One Life

by A. J. Pine

  When my gaze meets his, he lets out a slow, controlled breath, eyes closing for a few seconds as he does. When he opens them to look at me, his blue irises have lost their stillness, and a strange pang of guilt twists in my gut to think I’ve taken their new light away.

  “I worry, too,” he says, his voice quiet and strained. “You know it’s not an issue of how gorgeous you are, right? Hair color, ink, piercings—it’s hot as fucking hell.”

  His lips, warm and full of need, find mine.

  “Everything about you drives me absolutely crazy,” he continues. “But . . .”

  “I knew there’d be a but,” I interrupt, and he leans away from me, crossing his arms. “Fine. Finish.”

  “But, after everything you’ve gone through, a lot is changing fast, maybe too fast.”

  He gently grabs my right arm just below the beginning of the feather tattoo. He kisses my palm, my wrist, then up the untouched portion of flesh on my forearm. Hairs stand at attention on the back of my neck. Other parts of me perk up as well. I wish I could explain. I wish I could tell him that the change is what makes it all bearable.

  “I’m just asking you to consider slowing down,” he says, shifting to his knees so he can follow my skin to my elbow, my bicep, my shoulder. Where I once was solid I am now a puddle, melting into him with each touch of his lips. He kisses my cheek. Then his teeth graze my earlobe, and a tiny cry escapes my lips.

  His head dips to my neck, kissing, kissing. “Maybe this is too much all at once. If it is, I can stay with my buddy, in the suburbs. It’s not a problem.”

  I shake my head, and he straightens to look at me.

  “Here,” I tell him. “Your place is here.”

  His already-there grin broadens, and that light in his eyes flickers on again.

  “Moratorium on the ink for a week?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to argue, but decide I have enough this week to keep my mind on anything other than home.

  “Moratorium,” I say, and watch the tension leave his shoulders. Whether or not I agree with him, I don’t want to promote this worrying shit. If it matters to him that I wait, it matters to me too.

  He hooks a finger under the bottom hem of my tank.

  “Now where were we, Supergirl? I believe I was just about to remark on how you are far too overdressed for this occasion.”

  I stick out my tongue, flashing the symbol for my namesake, and lean toward his chest, surprising him as I lick the circumference of his nipple.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I admit. “My attire is so inappropriate.”

  I raise my hands expectantly and wait for him to pull my top over my head. He pays special attention not to let the material rub over my shoulder, and in seconds, we are wearing the same “outfit.”

  “That’s more like it,” he says, returning the favor my tongue paid to him as he takes Thor into his mouth.

  I arch my back into him, then grab him by the shoulders and push him so he falls flat on his. My legs straddle his hips now, and I slide down, rubbing against him so we both let out audible displays of pleasure.

  “I can’t lie on my back,” I remind him, and he nods. “And I think it’s time I show you all that Supergirl can do.”

  His eyes grow wide, and so does my grin. I haven’t done what I’m about to in, well, a while. So I hope I don’t mess it up, ruining the moment.

  I slide my body further down his length, the only thing separating us the thin cotton of our undergarments.

  “Jesus . . . Zoe . . . ,” he groans, and this boosts my confidence.

  When I move past the hem of his boxers, I give them a swift tug. He lifts his lovely ass to help me get them off, and in a flash he is bare before me, beautiful and mine.

  And yes, I guess I do drive him crazy. The evidence is hard to miss.

  I dip my head toward his . . . evidence, again flashing the piercing in my tongue.

  “I’m yours, Supergirl,” he says, and that’s all I need to hear.

  I swirl a gentle lick around his tip, and his hands fist in my hair. He doesn’t push or pull or exert any force, just stays connected to me and lets me explore. My tongue travels down his length and back up again, all the while I listen to his breath, him humming my name, and more than anything enjoying that I can bring some sort of joy to him. Everything about our reconnection this past month has been him doing for me. I want tonight to be his night, for him to somehow know what I can’t quite put into words.

  With my metal swiping softly against his tip again, I tease and taste in circles until I take him inside, and his hands finally grab my hair tight, which I hope means I’m doing okay.

  “Zoe . . .” My name is a plea. “Zoe,” he says again as I take him out and back in again. When my hand joins to assist my mouth, lets out a hissed, “Holy shit.”

  One of his hands leaves my hair and starts reaching around the foot of the bed. I disengage briefly. “What’s wrong? Am I doing it wrong? Are you trying to escape?”

  He laughs, then moans a “No . . . just, can you grab my guitar case? Something . . . inside.”

  I hop off the bed and grab the case, wondering what the hell just happened, and when I open it, a laugh bubbles up from my chest as I pull out a small box of condoms.

  I hold them up and smirk. “If you’re ready for this, I guess it means I’m doing okay?”

  “Less talking, more tearing open packet, please.” His voice is raspy with need.

  I shimmy out of my underwear and tear open the box, grabbing our lucky contestant. I give him one last lick, reveling in each sound that escapes his lips. Then, when he’s suited up and ready for battle, I slide down his length again, this time joining him in all those delicious sounds.

  He rocks inside me, slow and measured, as he whispers in my ear. “I’m gonna fall for you, Supergirl. I hope you’ll catch me.”

  My breath hitches, and I don’t answer him out loud. Because I’ve already fallen. Who will catch me?

  Chapter Twelve

  “I could get used to this,” I say, my forehead pressed to Spock’s. “Waking up with you.”

  He gives his brows a sleepy waggle, and his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile.

  “I should probably sleep on the couch once in a while just to keep up the whole roommate appearance.”

  I drape my bare leg over his.

  “How would we do this?” I ask, pressing my pelvis to his. Spock hisses in a breath. “The couch is so small—and too close to Dee’s room to hide any noise.”

  He reaches behind him to his phone on the bedside table.

  I groan. “Please don’t tell me what time it is.”

  “We need to be at Old Town for orientation at nine. It’s—eight fifteen.”

  Cue exaggerated, louder groan.

  He kisses me, his lips lingering on mine for a few sweet seconds.

  “I’m just as disappointed as you are. Believe me. But I’m not going to be the asshole who strolls in late even if they did practically beg me to take the position.”

  I place my palm over the front of his briefs, on top of his erection.

  “I can beg,” I tease, giving him one long stroke. Then I climb over him and out of bed. “But you’re right. We should get ready to go, what with the ten-minute walk and all.”

  Spock face-plants into his pillow and mumbles something unintelligible. I giggle and toss his cargo shorts at him.

  “Hey,” I say, and he must catch the change in my tone, because he rolls over to look at me. “Don’t you, like, need to go home and—I don’t know—pack for the summer?”

  He runs a hand through his already gorgeously sleep-tousled hair, and all I want to do is crawl back in that bed with him, throw the blanket over our heads, and hide from the rest of the world as long as humanly possible. But something in his expression falters, and with it I feel the ache in my shoulder, the throb and sting of the fresh wound of the tattoo.

  “Huh,” he says. “I guess I hadn’t quite thought this through
.”

  I plop down on the edge of the bed. “Orientation’s only until three. We could take an afternoon drive to Madison and be back home with enough time to pick up where we left off and still squeeze in a few hours of sleep.”

  I run my hand up his blanket-covered thigh, but he stops me before I reach the good stuff.

  “I’m thinking I like our little bubble here,” he says. “Away from home and all that home brings with it.”

  I feign a pout and huff out a breath. “I can’t argue with you there,” I tell him. “But desperate times call for desperate measures, and you, sir, will be out of underwear by the next sunrise.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to try commando.”

  “Spock.”

  “Zoe. I’m sure there’s a washer and dryer in the building,” he says. “But underwear aside, I probably do need something other than the one pair of shorts and a few T-shirts. I’ll text my brother and have him run to my parents’ and overnight a box. He won’t have to pay if he does it from the office.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Do your parents know about the job?”

  He still holds my wrist in his hand, and he brings it to his lips, brushing my skin with a soft kiss.

  “They know. I called on my way out last night.”

  “And do they know where you’re living?” I ask.

  He nods, but it’s slow and hesitant.

  “What?” I ask.

  He lets out a long sigh. “My parents are—how do I put this?—better off being blissfully ignorant.”

  I take my hand back from him, cross my arms, and let out a small huff.

  “Zoe. I’m twenty-two years old. I just spent almost half a year living out of a bus with a bunch of other guys. I don’t exactly write home about every little detail.”

  He scoots back and slides himself up to a sitting position. We’re now eye to eye.

  “How about you?” he asks, and I blink three times. “Is that Morse code for Oh shit. He just called me out for being a dick too?”

  I roll my eyes. “We were talking about you,” I say.

  “And now we’re talking about you.”

  I purse my lips, but it’s no use trying to backpedal now.

  “Blissfully ignorant,” I say.

  “And your brother?” He clears his throat and immediately adds, “Zach?”

  As if he had to clarify. I only have one brother now.

  “Blissfully ignorant as well.” I shrug. “That’s my job,” I say. “Cover up the bad and only share the good. They already know all the good.”

  His taunting grin fades. “All the good?” he asks, and there’s a soft sincerity in his voice that eats away at a tiny part inside, the one I try to keep all neat and tidy for him—for Spock’s blissful ignorance.

  I lean forward and kiss him.

  “I’m a little selfish,” I whisper to him. “Sometimes I save the best just for me.”

  He tucks a blue lock behind my ear, letting his hand rest at the nape of my neck.

  “That’s good,” he says. “I don’t like to share either.”

  I drop my forehead to his, and we’re back where we started when we both woke up.

  “So you’ll text your brother,” I say.

  “I’ll text my brother.”

  “And you’re really mine for ten weeks?”

  He chuckles, and I know if I’m not falling for this guy in my bed, I’m at least falling for that laugh, deep and playful with the smallest hint of a rasp.

  “Maybe,” he starts, and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Maybe even a week after that.”

  I shrug. “If you’re lucky,” I say. Then I hop up and start getting dressed.

  “Already told you, Supergirl. You’re my lucky charm.”

  Everything feels right, if only for this moment. I try to see beyond ten weeks, to a life beyond guilt and lawsuits and my broken family. And when a FedEx box arrives the next afternoon, I know that although I’m not sure what lies at the summer’s end, one thing is starting to feel certain—Spock is there.

  * * *

  “Tomorrow, you will be the teachers, but today you are the students.”

  Bree stands in front of us, and by us I mean a group of ten twentysomethings who sit awkwardly in beanbag chairs or kid-sized stools. There is no conventional classroom setting in this art school, and while I love it, it’s a little hard to feel like a grown-up when every time I shift my weight on the bright blue chair, the sound of the grinding beans or rice of whatever I’m resting on threatens to drown out Bree’s directions. Plus, my middle school sense of humor makes me giggle each time I hear the sound.

  “Students will range in age from six to ten, and they will also range in ability. For some, this program is to hone skills they’ve already started developing. For others, it will be a period of discovery. They may be interested in the arts but aren’t sure where their talent or passion lies. Your job is to help them figure that out. It’s also a chance for you to develop your craft while they develop theirs. Practice what you preach.”

  Bree’s eyes fall on me.

  “Zoe, if you want to work on sketching, then sketch something yourself. If you want students to paint, then paint. Charcoals—you get my drift?”

  I nod as a huge grin spreads across my face. I may have applied for this program because of what the showcase could do for me, but now I can’t contain my giddiness. For the first time in a long time since Wyatt died, I’m not rushing toward the future. I’m actually looking forward to each day as it comes.

  Spock reclines on the red beanbag next to mine, and I catch him eyeing me and my dopy grin.

  “What?” I whisper as Bree continues to make a similar example with a girl who will be teaching piano.

  He shrugs. “I just like it when you smile,” he says. “Like, really smile. Kinda lights up the room.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s my hair,” I say. “It has light-reflective properties.”

  Spock grabs my hand and gives it a soft squeeze.

  “You just seem—happy,” he says.

  I don’t hesitate before responding.

  “That’s because I am.”

  * * *

  We spend the rest of the morning getting the lay of the land: the performance rooms versus the visual art rooms, organizing supplies and planning our first lessons—or, as Bree puts it, our first discoveries. I decide to start tomorrow with pencil drawing. Once I have my easels set up and art pencils in each tray, I wander toward the sound of a guitar. It could be any one of the six different music teachers, but something tells me my instincts are right. And when I stop outside the door and peer through window, my guess is confirmed.

  Spock sits on the edge of a low stage, guitar on his lap and eyes closed as he plays something he knows by heart. He’s singing too. I can’t hear him with the door shut, the room soundproofed for recording, but I don’t need to. Whatever the song is, I can feel it just by looking at him—his eyes scrunched and his head thrown back in agony? Ecstasy? Either way, the emotion pours from him, and it hits me like a wave. It’s not just that I’m moved by what he’s doing but also that I haven’t done it myself in over a month. My art has always been my outlet, but I haven’t been able to produce anything like what Spock is doing now. Sure, I drew my tattoos for Dee. And I’ll draw tomorrow for the class—something simple like a flower or a piece of fruit. But since Wyatt left us, the well has run dry, and I’m counting on this program to somehow trigger what was there before. I’m counting on the happiness that Spock has brought out of me to wipe away the hurt—to bring back what connected us in the first place—the way we bare our souls through art.

  He doesn’t notice me outside the door, so I linger a bit longer as I watch the man I’m falling for find what he thought he’d lost. I watch him share a bit of his soul, even if it’s not meant to be mine for the taking.

  And I fall in love with the man and his music, even if I can’t hear a sound.

  Chapter Thirteenr />
  Spock grabs my hand, stopping me before I put the key in the apartment door.

  “Thank you,” he says, and I scrunch my brows together.

  “For . . . remembering my key?” I ask, even though I can feel the something more in his words. I look at him, guitar case slung across his back, hair flopping over his brow, and a smile on his face that makes my knees feel boneless. He’s perfect. And mine. I should be thanking him just for being here.

  He shakes his head. “I knew I needed something, Zoe. But shit—I had no idea how much. Thank you for putting me on the path to something.”

  He backs me up against the door, and then his lips are on mine. One of his hands slides from my hip to the small of my back, which is convenient since my boneless knees are quite finished holding me up.

  “Whoa,” he says, helping me right myself, yet I still use the door for support. “You all right there, Supergirl?”

  I laugh quietly. “Guess you make me a little weak in the knees,” I say.

  It’s then that the door falls open, and Spock has to catch me before I fall with it.

  “That’s quite an accomplishment,” I hear, the voice coming from behind me. “Because from what I know of her, no one makes Zoe Adler weak in the anything.”

  I spin and throw my arms around Jess, and that’s when I see Adam out of the corner of my eye—sitting in Zoe’s tattoo chair.

  “What the hell is Carson doing?” I ask, and Jess throws her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Dee’s putting the caffeine molecule on his upper arm.”

  Spock follows us inside, and Jess hugs him too, like she’s known him for years.

  “You’ve gotten awfully huggie,” I tell her as we congregate in front of Dee’s studio door.

  “I’ve gotten awfully happy,” she says. “The hugging is a side effect.”

  I poke my head into the studio. “That’s the nerdiest tattoo ever, Carson.”

  Adam Carson pulls his gaze away from Dee’s needle to meet mine. “I know,” he says. “It was either this or vampire fangs.”

  I snort. “I think you made a wise choice.”