room until I’m feet from her. “I’ll admit I’m screwed up, emotionally scarred, whatever …but I’m a man now and my old man doesn’t mean dick.”
Most likely sensing my hit nerve, or maybe understanding my position from all the shit she has learned about me, she nods.
I let out a breath. “So what about you?”
She blinks in confusion at me.
I force a light grin. “Are you going to let this screwed up asshole help you?”
She draws in a deep breath. “You’ll report everything to Jeff?”
It takes me a second to put two and two together. She wants to do it for show, not to help her. What does it matter? She’ll be indebted to me either way. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
She wraps her arms around her waist and sort of rocks on her feet. “I mean we don’t have to do all of them, just enough for him to think I’m trying. I mean the Thomas thing, going to L.A. that’s a bit farfetched. And the kissing ones…” She lets out a nervous laugh. “You freaked out when I merely touched your lips…”
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. I hadn’t let my head go there, even while contemplating the offer, but now that she has said it, my head is full of visions. Pushing her against the back of the door. Covering her mouth. Tasting her. Again and again as things go further. Much further. Dirtying up her wholesomeness. And she’d like it. They all like it. At least for a little while.
Staying calm on the outside, I let out a low laugh. “I’m not glass. A few pecks won’t shatter me.”
She winces. “Still, we can do only the ones that you’re comfortable with.”
“Whatever works,” I say nonchalantly, moving toward the door and out of this space that is suddenly filled with images of touching her. “So you taking the plunge downstairs?” I ask and gesture for her to exit.
She winces again as she steps outside. “Suppose, it’s something to report, right? And I probably won’t have the courage to come back.”
I follow her down the stairs, trying to ignore the curve of her ass and failing miserably. If she knew my deviant thoughts, I’m sure even the bonus of me reporting to Jeff would cancel our agreement.
In the shop, it takes seconds for a smiling Allie to whisk a nervous April and a bellybutton barbell with a dangling music note to a back room. Once Allie comes back to the counter, we discuss the apartment. She gives me paperwork to fill out, but in my mind, I’m visualizing Todd lifting April’s shirt, checking out her smooth skin, and touching her. The rage that always simmers under my skin feels like it’s about to boil over.
I struggle internally to talk myself down. Todd did the barbells in my ears. He’s a good guy. This reaction is about a chick I don’t even like. The rage continues to simmer at the thought of him touching her until I grab the paper work, tell Allie I have to get to work, and get the hell out of there.
Before I lose it and let my fists loose.
Chapter 9
~April~
I nearly trip over the long box in front of my door, coming home from work on Thursday. A quick glance at the return address confirms my suspicion that it’s from my mother. The woman needs to go to shoppers anonymous, if such a thing exists. Her ‘sale’ purchases each week could probably feed a family of four. My stepfather could have already retired as a real estate broker if it wasn’t for my mother’s spending habits, but then he doesn’t do much to control her. And really, I suppose it’s none of my business.
After unlocking the door, I shove the box inside with my foot.
Though I’ve lived in the one bedroom apartment for over three years, it is sparsely furnished with a loveseat, a coffee table, and a small dining table. And the walls are completely bare. I’ve always taken at least eighteen credits and always stayed tremendously busy with tons of homework. With only three classes left to take this final semester, I have a meager ten credits right now. The new extra down time I have isn’t welcome. It leaves me with too much time to think.
I set my bag on the desk and commence opening the package. It contains two polo shirts—I have a collection of polo tops in every brand and color that would rival a tennis champion—a pair of gray dress slacks, a black sleeveless blouse with silver beads around the neck, a silver purse, and low-heeled silver sling backed shoes.
The sight of the matching outfit with purse and shoes has me rolling my eyes. Between the endless polo tops and the ‘grownup’ outfits she sends, I’m aware that my mother dresses me like a country club debutant. When I was a teenager, we’d argue nonstop because I refused to wear her selections or get my nails or hair done. As an adult who doesn’t care what she wears, and an aspiring counselor, I understand that my mother’s vision works. I just don’t need fifty million polo shirts or outfits. Nor can all the crap she sends me fit in my closets. And that’s with donating clothing on a regular basis.
I snatch my phone from my backpack on the table, hit my mother’s number, and start pushing the box toward the bedroom.
My mother answers with, “Aren’t those shoes adorable? I found them first and matched everything else to those shoes.” Her tone is gushing.
“Yeah, their great, Mom.” I fish for empty hangers in the closet. “But I thought we agreed that I have enough clothes.” Other than the car, my mother and stepfather’s only donation to my college career is clothes. My real father pays for my rent and tuition along with depositing money in my account every month. Though my parents were never married, my father is the furthest thing from a deadbeat dad. And I’m very, very appreciative of him.
“I just sent one outfit and a few shirts.”
This is true. The box did contain a lot less than usual. I start hanging up the new clothes.
She lets out a wistful sigh. “I didn’t get to look at gowns for homecoming this year.”
I wince. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that I’ve never gone to homecoming in college. Freshman year I even put on the dress—some ridiculous pink thing—she sent, did my hair, and sent her selfies of myself, before donating the dress. She’d been so excited about her purchase I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t going.
My mother is a true Southern Belle. Born and raised in Kentucky, she came in second for Miss Kentucky when she was nineteen. And though we lived in Ohio while I grew up, she had me, from age six to eleven, in every pageant possible until I refused to do any more. She’s still a stunning beauty, and while people say I’m her spitting image, I’m a pale comparison.
I’ve been told enough about how pretty I am that I believe it, yet I could truly care less about my looks. I don’t want to be like my mother. She has a good heart, but a nearly empty head. Clothes, makeup, hair, and house decoration are what dominate her brain cells. I’m not sure if she was always this way or if centering her entire self-esteem and self-worth on her appearance produced her airhead. Though she has always tried, I’ll never be like her.
Attempting to be a bit honest, I say, “Good. I won’t need a dress. I’m not going this year.”
“Why ever not?” she says in a stupefied tone.
My mother never went to college, but she imagines it as an extension of high school. Perhaps for some people it is, however I’m here to get an education, start a career, and above all, eventually he
lp others.
“Too busy with my last semester,” I say, lying through my teeth and dropping a few things in a waiting donation bag outside the closet. The bag stays there, since my wardrobe is replenished almost constantly.
“April,” my mother whines. “A four point isn’t worth giving up a social life.”
I stroll toward the kitchen. “I have lots of friends, Mom. I went to a dinner party this weekend.” Of course, I don’t tell her about the piercing that is now making my belly button itch like crazy. She’d pass out from mortification, if I told her about that.
“Did you have a date?” she asks her voice full of excitement.
Grrr. She never lets the dating thing go. I’m aware she hopes I leave college with a degree and an engagement ring on my finger. She has been planning my wedding since the day I was born. “No, but I met someone nice, so maybe,” I say, lying for a second time as I open the fridge. It’s as empty as it was this morning.
“Did he ask you out?”
I shut the fridge, ignoring my hunger pains. “Um, no, but he got my number.” It’s not that I want to lie. I just spent most of my teenage years in conflict with my mother, and now in guilt over my younger stubborn self, I over appease her.
Someone knocks on my door. Probably the girls in two apartments over. They have a habit of starting to bake something without all the ingredients. They’re forever borrowing eggs, sugar, or flour. Or at least trying to borrow them. I usually only have half the stuff they ask for.
“Has he called yet?”
“Mom, my neighbor’s at the door. I need to go. Thanks for the clothes, but I really, really don’t need anymore.”
“You can always use them for work eventually, you know.”
“Mom,” I whine as I open the door.
“I’ll try…”
I don’t hear whatever she says next because I’m shocked at the person standing outside.
“Got to go. Bye,” I say, trying not to stare bugged-eyed at a grinning Gabe, his white teeth a triangular slash in his face. He’s dressed in all blue, a mechanic’s outfit I realize. “Um…” I peek past him around the corner, looking for Riley or Romeo or someone. “What are you doing here?”