She’d seen her share of glorious eye candy and enjoyed appreciating, unwrapping and tasting the flavors before a hearty bite and swallow. Her world was open, though she had to admit, Julian wouldn’t have typically been her type, despite her eclectic desires. She went for a more ‘put together’ package — the suits, ties, a polished look. Julian had elaborate tattoos running up and down his damn arms, some menacing, with glistening, jagged teeth and black-skull, soulless eyes while others were the polar opposite. Those ones were the most moving, profound and magnificent, while yet a few she viewed, she didn’t understand, but still found to be well constructed and amazing. Some were done in white ink, barely visible, but their beauty astounding. Some looked tribal, and those spoke to her in a special way. A part of her at the time of her consultation wanted to ask him about all of his body art, she was certain that beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt and slightly fitted jeans covered a world of fleshy art she could never imagine but then she’d get distracted by his piercing blue eyes and the silver bar running through his pitch black eyebrow. He had an alluring scent that caught her by surprise as he leaned over during her embarrassing breakdown, snatched a tissue, and handed it to her. A mixture of zesty soap, sweet incense, and something earthy…
He must be old school…
She also didn’t miss the hint of sweet oil, like a cologne perfect for an autumn day.
His hair was almost jet black, and she could tell it was long, but how long, she wasn’t certain for he had it pulled back in a sloppy ball that hit the nape of his neck. A few wispy strands hung across his broad shoulders while the rest had been wound loosely around a pen. She hadn’t seen many people wear their hair that way, but somehow, it suited him. His Adam’s apple was prominent, and though she wouldn’t describe him as muscle-bound, he was slender yet chiseled…and tall. He must’ve stood at least 6’4. If his smile weren’t so warm and kind, he’d be damn near daunting. His jawline was hard, yet not overly so. One feature that drew her in were the man’s high cheekbones. Prominent, the kind models starved themselves for, yet, he had them naturally. His features were so defined, so rigid, so masculine, yet…so stunning and sublime.
He might have some Indian in him… But his last name is Savant… What is that? Sounds French… Yeah, I bet that is what it is. It even sounds like, ‘croissant’, and when he said it, it had that French pronunciation going on…
She made a mental note to look it up for her own curiosity, to put the matter to rest, then fell back into her daydreams. His carefully cropped goatee presented a stark contrast to his otherwise ink-covered skin. Milan didn’t mind a man with one or two tattoos, maybe even three or four, and though she couldn’t see all of the man’s body, but what she had seen, left her with no doubt he was a damn walking collage. She found it disturbing, yet intriguing all the same.
Why would someone do that to themselves? Why so many?
She stumbled upon Julian in a fair enough way. She realized she’d need to make her own go of it, after discovering her coworker had received hers out of town, all the way in California while on a family trip. She set out on her own to discover a place that wasn’t terribly far away and also had great reviews via her online research. During that investigative process, she uncloaked all sorts of information, such as the rather bizarre matter of tattoo addiction and that obsession aspect was completely unfathomable in her wildest imagination. She was certain that would never be her, addicted to ink. Though she wouldn’t coin herself as a wuss, afraid of a needle or two, it definitely wasn’t her notion to turn into reality and she couldn’t possibly envision how it would ever be, no matter how beautiful the finished result. No, this would be a one-time thing. An experience that would always remain in her memory bank, and then she could move on. Making her way towards her refrigerator, she pulled out the carton of orange juice and poured out a big glass, thinking about what she had to do at work that morning. She checked the time.
I better hurry up and get in the shower…
She gulped down the juice, made a mental note to stuff the ‘Soul Inscriptions’ paperwork in her purse and made a mad dash back up the stairs to her bedroom, her red-sock-covered feet barely touching the carpet as she took flight, fighting against the clock. On the way, she felt her jaw twitching. She resisted, but it was rather short lived. She was smiling again.
Yeah…he is really cute…no…handsome…mmm, the ‘Good Looks’ fairy blessed him…
~***~
CHAPTER THREE
Julian scratched his inner thigh as he stared at Angela out the corner of his eye. His employees were busier than a can of oil during a bald man’s competition. It felt good to finally take a breather. He made sure to personally do no more than three appointments per day now that he’d begrudgingly agreed to hire more help. He wanted to become accustomed to doing less, and supervising more. Thus far, he hated it. He had been told by Angela, what was the point of having a successful, lucrative business, if he never got to feast from the fruits of his labor? And the little lady was right. He checked the time. Almost 7:30 P.M.
His heart raced as if he were expecting a blind date, and it felt rather foolish to behave in such a way. Regardless, he had little to no control over it. He had thought about Milan quite a bit the previous evening. He wondered if she enjoyed her job and what she did for a living. He had a myriad of nosy questions about her likes and dislikes, from songs to cuisine, to a wish for full discovery of how open her mind truly was. That was an ongoing issue Julian had had in his dating life. Here he was, almost thirty years old, and he’d had a hell of a time finding a woman to meet the criteria for his relationship checklist. He didn’t enjoy dating; he preferred a committed venture. What he desired was too personal to simply be putting around. Besides, he enjoyed setting up roots. Nevertheless, he was certain that the problem was not the women, but him.
He was particular; others would simply say persnickety, maybe too fussy. He wanted a woman that was, in some ways, his polar opposite. Many would see that as an odd goal. To him, it was ideal. In other ways, he needed this dream woman to be open, like a blossoming flower, available to receive original philosophies and experiences, and to give them, too. He’d had it up to here with women giving him the wonky eye when he offered them a bag of fragrant herbs instead of a lit joint. He’d even been told his lovemaking style was a study within itself, the source of questions and surveys for his lover to pose after she lay there exhausted, her naked body beyond satisfied but her brain unequivocally confused. He did things…said things…made the women he’d taken home feel a way they’d never experienced before according to their utterances. To him, it was natural, normal. Nothing to marvel at…
Things he treasured doing, he wanted to take his time…do it right.
He knew he wasn’t like other men. He’d known he was different from the average Joe at a rather young age. For one, he was into art and math, versus sports, like his peers. Drawing and mathematics was a rather odd combination to excel at, one being right brain dominated, the other left — but it was who he was. He always preferred pen and paper for anything, and since he believed all art was a series of geometric shapes, it seemed easy for him to incorporate one into the other. Accuracy was important; it dealt with measurements and attention to detail. He thought girls would be the same — easy formulas to crack with the right attention to detail once he began to actively date at the age of thirteen. He soon found out, not everyone with plush, pink lips and a name that ended in an ‘A’ came with such easy instructions. Matter of fact, there were no formulas, periodic charts or flow diagrams that could assist him. He had to find his own way into understanding a woman, and he took it case by case. He was intrigued by the way they moved, spoke, smelled and carried themselves. They became his muse, so it was no surprise that at one pivotal point in his life, his best friend was indeed a woman. And then, there was his other roadblock…
Julian still had an issue controlling his lack of a filter. He was born with a strong blunt gene, but
had learned to tone it down over time. Still, every now and again, it bit him in the ass. If a woman would ask him if her dress made her look fat, he’d answer, “Yes,” if it did. If he was asked if he liked a new hairstyle, he might say, “It’s okay; it looked better the other way.”
Needless to say, he rarely heard from these women again. He had been a bit younger back then, in his teens, didn’t have the handle on the whole dating thing quite yet. Now, he had accumulated plenty of feminine consideration, as well as a shitload of ex-girlfriends, many of which were physically exquisite. He did have a ‘thing’ for physical beauty, especially if the woman exuded sexiness — but he needed more than that. After a while, many of his ex-loves bored him and the relationship would fizzle out due to his blatant lack of continued interest.
He was tired of this. He wished to find someone he was mentally compatible with, someone that made him not only want to see them, but miss them hard as hell when they were away. More importantly, they needed to have a sense of humor as well as intelligence. He desired someone willing to learn and accept who he was, even the weird shit he did and said from time to time. He was done apologizing for being himself, didn’t want to have to ask, ‘Do you get me?’ He could see on their face that they did.
Toying with his cellphone, he blocked out his surroundings and drifted into his own homemade world full of homespun daydreams. His tensed muscles relaxed just so; he became calmer, simply knowing that the workday was almost drawing to an end. He scrolled through his text messages from various friends, not quite in the mood to respond. As his thumb swayed back and forth over the illuminated screen, he wondered if Milan would come, but he wasn’t going to worry himself about it. He hoped she would, but if she didn’t, he was fine with that as well. He knew how these things worked. People had the best of intentions. People made promises they didn’t keep, said things they didn’t mean and lied to save face. Fear drove human beings to act in nonsensical ways, and for others, fear was never a factor, causing them to be a menace to society — soulless. Hurting others gave them much gratification. He didn’t feel for people like the latter; so much so, he’d often crossed that line, plotting revenge if such a person sunk their claws into him or someone he loved. Julian’s kindness had been mistaken for weakness a time or two, his love of nature and all it entailed misconstrued for him being some sort of novelty item, a ‘peace maker.’ Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
He appreciated the concept of war. Combat in the world was natural as far as Julian was concerned. He believed it was an ‘after all else has failed’ concept, but never the less, rivalry was genuine and purposeful. The intramural wars were always the most difficult, and he’d had his share. He believed all man kind suffered from various internal battles: war with one’s emotions…What shall I do? There was a persistent clash between doing the right thing versus taking the more frequently travelled short cut, ‘Wrong Way Avenue.’ He knew about pain and pleasure, too. How the needle going into the skin and the ink injection, felt euphoric while swirls of hypnotic agony danced together, creating the perfect blend of self-enchantment giving birth to art. It was a spiritual high, especially since the pain endured from tattoos didn’t register with him any longer. He no longer felt, saw, heard or tasted the discomfort, only the indulgence. He was built for hurt, and the jagged edge of the thing made him bleed with exultant hedonism. Hurt now tasted delicious going down, even as it sliced his throat, cutting off his airways. Just then, the bell chimed, and in walked a 5’7 golden brown beauty with toned, thick legs that had no beginning or end. Her shiny gold heels clicked against the floor while her long, sheer red shirt swayed over a black sports bra.
Well, well, well…
He glanced at the clock, noting it was 7:34 P.M.
She wore tight, blue capri jeans that hugged her hips and maneuvered just so, enchanting him, swaying, forcing his eyes to pay attention to every move. Out of Julian’s peripheral version, he noted how a few other heads turned too, especially the resident pervert, Cedrick, who stood straight as a newly sharpened number-two pencil and ran his hand across the front of his pants, manipulating his cock like Vanessa White turning letters. Angela smiled at the woman, held up her finger as she spoke on the phone. Milan nodded, not yet looking in his direction.
Beautiful. She’s here…
He grinned inside so hard, his chest and face flooded with warmth. He pivoted in his chair and watched as she handed her paperwork to Angela, who in turn flipped through it, checking everything out. And then, it happened. Milan looked up at him, and the side of her upper lip curled into a slight smile, then that smile grew up into a full-grown grin right before his hypnotized eyes. A gold and red bangle slid back and forth along her wrist as she bent at the waist to sign another waiver. Soon, she would be over, so he stood and turned towards his equipment, placing everything just so, laying his irons, guns and works out like a surgeon. He could smell her perfume as she drew close. The scent reminded him of spring — light, airy, feminine with a touch of something Asian infused, like the blossoming bud of jasmine.
“Julian?” She uttered his name as his back was turned. He continued to set things along a silver and black tray and collected a pair of extra gloves and ointment, placing them into a money green satchel.
He looked casually over his shoulder at her, and winked.
“Heeey, how are you, Milan?” He turned his attention back towards his preparations.
“I’m good…a little nervous, but good.”
“Nothing wrong with being nervous. It lets you know that you’re alive. Since Angela sent you over, that means she questioned nothing in your medical history, so that’s a good start. As far as your anxiety, I can help you with that though. You can follow me in here.” He started towards the private back room that he’d promised her. Once they entered, he flipped the switch to reveal a bleached room, immaculate and sterile. Clean lines of silver, white and black made up the décor, as well as long mirrors, art work of beautifully inked women and men in sensual lip lock, and a CD player in the corner of the room with sticks of burning incense and candles all around it.
“Please, have a seat here on the table. Do you have the drawing with you that I did yesterday?” he asked as he perused the musical selections. “If not, I can get my copy. I left it at my work area.”
“Yes, I have it right here.” He heard a zipper and assumed it was her purse.
“What type of music do you like, Milan?”
“Um, I like all kinds… Something relaxing right now though, I suppose.”
Nodding in understanding, he decided to grab his iPod and hook it up to the system. He had way more selections to choose from there.
“How about some old school? Like Steely Dan?” he asked, looking back at her questioningly.
After he said it, he wondered if she even knew who Steely Dan was. Most of his customers didn’t, it seemed.
“Hey Nineteen…” She grinned as she gripped the folded paper nervously, twisting it to and fro like bike handlebars.
Girl, you’re messin’ with my heart… She fucking knows who Steely Dan is. Named a song, too…
He smiled with pleasure at her eclectic musical knowledge, which turned him on, got his blood pumping.
Steely Dan’s Greatest Hits began to play and he made his way back towards the beauty, stood before her, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at her like he wanted to eat her ass up. He knew what he looked like, and he just hoped she didn’t catch on. It was difficult to hide how he really felt; he tended to wear his feelings on his tattooed sleeves, no matter if those emotions were good or bad.
“How’d you sleep last night?’
“Decent.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get? No praises, gifts of gold and silver, a ‘thank you card’ that smells like your perfume?” He chuckled, flirting his fucking head off.
She was staring at him as she crossed her legs — looked at him as though she wanted something he had.
I h
ave what you need…
He slicked the tip of his tongue to the corner of his mouth as she blushed and looked away. He kept flicking his tongue there, unable to reel the damned thing in until he surmised his mouth was getting dry.
“Actually.” She grinned. “The tea was really good, surprisingly good.”
“No need to be surprised. I told you it would help.”
She smiled and shook her head, then handed him the sketch. He opened it up, nodded and tossed it to the side.
“Now, do you wish to keep the design as is?”
“Yes, I believe so. I really like that.”
“This is for the rest of your life, so be sure.” He walked away from her and locked the door, tugging on it for insurance’s sake.
“I thought you wanted my business? I thought you wanted me to be relaxed?” she joked. “I know it’s permanent. You’re making me want to rise up and bolt right on outta here.”
He looked over his shoulder at her and cracked a grin.
“Don’t do that. I just don’t want anybody doing something they regret. Obviously I like tattoos. Look at me.” He rolled his shirtsleeves way up to his shoulders, exhibiting a tapestry of images he’d collected over the years.
“Those are really nice, Julian. I like that one, right there.” She pointed to the silhouette of a baby with clouds all around him.
“Yeah.” He looked at it. “That’s one of my favorites, too. It is of my son.”
He couldn’t believe it, but he saw a glimmer of something reminiscent of hope leave her face. As if, wielding a large pin, he’d let all of the billowy air out of some magical dream she was fostering. He normally didn’t discuss the matter, but felt compelled to at this point.
“I was very young when I got married, only eighteen.” He moved towards his supplies and slowly revealed them from the silky material. “The marriage only lasted a year. We’re still friends. She’s getting married again, actually, I think like next week…a destination wedding. At the time though, neither of us should’ve been married. This is a tribute to what she and I created.”
Scandalous Heroes Box Set Page 62