by A. J. Pine
Spock pulls me up from the chair before I can answer her.
“You okay?” he whispers in my ear.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I guess I didn’t know what to expect, but I sort of liked it.” I turn to Delores, who’s cleaning her station now. “Is that weird?”
She waves me off. “Lots of clients say that. Personally, I don’t mind the needle, but I sure as shit don’t crave it.” She disposes of the needles and rubber gloves in her little hazmat-looking case. “You know what I do crave?” she asks but leaves no room for an unwanted response. “Tommy, the guy from this morning, he likes to tip me in IPAs. He’s a distributor for Lagunitas. You guys want one?”
Spock gives me a look. The She doesn’t know you don’t drink? look, and I roll my eyes at him. For ten weeks, can I not don the label of addict’s daughter? It’s not like I’ve really ever tested the theory. I just assume passing out face-first into a kiddie pool at a fraternity party probably qualified as a red flag, so I nipped it in the bud before there was a chance of anything getting worse.
I look at my forearm, covered in plastic wrap for the next two hours.
“You do amazing work, Delores. I love it. But I think I’m going to finish unpacking and then probably pass out.”
Her lips quirk up.
“It’s your design, Blue. We make a good team, though.” She nods at me, then at Spock. “Yeah, you and Shaggy go pass out, Blue.”
“Shaggy?” he asks.
Her eyes trace his body from bottom to top, stopping at his, well, shaggy locks.
“Can I call you Spock?” she asks.
He opens his mouth to answer, but the blurted “No!” comes from me.
Spock laughs and wraps his arms around me from behind.
“Shaggy and Blue it is, then. Take it as a compliment,” she says. “I only nickname you if I can tolerate you. And, well, if you sport my art, that kind of makes you a shoo-in.”
I let my head fall back against Spock’s shoulder.
“And how will I know when you’ve moved beyond tolerance?”
She shrugs, heading toward the studio door, and we follow.
Once out in the hall, Spock and I back into my doorway as Delores heads to the kitchen for her beer.
“Good night, you two,” she says, and I swear there’s a hint of affection in her tone.
“Good night, Delores,” we answer back in unison, and she rolls her eyes.
Her back to us now, she stands already at the fridge when she calls out, “Dee. You can call me Dee.”
I crane my head to meet Spock’s eyes, and we both shrug.
“That’s how you know,” she says. “That you’ve graduated from tolerated.”
And we laugh, moving into my room and again kicking the door shut behind us.
“She likes you,” Spock says, a hint of teasing in his tone.
I shake my head. “She thinks you’re hot. She’s just keeping her enemy closer.”
He quirks his head to the side. “Do you think I’m hot? Because that’s all I really care about.”
I reach for the open suitcase that now sits on my bed, wanting to throw something at him, anything, in jest.
Okay, well not anything. A lime green lace thong will somehow only boost his growing ego more, so I toss it back in the case.
I shrug. “If tall, lean, sensitive musicians with great hair are a girl’s type, then you might have something going for you. But you’re not my type.”
He grabs my hand, presses my palm to his lips, and kisses it softly. Goose bumps rise up and down my arm, on the back of my neck.
“What is your type, then?” he asks, lips brushing my palm as he speaks.
I swallow. “Bald,” I croak. “Definitely bald. And no artistic ability, especially not a guy who has a way with words. Such a turnoff.”
He laughs now and turns my arm so it’s palm up, exposing Dee’s covered art that runs from my wrist to the crease in my elbow.
“While I consider shaving, can we agree about your artistic abilities? I have to admit I was a little nervous about you getting your first tat from your roommate, but she’s totally legit. And her work with your drawing is fucking good.”
I follow his eyes as they scan the length of my arm. My skin grows hot, as if his eyes radiate heat. And maybe they do, because when he brings his gaze to mine, my insides glow like a furnace.
“Right?” I ask, pretending not to hear the hitch in my breath—pretending he doesn’t hear it. “She’s amazing. That probably would have cost me over a hundred bucks if I had to pay for it. I’ll tip her with more than a six-pack for my next one.”
Spock studies me. “Your next one?”
I nod. “I’m just getting started. Next on my agenda is figuring out what we’ll get for you.”
He huffs out a laugh, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not my thing, Zo.”
Something in me wants to ask him why. But something bigger takes over, big enough that it thickens the air between us, making it harder for me to breathe.
“So I’m Zo, now?” I ask, testing the waters with one step closer.
This time his smile makes it all the way there.
“I like Blue and everything,” he says. “But Delores . . . Dee got there first. I want something to call you that’s only for me.”
I rest my palm flat against his chest, feel his warmth mirroring mine.
“What if I told you my whole family calls me Zo?”
“Do they?” His eyes widen, and I stifle a laugh.
“No. But it’s fun to mess with you. No one calls me that, actually. Zach and I, we call each other Z. A twin thing, I guess. But other than that, no nickname. I figure everyone else thinks my name is short enough.”
He rests a hand over my palm.
“Am I permitted to give you a nickname, short or not?”
I step closer and bring my mouth to his ear.
“I told you what I want you to call me.” I kiss the spot where his cheek meets his ear and listen to him breathe in. Then his neck, where my lips feel the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“The nickname, Zo, it’s mine?” he asks, his voice gravelly yet still able to tease.
“Yours,” I say, my voice breathy with need against his collarbone.
“And you?” he asks. “After seven months. How is it that I didn’t miss my chance?” He shakes his head. “Because I was a fucking idiot. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
I straighten to face him, to see him. His eyes darken, and while I know he wants what I want right now, something more than need pools in his gaze.
“It’s not like I waited for you, not consciously, I mean. I guess I did always wonder, though. But I wasn’t a saint or anything while you were gone, pining for you.”
The words come out harsher than I mean them to sound. Because I did always wonder, and if he would have asked—if he would have said he wanted to see what might happen with us after the tour—I would have said yes. But admitting that to him is too much for where we are now. Instead I pretend we’ve just met, that we have no sort-of past full of what could have been. Otherwise there are expectations attached to the time we spent apart, and even if he lives up to mine, there’s no way I’ll live up to his.
He takes a step back, and his face is part grin, part grimace.
“Can we not talk about saintly or non-saintly behavior? I don’t want to think about you with anyone else at this particular moment in time.”
“What?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You were in a band. On tour. And the whole playing-guitar thing makes you just a tiny bit more attractive than you already are. Don’t tell me you were Mr. Clean in every sense of the word.”
His eyes narrow at me, and he cups my face in his palms.
“Okay, let’s start over. I didn’t mean to take us down this road. I’m just . . . I’m happy you’re still here. That’s all.”
I take his wrists and pull his arms around my waist because this is all I’
ve ever wanted but was too stubborn to admit. His sweet smile, his admission of relief that I didn’t go anywhere, it’s all enough to tell me we wanted the same thing all along.
“You’re usually better with words than this,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m much better with my words when I have time to plan them out. But there’s no time for planning with you.”
“Nope.” It’s my turn to hold his face in my palms, to make sure he sees me when I say, “I’m still here because you were there when I never expected it, when I didn’t realize I needed you. I’m still here because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Then I say one word against his lips. “Yours.”
He sighs against me. “Mine,” he answers back.
When he kisses me, everything else falls away. So I guide him backward to the bed, my hands still cradling his face, my mouth still pressed to his. He pulls me down with him onto the bed, and we tumble onto each other, both forgetting the open suitcase taking up the space.
We shake with laughter against one another.
“Sorry!” I whisper-shout, then blow our cover with Dee when I kick the suitcase to the floor and it lands with a hefty thud followed by the splat of the unzipped top.
More laughter. More kissing and tasting. Then he stops, pulls away, and just looks at me. We lie face-to-face, both on our sides, and he stares at me for several seconds before breaking the silence.
“We can wait,” he says, his expression shuttered. “We do have all summer . . . if I stay.”
Nothing is official yet, and I still haven’t asked Dee.
I push up on my elbow. “Do you not want to do this?”
He looks down at his cargo shorts, at the unmistakable bulge inside them, then back at me, one corner of his mouth curving into a lopsided grin.
“It’s pretty obvious I want to do this. But I just want you to be sure.”
I sit up completely now, lift my T-shirt over my head, unclasp my bra, and let it fall away.
“Zoe,” he whispers, my name some sort of plea. His eyes fall to my breasts, to the piercings he felt through my shirt, and he looks intoxicated. If I needed any further encouragement, I have it in spades now.
I lift a leg over his, and he falls to his back, letting me straddle him, my knee-length peasant skirt pooling over his torso. He makes no move to touch me, so I grab one of his hands and bring it to my breast.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’ve been waiting. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. It wasn’t a conscious decision. There’ve been other guys since you left.”
He opens his mouth to interrupt, but I raise my brows, letting him know I’m not done.
“There have been other guys,” I continue, and he closes his eyes and moans. “But none of them ever made it past the front door. None of them made it to my room—my bed.”
Spock opens one eye to see me biting my lip, holding back the thought that hits me over and over again about why he’s still here. He’s here because my brother is not. If Wyatt hadn’t died, would he have left the tour at all?
He looks at me, his blue eyes tender and knowing, and I can’t help the small smile that pushes through my doubt. His hand slides from my breast to my hip, and with a slight push, he urges me down on top of him, chest to chest, nose to nose.
“In every sense of the word,” he says, and I lift my head enough for him to see my brow creased in question.
His smile broadens, as if that’s even possible, and he continues. “On tour. Mr. Clean . . . in every sense of the word.”
Chapter Nine
If ignoring the past means we have a future, then sign me up. Because this man in my bed right now—that’s all I need.
“I’m sure of one thing,” I tell him. “Right now, in this exact moment, all I want is you.”
That is my whole truth.
My lips fall to his, and he doesn’t hold back. Not anymore. We give in to the unintentional waiting, to what it turns out we both wanted months ago. Somehow my hands find the hem of his shirt, pushing it up to his neck until we have to separate, if only to get the damn thing over his head. He smiles and I giggle, collapsing back onto him, and that’s when he lets out a soft growl.
“Jesus, Zoe.”
He rolls me to my back, and he kisses me hard. Our tongues tangle, and I sigh against his mouth, sure I’ve never tasted anything like him. When he eases up a couple of inches, I hold my breath, afraid he’s going to stop again. But then his lips find my earlobe, where he licks softly and nips at skin.
He peppers my neck with kisses, then my chest, before rising onto his knees to look at me sprawled beneath him.
“Do you know how hard it was not to think about doing this every time we shared a bed?”
“It was only a few times,” I remind him. “So—you didn’t think about doing this?”
He cups my cheek and winks. “I said it was hard not to think about it. Never said I was successful.”
His eyes leave mine and travel to my breasts, where he finally notices what my piercings actually are.
“You just took my love of comic books to a whole new level, gorgeous.”
I breathe in sharp. It’s not that I’ve ever been that modest about my body. All previous roommates will attest to that. But the way he looks at me now, eyes dark, drinking me in—no guy has looked at me like this before. I watch his slow, measured breaths as his eyes get their fill.
“You a Captain America fan or Thor?” I ask, referring to the respective barbells.
He nods, and I laugh.
“Yes? Your answer is yes? I asked which one, Vulcan.”
This time he shakes his head. “You don’t make a guy choose between two perfect breasts when he can have both.” He gives me a pointed look. “I can have both, right?”
My teeth graze my bottom lip as I bite back a laugh. His eyes plead for an answer even though he doesn’t need one, and I’m a goner, peals of laughter spilling from my lips.
This feels good—laughing. Spock is the first to bring this out of me in a month, and I crave more of it, of him.
“If I say you can have them both, will you move past looking and get to, you know, other things?”
He leans down slowly, bracing himself with his forearms on either side of my head.
“Promise,” he says, his voice low and hoarse.
“Then you’re wasting time,” I whisper. “Because I already said I’m yours. That means every last part of me.”
I stop myself from saying more by kissing him, stop him from having to respond. Because all of me means my heart too. And what does it mean if I give him that? I haven’t done much in the way of deserving reciprocation. My track record with doing right by the people I love did a total one-eighty four short weeks ago.
But this is only a beginning. I’ll figure the rest out as I go. So I bring his mouth to mine, tangle my hands in his shaggy hair as his lips brush and caress and taste until he makes his way back to his topic of study from before. He lets his eyes linger for only a few seconds before he kisses the skin at the top of my breast, then down, down until he finds the metal, the sensitive flesh. His tongue swirls around, almost touching but not quite, taunting me enough that I squirm beneath him.
He exhales a small laugh against my skin, his warm breath brushing against what his tongue has yet to reach.
“Zoe, Zoe. Never known you to be impatient.”
My hand, still fisted in his hair, gives a slight tug.
“Funny what teasing the fuck out of a nipple will do to a girl.”
And just like that, the teasing ends. He takes me . . . and my piercing into his mouth, and I squirm again, my skin on fire with need. He pays equal attention to Thor’s hammer before letting the weight of his body fall against me. I rock my hips against him, and he lets out a ragged sigh.
“Still impatient, Supergirl?” He grins. “There it is, a more fitting nickname.”
I flick my tongue out at him, brandishing the S. I’m no superhero, I want to tell him. B
ut instead I let the tip of my tongue tickle his bottom lip.
“Still teasing me, Trekkie?”
He falls to his side, slides a hand up my thigh, his calloused musician’s fingers disappearing under my skirt. When he reaches the spot where leg meets lace, I get my answer as his thumb skims my panty line, not yet daring to slide under.
“Any caped crusaders waiting for me here?” he asks, the tip of a finger sneaking in.
Still teasing, I see. I can play too.
“You can easily answer that question for yourself.” I keep my voice even, though I want to scream that it’s all me under that thin layer of fabric—me squirming and ready to explode at the simple thought of his hand on me, his fingers in me. Because I’ve imagined this more than once, but nothing compares to the real thing.
Payback time.
I unbutton and unzip his shorts, grab him, firm in his boxers, and give him one long, slow, stroke.
“Zoe,” he moans, dragging my underwear down over my hips, my thighs, my knees, until I’m kicking them off my ankles. With nothing left between his hand and my skin, he teases no more.
Working hard not to let the lovely things his hand is doing distract me from reciprocating, I manage, clumsily, to free him of his shorts completely. Then his boxers too.
All that’s left is my long skirt, hiked up where it no longer matters, flowing around me like water, letting me drown in him as everything else washes away.
With his hands on me, his fingers in me, it’s more than the pleasure pulling me under. His touch obliterates everything else—the grief, the guilt, the fear. He takes it all away, and I willingly give it to him for as long as he’ll have me.
I take him in my hand, hoping my touch does to him a fraction of what his does for me. His eyes lock on mine, and when we find our rhythm, our lips find each other’s again.
“I didn’t think to pack . . .” I squeeze in the words when I take a breath. “I didn’t stop at the store. I mean, I didn’t know we’d . . .”
His raspy laugh tells me he knows what I’m trying to say, but the magic his fingers are creating is going to my head, making coherent thought or speech impossible.
“In my wallet,” he says. “Not that I was planning, or hoping.”