“Excuse me?” He turns around, rests his hands on his knees, and catches his breath.
Blinking the grit out of my eyes once more, I don’t recognize what should be an immediate clue-in to the identity of Mr. Jogging Asshole. Before even entertaining a response to his question, I lean down and grab my shirt, letting out a low hiss of pain as the soft, beat up cotton glides over my skin. After tucking my sketch pad under my arm, I slip on my Chucks. When I twist back to him, his eyes are glued to my drawing which, is clearly on display since I never closed the leather cover.
My eyes are glued to my artwork.
The piece that’s on his chest.
“Dax?” My voice is gravelly and I’m not entirely sure it has anything to do with being pissed off anymore. Yeah, I saw him shirtless yesterday and I actually touched him, but holy crap. He’s chiseled everywhere. Covered in sweat and glistening under the sun, he looks like he belongs in a magazine spread, not on some random beach talking to me.
After staring my fill, I realize his tattoo is not covered up. That’s like tattoo rule number one. My eyes are focused on his chest—partly out of anger, partly out of pure physical attraction.
“Oh, hey, man,” he greets me with excitement in his still breathy voice. As he adjusts his own dog tags from his back to the front, they dangle right next to the inked pair I put there yesterday. Sliding his sunglasses up from his face, he rests them on the top of his head, pushing his hair into lots of tiny spikes.
“You should cover up,” I instruct, tipping my chin at his ridiculously sculpted chest.
“I would have thought it would take more than a shirtless run to offend your tender sensibilities,” he jokes sarcastically, pulling the camouflaged T-shirt out of the side of his shorts.
Shaking my head and running my hand over my beard, I laugh at his little joke. “Not that, you ass. I mean the tattoo. You realize the sun is the mortal enemy of tattoos, especially brand new ones like the one you’ve got right there.” Poking a finger at him, I stop millimeters away from his skin, telling myself I don’t want to irritate his freshly inked skin. But I know it’s because I can’t deal with touching him again.
“Shit, really?” he gasps, swiping his shirt over his head. “No, I had no idea. Really, I promise.”
“Calm down. It’s not like I’m going to call the tattoo police on you or anything like that. I’d just like to see my artwork last, and not fade away before it was even given a chance.” As the words fall out of my mouth, Dax’s eyes travel down to the sketch book tucked behind my folded arms. The one where his naked body is proudly displayed. How’s that for tender sensibilities?
Fumbling to cover it up, I accidentally drop it in the sand. Dax beats me to the punch and steals it away from me before I can even touch it.
“I was just . . .” My words die before they can even leave my mouth. There’s no point in explaining it. Besides, there’s really not much to explain. It’s Dax, naked, in my book.
Oh, and that’s me cowering between a rock and hard place.
Dax shakes his head, a lopsided grin teasing at his lips. “You shorted me a bit in the junk department,” he deadpans, handing me back the now-closed book. “But seriously, you have some real talent.”
My tongue is completely tied up in my mouth. He doesn’t seem mad or offended. Maybe it’s some weird kind of runner’s high he’s on. “Thanks,” I respond with uncertainty in my voice.
“All right, I better get going,” he announces, angling his head in the direction of the boardwalk.
Despite the embarrassment at being caught with a nude drawing of him, I fall in step with him. “So how’s Cali treating you?”
He shrugs and offers a non-committal grunt. “Okay, I guess.”
“Real convincing.”
We share a laugh before he says, “I guess I’m just stuck in no man’s land. Chloe’s great, but I’m just imposing.”
Stopping in my tracks, I run a hand over my confused face. “Dude, if you feel like your imposing on your girlfriend, then that’s just shitty on her part, no?”
“Girlfriend?” His single word is laced with disbelief. “Chloe is just a friend. And no, I don’t mean a friend I sleep with. We’ve been friends since college. Just friends.” There’s extra emphasis on the last two words, his tone serious.
“Oh, I just thought . . . I mean . . .” I stutter over my words, chewing them up and spitting them out like some moron.
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m sure a lot of people think that,” he explains as we continue walking. “When I was discharged, I didn’t want to stay home.” There’s something in his voice, some secret, or shame, thickly cloaked behind his quiet words. “Chloe offered to let me stay out here, so I took her up on it. And here I am.”
“But you’re not happy about it?” I chance what most would consider a rather personal question, especially coming from someone you barely know.
Another shrug. Another grunt. I’m beginning to think this is his standard response to any question I ask. “I am in a lot of ways. You can’t beat this.” He turns back to the beach, sweeping his hand out to the horizon where the sun begins sinking into the water.
“Fuck no, you can’t.”
After a few more steps, he restarts his explanation, “Even after a few weeks, it’s like I still haven’t found my own place. No job, no friends. I feel like a floater.” His words take on a somber tone, and I realize he’s probably not voiced these worries to anyone else. Considering that he’s just told me he doesn’t have anyone else here other than Chloe, chances are pretty good that I’m the first person he’s opening up to.
“Well, I can’t do much for the job, but me and my buddies are heading out tonight for some drinks. If you’re not doing anything, you can come with us? We’re rough around the edges, but generally a good crowd.”
Dax contemplates my offer, scratching a hand through his hair. “Are you sure?”
“Dax, it’s beer and darts. There’s nothing to be sure about. You in?”
We take a few more steps, before he nods. A look of gratitude transforms his face, relaxing the knots of concern that usually pull his brows together. His bright blue eyes open wide as he says, “Count me in.”
It takes me just a few more steps to realize we’re walking in the same direction.
“You know I can walk myself home, right?” I’d been so lost in the conversation, and distracted by the man walking next to me; I’m only now just realizing he’s walked me about halfway home.
“And I was just going to say the same thing to you.” Beck stops, a small chuckle tumbles from his mouth as the smoke from his just-lit cigarette billows past his lips. “Which way you headed?”
“Down there,” I point in the direction of Chloe’s apartment complex. It’s not far from the beach at all—a small main road sits between the boardwalk and my block.
“El Dorado Road?” There’s an odd quality to his question, like he knows something I don’t.
“Yeah.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s a deeper, richer sound. Rather than a ‘ha ha that’s funny’ kind of sound, it’s more of a ‘oh, you have got to be kidding me’ noise. “Which complex? Fairfield or Sunny Side?”
The fact that he knows the name of both of them doesn’t surprise me. He’s obviously familiar with the area. “Sunny Side. Seems like a nice place,” I offer my opinion unsolicited, figuring it was going to answer his next question. “Not sure if I’ll stay there once I find a job. I hate to take up half of Chloe’s place. It’s not that I’m not used to living in small quarters. The Army makes you used to things like that, but if you would have asked me where I would have seen myself settling down, it wouldn’t be in a tiny apartment complex.” Before I realize it, I’m rambling and Beck is standing there with a ‘you’re shitting me’ look plastered to his face. “What?” I spit out, suddenly self-conscious. He’s simply standing and staring. Wondering if I’ve said too much, if I’ve bored him half to death, I wish I could take b
ack my words and simply tell him the name of my complex.
“I’m at Fairfield. The one down the road from you,” he says matter-of-factly, but I see the smile sneaking across his face. It’s my turn to give him back his ‘you’ve got to be shitting me’ look.
Holding up his hands, palms out in mock surrender, he responds to my look. “No, seriously. 5217 El Dorado Road, Apartment 3B. I shit you not,” he recites his address like a small child who’s just learned it for the first time. “Small world, huh?” he laughs and extends his hand to the side, my cue to resume walking.
The remainder of the short walk is passed in relative silence. Now that I know he lives in such close proximity, it’s as if I’ve been rendered incapable of speaking—hell, of breathing. Ironically, Beck was safer when he was the edgy tattoo artist I knew in some vague capacity, who I’d hired for a service. But now, a million other thoughts race through my brain.
I’d seen a picture of his piercing.
He’d drawn me naked—and maybe fell asleep thinking about me naked, too.
I know he is gay.
He doesn’t know I am—he couldn’t, considering how he thought Chloe was my girlfriend.
My body reacted when he’d touched me.
The feel of his hands on my skin was something I’d not soon forget—both when he calmed me out of a panic attack and when he permanently altered my skin. And since he’d been occupied earlier this afternoon drawing a picture of me, I had to believe in some sense that he was thinking about me in more ways than just a client.
“So are you sure about tonight?” I ask uncertainly as we stand in front of my building.
Beck shrugs. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” With a flick, he tosses the cigarette butt down to the ground, twisting it under the rubber toe of his sneaker.
Offering up some lame excuse of not being sure if he’d changed his mind, he tells me to calm the fuck down. His ‘take no shit’ attitude helps relax me some. It’s something I’m used to and helps me relax in ways I didn’t think I’d be able to in this new environment.
“How about I’ll just pick you up right here around nine? Sound good, neighbor?” he mocks, but awaits my answer.
After nodding—a non-verbal response is the only kind of which I’m capable at the moment—Beck turns away and walks down the road a few hundred feet to his building. He lives so close that if I wanted to, I could yell his name and he could easily hear me. It’s literally a stone’s throw away and I’m not certain if I’m excited about that or scared shitless.
“You look hot!” Chloe cat calls as I walk into the living room. “Where you going all fancied up like that?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at her obnoxious whistling. It makes me feel self-conscious, nervous somehow, even though I know she’s trying to boost me up. The last thing I want is to stand out—for all the wrong reasons—when I’m out with Beck and his friends. Hell, I already feel like a fish out of water, no need for it to be written across my face, as well.
“Since when are jeans and a T-shirt fancy?” Quirking an eyebrow, I shoot her a skeptical look. She’s plopped down on the couch, hair pulled high on the top of her head, wearing ripped flannel pants and a pajama shirt that could easily fit three people in it. “As if you’re the pinnacle of high fashion over there. Where’d you get those,” I point to the holey pants, “Salvation Army or Old Navy?”
Without taking her eyes away from the television, she extends her leg in front of her, inspecting the gaping hole in the knee. “No clue, they were whatshisname’s from college. Wore them home on my first ever walk of shame and never gave them back.” After tucking her leg back under her body, she looks over at me with a deadly stare. “But don’t you dare tell Devon. He’d make me get rid of them. And I can’t.” She pets the pants lovingly. “They’re my favorite.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Chloe, never get between a woman and her comfy pants. You’ll never win.
“Where you going anyway?” she asks, licking the last of her ice cream from her spoon.
Shrugging as I tuck my wallet into my back pocket, I admit that I have no idea. “I’m going with that guy from the tattoo place,” I offer up what information I can.
“Oh, really?” Her curiosity is piqued. She’s pulls her legs up to her chest. Before locking her arms around them, she pats the spot on the couch next to her, telling me I better sit my ass down and tell her every last detail.
“There’s not much to tell,” I explain as casually as I can. “I literally ran into him at the beach today and he invited me out.” I can’t tell if the casual tone I’m trying to put out there is more for her safety or mine. Chloe wants nothing more than for me to have some fun while I’m here figuring out my life. I don’t want her to get her hopes up that having a few beers with Beck is anything more than just that. And in the same breath, I know I’m keeping my calm so I don’t get too ahead of myself.
He’s just being nice to you.
He feels pity.
You’re all alone and he didn’t know what else to say.
These are all the things I’ve been telling myself in the last few hours. They have to be the reason he invited me, because the reasons I don’t want to put a voice to would just be too scary, too real.
“That’s still pretty cool,” she concedes when she doesn’t get an overly juicy story like she’d hoped. Luckily, Chloe’s satisfied with my explanation—of course I leave out the part about Beck drawing a nude of me while he was at the beach today. That would definitely have sparked more excitement than I’m willing to deal with right now.
“You staying in tonight?” Picking at her holey knee, I ask the obvious.
After a loud huff, she flops against the back of the couch dramatically. “Yep, you’re leaving me all alone,” she mocks with a small smile curling up the corners of her lips.
Leaning over, I pop a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be back later,” I say through a chuckle.
“But it’ll be more fun for me if you stay out all night,” she taunts as I walk toward the door.
“Yeah,” I grab my cell as it buzzes on the kitchen table. “How’s that?”
“Walks of shame always involve a good story,” she laughs, stretching out her leg, pointing to her ancient flannel pants that once belonged to whatshisname.
When I look down at my phone and see a text from Beck, I can’t help but smile thinking that shame would be the last thing I felt if the sun beat me home after a night out with Beck.
A ball of nerves, or maybe it’s one of excitement, comes to life in my gut as I make my way down the stairs and out into the parking lot. Just as his text said, he’s waiting for me near the entrance. His Wrangler looks like it could be in a monster truck show. The tires are huge, raising the body of the jeep up way higher than it normally would be. In the warm California weather, I can’t imagine there’s ever a need for more than the soft top. There’s definitely no need for it tonight. It’s the perfect weather for an open-air ride.
He tosses his cigarette down to the ground as I walk up to the passenger side. “Hey,” he says before turning his head toward his window to blow the smoke into the warm night air. “You ready?” His voice is husky, laced with smoke and tinged with something more than the innocent words warrant.
Nodding, I buckle the seatbelt and like a nervous ass, I move to rest my arm on the window that isn’t there. “Ha!” Beck laughs. “I guess most people like doors on their cars.”
Reaching under the seat, I slide it back a few clicks so my legs aren’t shoved up into my chest. “No, really. It’s fine. It’s good actually.” Something settles in my chest—the ball of nerves unwinds marginally. After playing around with the recline setting on the chair, I lace my fingers together behind my head, take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs.
Beck arches an eyebrow at me and the blissful look I’m sure is on my face. “Should I give you and Bessy here a minute alone?”
“Bessy? You named thi
s beast Bessy?” I laugh, letting my arms fall to my sides.
“Sure did. Bessy is comfortable and homey.” He pats the weathered dashboard lovingly before running his hands over the sun-cracked steering wheel a few times. “Can’t think of a more appropriate name.” The look on his face can only be described as one of admiration. Drawing on my own memories of my open-cabin Humvee from the Army, I completely understand his reverence.
With a nod and a wink, Beck pulls out into traffic. I think I catch him off guard when my random words slice through the wordless drive. “I called mine Berta,” I explain. Since we’re staying mostly to the side roads, only occasionally passing over a larger crossroad, the noise from the outside isn’t that bad.
“We still talking cars? Or are you admitting you gave your junk a chick name?” While he laughs at his own joke, I silently wonder what made him think about my junk in the first place.
After pulling into the parking lot of the small dive bar, Beck kills the ignition and turns in his seat, waiting expectantly for me to explain who Berta is.
“My team’s Humvee.” My throat feels tight as the word “team” falls out of my mouth. Beck’s face softens a little. I don’t think many people would notice it, but it happened a few times as he worked on my tattoo, when he would ask about Delaney and when my panic attack blew through the room like an unwanted guest. “We knew it was bad luck for it not to have a name, but we couldn’t agree on one. We drew straws and decided whoever picked the short one had to give it a name and no one could complain about it.”
“You drew it?” There’s a touch of amusement in his words.
“Lucky me, right?” I joke as I unclick my seatbelt.
He laughs, running a hand over his beard—which I’m just now noticing is all neat and trimmed. My eyes run over his body, taking in his appearance. Not that a tight black T-shirt and well-worn jeans paired with beat up Chucks are anything special, but he makes it look fucking hot. The ball of nerves returns when I realize he cleans up nice—real nice. There’s something about the way the line of his shirt sleeve blends into the dark lines of the tattoos covering his arms.
On Solid Ground Page 7