“It’s only me,” Beck says calmly, approaching me like you would a caged animal. That’s pretty much what I feel like.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I swipe away the cool rush of sweat that his surprise appearance brought there. “Yeah, reaction to being caught off-guard.”
“Old habits die hard, I guess, huh?”
“Something like that,” I laugh, feeling like I’m back in my own skin. Somehow we go unnoticed by the girls. His face is so close to mine it’s impossible not to inhale the smoky sweetness of his breath.
The lingering smell of his cigarette mixes together with his breath mint. In a strange way, I find it comforting.
My grandpa used to smoke a pipe. When he was diagnosed with lung cancer, my grandma made him give it up. Stubborn as he was, he figured if it hadn’t actually killed him yet, a little more wouldn’t hurt. Sure, he’d cut back, but on more than a few occasions, he’d walk out into his backyard and hide behind the garage where no one could see him.
Searching for a stray baseball, I found him back there one day, crouched against the wall like a rebellious teenager, hiding his habit from overbearing parents. “Shh,” he held a finger up to his old, thin, lips. “Don’t tell Grammie. She’ll wring my neck.” Making a mock-choking noise, he dropped his still-strong fingers to his neck, pretending to choke. This of course made me break out into a loud roar of laughter. He gave me a mint before popping one into his mouth and the blend always stuck with me as a happy memory.
Even when he was in his final days, in a nursing home after suffering from a massive stroke, I recalled those days of him sneaking his pipe. One day when he was particularly lucid—there weren’t many of those days—I was visiting with him. Grammie had come with me, but must have left the room for something. I don’t remember all of the exact details, but the look on his face when I pulled his pipe out of my back pocket will stick with me for the rest of my life.
Eyes wide like a kid on Christmas morning, he was practically glowing. “Now, you can’t have tobacco in it, but I thought you might want it. I heard Grammie cursing about you asking for it the other day, and I knew she’d never bring it here for you.”
“Old habits die hard, Jake,” he kept his voice low, digging in his pocket. He handed me a mint and I chuckled that he still kept a stash on hand.
I was a senior in high school when he died, my first experience in loss.
Sadly, it wasn’t my last.
“Oh, hey,” Chloe’s shock can’t be hidden as she rounds the corner, finding Beck and I standing here.
“Ready to get back to work?” Beck leads us out of the small area.
After situating myself on the chair again, I brace myself for the small flinch of pain that I now expect. His fingers rub across my skin and I bury the groan of appreciation deep in my throat. It’s not a combination I had expected to enjoy—that fine line between subtle pain and pleasure, but then again, it’s not like I’ve much experience with pleasure.
There was only . . .
“Ready?” Beck’s cautious question pulls me away from thoughts of him.
Nodding, I meet his gaze and something passes between us. Knowing he’s gay, well, that changes things. A lot.
Knowing what he looks like—that his dick is thick and huge and pierced, well, that makes it nearly impossible to sit still. It makes it rather difficult to conceal my own half-hardened cock.
When Chloe comes back in the room, she’s ending a call on her phone. “It’s Devon,” she explains, slipping her phone into her pocket. “My stomach is still a bit queasy, so you don’t mind if I get out of here, right?”
Leaning down next to me, she pops a kiss to my cheek before joining her boyfriend.
“Have fun,” I say to her retreating back in between the subtle stabs of the needle. “Call me if you’ll be out for the night.” She leaves her car keys on the counter, explaining that Devon will pick her up.
“You got it. Love ya.” Pressing her fingers to her lips, she blows me a kiss from the door.
“She’s a trip,” Beck laughs, dipping the tip of the needle into the dark green ink. “I thought it went something like ‘Chicks before dicks,’ but I’d never actually seen it in action.” His hand hovers over my chest, poised and ready to assault my skin once more.
Stopping before actually piercing my skin, he reacts to my cock-eyed stare. “What?” he asks, genuinely befuddled.
“Nothing.” I let the moment pass, biting back the admission that I’m not her dick.
Devoid of further distractions, the rest of the session goes by rather quickly. Some old school Nirvana jams on in the background and I lose myself to the music. Totally zoned out, I let the hum of the gun and the bass of the music numb me into a hollow silence. It’s not unlike my panic attacks, yet at the same time, it’s completely different.
It’s beautiful and vibrant, but still painful and raw.
Just like life.
Blasts of fire illuminate the darkness of my squeezed-tight eyes. Fiery shadows of bombs set off as we retreat from a ruined building. Holding a child in my arms, I feel as if I can outrun anything.
And I did.
I outran everyone.
Metal crashes to the ground and curses wail out—foul mouthed as anything I’d ever heard in the service, but this time the words are female, damning a smashed toe.
“You motherfucker,” Lexie’s voice reverberates off the wall outside Beck’s station, jolting me upright from my tattoo-induced haze.
My heart lurches into my throat and with a panicked frenzy I wasn’t expecting, I nearly toss Beck down to the ground.
With my fingers wrapped securely around Beck’s wrist, he looks up at me, concern written across every masculine feature of his face. My body is poised to pull him down to the ground, to protect him from the bomb I’m sure has just gone off in the hall.
Moving carefully, with subtle, precise motions, he drops his hand over mine as it’s clenched in a death-grip on his forearm. “Hey,” he brings my attention to his face as he squeezes his fingers around our joined hands, “Dax, look at me.” His deep brown eyes search my face, looking for some semblance of the man who walked into the shop a few hours earlier.
The ability to focus has lost itself to the fog that is my memory of war. But it doesn’t feel like a memory, at all. It’s real and here, bombarding me on all sides. My eyes move frantically from side to side, searching the room for the source of the next loud noise. The bristling sound of my hair shifting under the constant movement of my head is the only tangible thing in the room. My blood rushes so loudly in my ears, I can actually hear my heart beating. It takes Beck’s calloused hand lightly slapping my cheek to bring me back into the room and out of my own personal war.
“Dax, hey, man. I’m here. Look at me,” he coaxes me out of my dazed stare. With frantic breaths, I gulp down the much-needed oxygen my lungs are craving.
My free hand flies to the top of his hand, completing the pile of digits sitting on my lap. “What the fuck was that?” Losing purchase on the cheap pleather seat, I scramble to sit upright.
“You’re okay.” Beck pats the top of my hand, allowing me to release his grip. After dropping his tattoo gun to the table, he shocks the shit out of me by moving his hands to rest back on top of mine.
Call it panic, call it need. Call it whatever the fuck you want, but when I lace my fingers through his and he offers his support in return, my pulse calms. Gently brushing his fingers along to the top of my hand helps relax me even more. Breathing even and steady, I can finally answer him.
The real shitty part is that I don’t know what to say.
My tongue swells in my mouth. Trying to spit out his name proves pointless. On a long blink, I mourn the loss of his warmth. Only the sound of the water flowing from the faucet in the corner of the room shakes me out of my violent reverie.
As he hands me a paper cup of lukewarm water, his fingers graze mine. Might as well make the fucking cup bubble over as it boils.
Sipping down the liquid, I can’t help but wonder if it was time or him that shook me from my panic attack.
It had to have been the time.
It couldn’t have been him
That makes no sense.
The soft rolling wheels of his stool as they pull up to my chair draw my attention to Beck’s face.
“Where’d you go?” Beck’s tone is tender, but ultimately curious.
After a final gulp of my water, I crumple the cup. Pitching my voice low, not yet ready to hear anything but the quiet vibrations of our voices, I say “Nowhere anyone else would ever want to go willingly.”
Beck’s booming voice as Lexie strides past the door makes me jump in my seat once more. “What the hell was that noise, Lex?”
I see her slim leg curl around the door frame before her body joins it. “Sorry, guys. Just dropped a tray of some piercing shit. Maybe I got a little too over excited,” she exclaims, shaking her hands up by her face like a dancer doing jazz hands. “I just love nipples.” She pauses at my dead stare before adding, “Piercing them of course.” She winks and then walks out of the room as if nothing at all has happened.
The charged air around us lets Beck and I know that something significant has happened between us. And it’s nothing that I can deny.
He calmed me out of an attack.
He stopped my anxiety.
With a soft stroke upon my skin, and a deep, concerned stare, he kept my demons at bay.
“Want to finish up?” Beck asks when the door to Lexie’s piercing station softly clicks closed.
Nodding, I settle back in my chair and realize that “finishing up” is the last thing I want to do with Beck.
Thirty minutes later, Beck sets his gun down. As he locks his fingers together, stretching them out, they pop and crack. One last pass of a paper towel clears away the few drops of blood that dot my newly inked skin. After a quick smear of Vaseline, Beck declares his work finished. The latex makes a cracking noise as he snaps the gloves off his hands.
It’s a bit awkward to actually see the entire tattoo as I lie back in the chair, but what I can see amazes me. Needing to see the whole thing, I move across the room to the full-length mirror. Careful not to touch anything, for fear somehow that I’ll screw it up, I stand, arms straight to my sides.
“So?” Beck prompts, a curious lilt to his voice. “What do you think?”
Completely unable to peel my eyes away from my chest, I stare at it, amazed. My hand moves to touch it, to see if it’s real, but I pull it back. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I stutter.
Beck mistakes my inability to speak for displeasure. I see it in his face as he stands behind me in the mirror. “No,” I spit out, trying to change the look twisting his face. “I love it. It’s just . . . it means a lot and I never thought . . . what I mean is . . .” Working my hand over my face, I try my best to come up with the correct words, but they all seem to be missing from my brain right now. On a deep sigh, I finally come out with it, “It’s too perfect for me. It’s everything I wanted and everything I don’t deserve. But it’s amazing. Thank you.” Shaking my head, I realize what I’ve just said is fairly ridiculous.
Good luck making sense of that.
But something in Beck’s eyes lights up at my words. He claps a hand to my bare shoulder and half smiles at me in the mirror. “Whether you deserve it or not, whatever that means, it’s a part of you now. Whether you love what it means or hate how it came to be there, it always will be.” The warmth of his words puffs in my ear—words that ring true on so many levels, it’s scary.
After wrapping my chest in some plastic wrap and medical bandages, he goes over the after-care instructions. Swiping my shirt over my head, I absentmindedly wonder whether he finds me attractive.
God knows what he does to me—I’ve been fighting down my reaction to him all night.
When we walk up to the front counter, Lexie has her heels kicked up on the counter. Flicking through the channels, she finally stops on some random black and white movie I’ve never seen before. Under Beck’s grunts and a gentle shove, she kicks down her feet and shoots him a glare.
“It’s two-fifty,” he states coolly, punching a few things into the old school cash register. After pulling my wallet out, I look up at the pricing chart on the wall and, based on the time, and my self-assessed level of intricacy, he’s grossly undercharging me.
“You sure?” Tipping my chin at the price board, he follows my eyes.
With a shy smile, he holds out his hand for my payment. “Military discount,” he explains pointedly, arching a brow at me.
His full lips move from a look of embarrassment to one of pride and appreciation. It’s impossible not to smile back at him. Grabbing a slip of paper from the side of the cash register, he scratches something on to it.
“I know we went over this in the room, but here’s a printout of everything you need to take care of that.” His eyes travel to my T-shirt-covered chest.
“And this?” Pointing to the digits written at the bottom of the paper, I shoot him a curious glance.
“My number. You know, in case it gets infected. I mean not that . . . it shouldn’t . . . everything’s clean here . . . but I . . . you know,” he stammers, grunting as he runs his hand over his dark beard. Under my suspicious look, he finally clarifies his near pointless musings. “If you ever want to grab a beer or something,” he chokes. “You being new here and all,” he adds quickly.
Restraining the huge-ass grin I want to give him, I simply fold the piece of paper up and slide it into my back pocket. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you soon.”
Turning the corner from his shop, I walk to where Chloe and I parked earlier. The smile I stifled just moments ago splits my face. Though the new ink on my chest burns some, creating more than a touch of pain there, Beck’s phone number, already burning a hole in my pocket, does something else to my chest entirely.
“Real smooth.” Lexie pokes me in the side, shoving me over so she can plop her ass back down in her precious chair.
Glaring down at her, she has this ‘cat who ate the canary’ look on her face. This of course prompts me to snap, “What?”
Holding her hands up in mock self-defense, she shoots me a look that could peel paint. “Someone’s balls are in a twist!”
“Can we leave my balls out of this, please?”
Lowering her hands, she primly crosses her legs, her ridiculously short plaid school-girl skirt showing more of her thigh than would be decent if she were anywhere other than a tattoo parlor at closing time. “Sure thing. Besides, I’ve seen them anyway. Nothing special.” Shrugging, her lips tug into a goofy grin, making me relax somewhat. Joking around with Lexie has always been a way for me to chill out. She balances me. Everyone here does, but tonight, it’s just me and her so she’s the lucky one charged with the task.
“So,” she dangles that teaser out there. When I raise a brow at her, still not saying anything, she huffs at me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, do you want to know what I found out about sexy soldier boy or what?”
With my curiosity more than sparked, I rest my ass back against the counter and cross my legs at the ankles. Giving my best attempt at a look of disinterest, I glance up at the television. “Sure,” I say, trying for absentminded dullness, while secretly burying down my ‘dog who’s just been asked to go to the park’ excitement. Opening a bottle of water keeps my hands, if not my mind, somewhat distracted from badgering everything out of her.
“They’re getting married in three weeks,” Lexie drops that bomb. Carefully gauging my reaction, she eagerly waits for something to fall from my mouth. When nothing comes out, she pokes a finger at my chest. “Wow, I’ve rendered you speechless. That never happens,” she boasts proudly.
“I’m not–”
She cuts me off. “You so are. And they’re not getting married. At least not that she mentioned. Didn’t say much of anything actually, except some cryptic shit about peo
ple not always wanting to divulge all of their secrets on the first meeting.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask, feigning moderate interest when what I really feel is something much more than that. “What spurred that deep conversation?” She sticks her tongue out at me and my mocking tone. I’ve known Lexie since Nikki and I moved here. She’s helped me in my darkest hours, but deep she’s not. Well, at least not usually.
With the sip I’ve just taken lingering in my mouth, she admits, “I told her you were gay.” Two words: water everywhere.
“You what?” I nearly yell through the broken breaths of my coughing fit.
Moving around the counter, she pretends to start sweeping up the store as part of the closing procedures. But I know it has more to do with moving away from me and my cold tone. “Oh, my God, you act like it’s breaking news. Everyone in here knows you’re gay. So I told her.”
“I’m not ashamed, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just I don’t understand how that even came up in the first place.”
“Oh, that’s simple,” she clarifies, leaning up against the broom stick. “We were talking about your dick.”
If I had more water in my mouth I would have spit it all over again. Holding up a hand, I beg her to stop as she moves about the room as if she just hasn’t said the most ridiculous thing in the world. Gripping both of her shoulders with calmness I’m not really feeling, I ask her to slowly, and very carefully explain the entire conversation from start to finish. Though she tries to hide it, I see the satisfied glimmer light her eyes when she knows she’s got me hook, line, and sinker.
“So when you say she choked after you told her I was gay, was it more of a disgusted reaction, or a ‘that’s interesting’ kind of choke?”
Tapping a finger to her lips, she lets out a low “hmmm” as she considers my question. “I’m not sure,” she shrugs, returning to her sweeping. “You might want to consult a fifteen–year-old girl. I hear they’re really awesome at translating shit like that.” She spins around, laughing hysterically at what I can now admit was a rather uncharacteristically girly question. “Oh, oh . . .” She bounces on the spot, sounding like an overly excited kid who knows the answer to a question the teacher has just asked. “I could pass him a note during study hall. Then we’ll know for sure if he likes you.”
On Solid Ground Page 5