by S. E. Law
I swallow hard and try not to stare, but it’s impossible. My eyes flick up again, and devour the sight of a large green dragon coiled around his left pec, as if guarding his heart. I can’t speak when suddenly, Dane springs into action.
He runs at us, snapping his shirt around my back to whip Patty in the thigh. She grabs a hold of me, and before I can object, we’re tearing into the front room. Of course, I’m not exactly in shape, so my legs feel like they’re made of rubber. Squealing, I break Patty’s grip on my arm and drop clumsily onto the sofa, successfully removing myself from the action as the two of them continue to dash around like little kids.
They go at it for another minute or two. Patty’s brown eyes grow wide as her brother swings her up and over his shoulder, a bit of a feat because Patty is a bigger girl like me. Then, he sets her down and she lands in a puddle of her almond colored hair at Dane’s feet. She finally calls out for mercy, tapping on the ground half in tears of defeat and half in tears produced from fits of laughter.
Patty’s dad, Jim, hears the commotion and comes into the room. He is trying to contain his laughter at the sight of his two grown children sprawled out on the ground, looking disheveled and messy from their play fight.
“Come on Dane, not in front of the company!” Jim mock scolds. “You’re seven years older than these girls, for crying out loud. The last thing we need is word getting out that you enjoy tormenting your little sister and her friend!”
“Yeah, that’s what’s happening here Dad,” Dane says sarcastically as he pulls himself back to his feet. He reaches out a hand and helps Patty up off the ground as well. “If anything, they’re tormenting me.”
I manage a small smile and wave.
“Hey Mr. Reston.” I greet. “How’s it going?”
“Oh you know, just enjoying a nice peaceful morning, as usual,” he says with a smile. “How are you, Zoe? It’s nice to see you.”
“I’m good,” I smile. “Good to see you too, Dane.”
Oh my god, how can there be so many “goods” in one sentence? I sound like a doll on repeat. But Dane merely laughs and turns to face me, sticking his hands halfway into his jean pockets.
“Yeah, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you and the first thing I do is make you watch me terrorize my sister! Oh well, just like the good old days. How have you been? Pumped for senior year I bet?”
Dane is talking to me. I can’t believe this. Dane never used to actually take an interest in my life.
Then, I try to get a hold of myself.
Oh, don’t be silly Zoe, he’s just being polite.
“I’ve been great,” I manage with a smile. “And I’m definitely ready for senior year to come because I’m going to start applying to art schools in the fall.”
Mr. Reston jumps in at this.
“Ah, glad to hear you finally convinced your parents that art is your path in life.”
I smile weakly in return because in fact, my parents still don’t approve. They think I need to find a “real career” and don’t think art is a viable option. It’s really frustrating, and I’ve talked to Patty’s parents about this more than I have my own. I’m grateful to her parents because it’s like having a second family that I can reach out to for advice. As a result, I’m pretty open with my struggles.
“Actually, we still disagree on the matter, but I can’t imagine myself going to school for anything like business or accounting like my parents want me too. And it’s not like I am naïve or uninformed. I know it’s hard to make a living as an artist, but I love my art so I have to do it. I think I’m just going to apply and wait to see if I even get in anywhere before talking to my parents about this again.”
I feel my chest grow heavy just discussing the subject. I hate to lie to Conrad and June, but I know I need to stay true to myself and my passions.
“If you get in?” Patty exclaims, breaking out in laughter. She gets up and starts walking around the room, gesturing as if she is making a speech to a room filled with people. This is typical Patty for you: the entertainer. And she has fully embraced this archetype. She even does standup comedy at the monthly open mic nights hosted by the coffee shop downtown.
“Do you hear that, guys? Zoe says ‘if’ she gets in! Silly, silly Zoe. Those schools would be insane to not accept you. Zoe is a young, hip Salvador Dali, Picasso, or Monet. I’d say Van Gogh but I really don’t want you to have to lose an ear because that would be awful.”
Dane takes this opportunity to study me, and I feel my heart fluttering under his intense blue gaze.
“Is that right?” he asks in a low voice. “You’re an artist?”
I nod.
“Yeah, my parents aren’t really into it, but I love being creative. I can’t imagine going to school for anything else.”
He looks thoughtful and then nods.
“You have to follow your passion,” he says finally. “There’s no other way to live life.”
His words make sense because Dane is an artist too. He works at a tattoo parlor downtown, and he’s developed quite a name for himself. I know people come from miles around, and sometimes even other states, to get their tattoos done by him. He’s unparalleled when it comes to fine brushwork, and I’d love to talk with him more about this.
But of course right now, I’m utterly tongue-tied. I want to respond with something intelligent, inspirational, and even moving. Instead, all I can do is stare back with a wildly cheesy smile. The handsome man smirks playfully and then turns to the door, grabbing a black backpack on the way.
“See you guys,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll catch you next weekend. Bye Dad, bye Pats. Bye Zoe.”
Then, the roar of his Harley sounds in the driveway, and we see a dark figure zoom off down the street.
“Next weekend?” I ask my friend. “What’s going on next weekend? I thought your brother hardly ever came home anymore.”
She nods.
“Silly, did you forget? It’s our annual Fourth of July bash. You’re coming right?”
I nod furiously.
“Oh of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” The words seem to echo as they leave my lips. The air in the room feels thick, the floor unsteady beneath my feet. He’ll be back next weekend, and I’m aroused merely from the thought. It’s crazy. Patty doesn’t notice, thankfully, because she’s too wrapped up talking smack about her brother.
“You know, this will be the first year he doesn’t bring a date to the party. Or at least, if he is, he hasn’t told us yet. Hoochie mamas, Zoe! That’s all he ever dates. He has a thing for bimbos that get all excited at the sight of a motorcycle and tattoos. Could you imagine if he started smoking? These girls would be dropping dead at his feet. I don’t get it. I mean, sure Dane can be cool sometimes. But I just don’t see the allure.”
I do. I would drop dead at Dane’s feet for just one date with him. I understand the allure plenty well. But it sounds like I have some stiff competition.
“So, you haven’t liked any of your brother’s girlfriends? Even once you got past the initial hoochie mama first impression?” I ask.
Patty shrugs.
“They never last long enough to find out what’s beneath the Daisy Dukes and tiny tank-tops. And the fake boobs, too, whoo-wee! I wonder how he doesn’t bounce off of them when they’re in bed. I’m telling you, Dane is nothing but a man-whore.”
I grimace internally, even as I try to smile. Thankfully, Mr. Reston’s disappeared, so he’s not hearing this, but I wish I could be one of those hoochie mamas. I have the figure because I’ve got huge breasts and an enormous ass, but I’m way too shy to wear short shorts or any kind of revealing top. It’s just too risky. My ta-tas could burst out at any second, and I’d be humiliated for life.
But is that what Dane likes? Maybe I should wear a scandalous outfit to the party, just to see if I can get his attention. Would he notice, even? I flush at this thought and reprimand myself. I’m Dane’s little sister’s friend, and he’s known me f
or ages. He’s never given a single hint that I’m anything other than an invisible girl who sometimes tags along.
“Well, I’m looking forward to the party,” I say with a weak smile. “Hoochie mamas or no hoochie mamas.”
Patty rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue at me.
“Yeah! We’ll see,” she says. “I just hope they don’t end up having sex somewhere in the house while the party’s going on.”
I gasp, looking to see if her parents are around.
“Don’t worry about it,” my friend reassures me. “My parents are so clueless, they’d never pick up on it.”
“But is it true?” I ask, my eyes wide. “Dane was having sex with his girlfriends during your parents’ annual party?”
Patty nods, yawning a little.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I mean, I definitely heard some loud banging noises coming from his bedroom, as well as some high-pitched squeals. Let me tell you, those hoochie-mamas can scream.”
I bite my lip as my cheeks flush, a tingle running through my womanhood. Oh my god, what would it be like to be one of those women? Dane Reston moving above me, pistoning into me, his blue eyes glowing as he makes me moan? If only I could be so lucky.
2
Dane
I went by my parents’ house today to pick up some old art supplies. It was just some expired stuff, but I remembered a gold ink that I had, and wanted to see if the manufacturer still makes it with the same ingredients. Tattooing is an art, and there are technological innovations in my space, as there are in any industry. The formulation of newer, non-toxic inks is a big step forward, and I’m at the edge of that curve.
But first and foremost, I consider myself an artist. Graphic novels used to be my thing, and I tried my hand with cartoons. They were great, but it didn’t have the intense connection a tattoo artist has with his or her customer. Then, when I got my first tattoo at fifteen, my addiction was born. Not only did I begin to indulge in body art, but I also began to learn the craft. Now, I work at High Voltage Tattoo, a downtown shop with a devoted clientele and hardcore reputation. It works for me. The tough, gritty exterior is a mask for the incredible artistry that goes on inside.
But today, I’m having difficulty focusing. I went home this weekend to pick up some stuff, and got sidetracked. Not by my sister, Patty, but by her friend, Zoe. Normally this would be no big deal because Zoe’s been coming around for years. She and Patty are practically bonded at the hip, but I never paid her much mind.
Last weekend was different though because little Zoe is all grown up now. Shit. I almost didn’t recognize her, but when she opened her mouth and said hello, my heart dropped and something else started hardening because where did this woman come from? Zoe is no longer a shy, skinny child with freckles and carroty-brown hair. Instead, she’s a voluptuous woman with creamy skin, big breasts, and chestnut curls waving down her back.
I stared, I gawked, and then I tried to pull myself together. But the way she nervously ran the tip of her tongue along her lush upper lip is playing on repeat in my head still. I want her, but I can’t do this because she’s just a kid.
But I know that isn’t true. No kid has large, jiggly breasts and big hips the way she does. Zoe’s blossomed fully, to put it politely, and I’d love to sink into that fragrant nectar.
But this is wrong. Zoe doesn’t think of me that way. Instead, she’s still shy and girlish. She seemed shocked that Patty and I were play-fighting, and was exceedingly polite when my dad came out. That’s the Zoe I know. That’s the Zoe that actually exists, and not the vixen that I’ve been envisioning in my mind.
Nonetheless, I’m toying with the idea of approaching her at the party this weekend. It’s something I would never dream of if I still lived under my parent’s roof because it would be downright dirty to hook up with her while my parents are outside. But the thought of the scandal it could cause just makes it even more intriguing to me.
What can I say? I’m a red-blooded man, and she’s a minx.
Then again, if memory serves, Zoe isn’t my normal type. She’s serious, mature, and intelligent. She actually takes school seriously and does her homework, unlike the floozies that usually decorate my arm. Those women don’t even graduate from high school, although it’s never bothered me before. But I know better. Zoe would never put up with my usual bullshit. With her, it would be the real thing.
Unfortunately, relationships scare the living crap out of me. I truly enjoy my freedom. I love my bachelor pad, and I love coming home to my solitude and a cold beer after work. I like being able to have the boys over for poker nights. The thought of having to check in with a girlfriend and getting my nights out preapproved has always irked me. No thanks.
I’m also the type of asshole-ish guy that generally waits for a girl to come to me. Not to sound like an egotistical maniac, but frankly, the women come. They swan over to where I’m standing, lashes fluttering while shaking their ta-tas in my face. But once again, Zoe doesn’t fall into this category. She’s just too good for this kind of rancid foreplay, and has too much dignity and honor. Usually, this would put me off but for the first time, that fact is intriguing me even more.
Finally, it’s time to head home. I snort ruefully while packing my bag. I got shit done today, even if customers were happy with my work. Yet, even as I take off my bike, I think of Zoe again. Should I talk to her this weekend? Should I put the moves on the innocent girl? Damn, I’m dirty.
Once home, I order a pizza, pop open a beer, and sit down to a tv show. Yet instead of laughing to some corny sitcom, I find myself thinking that it would be nice to have someone to share this moment with. What the hell is wrong with me?
Man, we’ve barely spoken to each other in the past. What on Earth is going on?
I eventually decide to call it a night and click the TV off before heading to my room. I climb into bed and the last thing that crosses my mind before I close my eyes is how wrong these thoughts I’m having about Zoe are. But wrong or right, they are there, and in the space between sleep and wakefulness, my mind drifts.
I close my eyes and the image flashes again. I see Zoe leaning against a white wall with that sexy tongue tracing its way along those pink lips I’d love to taste for myself. I see the way she looks at me, throwing her head back and laughing as I make some inane comment. I see her nude, on her knees, kneeling between my thighs and she bends her head.
Oh shit. I slip a hand under the covers and begin to increase the tension beneath my boxers, pumping my hand rapidly up and down until I release with a roar. The image of her curvy body sates me, but it’s only temporary. Now I need her even worse, and I groan while battering my pillow with confusion. Shit. What’s happening? Finally, I drift off into an uneasy sleep, Zoe still haunting my dreams.
3
Zoe
I’m at home in my room, doodling in my diary. My parents are always urging me to hangout downstairs and do my drawing in the family room because they’re very social.
“We never get to see you!” my dad Conrad jokes. “You’re always locked away in your room, nose to canvas. Why not be nose to canvas with a different set of four walls around you?”
But I demurred because Conrad and June just don’t get it. My room is my sanctuary, and it’s a special place created by me for me. It’s a place where I feel safe at home, and where my creative juices can flow strongly. I’ve filled three of the walls with my best artwork. There are drawings of dark suns setting over the ocean, unicorns and mythical beasts grazing in open fields, and magical creatures flying in pink and purple skies. The paintings are beautiful and fantastical, and they come together to transform my room into a world of my own.
The fourth wall I’ve left alone because there’s a large window bench cut into the wall where I’ve placed a few candles, a vase with varying fresh flowers (but always including a single sunflower), as well as some of my favorite gemstones such as rose quartz and obsidian. The view is magnificent as the sun sets, and I’ve spe
nt many happy evenings doodling in my notebook as the last rays of daylight warm my skin.
To add to the fantastical setting, my bed is covered by satin gold sheets, and above it hangs sheer white curtains with tiny fairy lights sewn in. These are suspended from a gold chandelier-like hoop dangling a few inches below the ceiling. This is my place, and where I feel happiest.
Tonight, I’m sitting on an oversized beanbag propped up against the wall. As usual, I’m mindlessly doodling, lost in a daydream. The ambiance is my usual: dimmed lights, candles lit, and soft wordless music playing in the background. But today, it’s different because I’m too distracted thinking about Dane. I haven’t been able to get him off my mind for days now, and it’s frustrating.
But he shows himself in my artwork because my doodles are of him. I have detailed portraits of his face emphasizing that strong jaw line and sharp cheekbones. I’m doing my best, but no drawing will do justice to those ravishing good looks. I shade in his hair and bite my lip, scrutinizing my work before giving texture to his bottom lip. I begin to lose myself filling in that thick, luscious bottom lip, so rare on a man. Then my mind flashes back to the scene where he pulled his shirt off in the Restons’ kitchen.
Oh god. I remember every piece of his body in great detail, from the sharp ridges of his abs to the delicate bead of sweat climbing down through the swath of hair curling out of the center of his chest. It’s going down ... and down … and down … I quickly turn the page of my diary and start a new image.
This time I draw Dane lying on his side, propping his head up in his hand. His top leg is bent, his other hand resting on his knee. But instead putting him in a pair of jeans, this time, I draw him fully naked. It’s dirty but I can’t help it. My hand moves like it’s possessed, and I take great time and care to render every inch of him in clear and accurate detail. I feel a small rush of pleasure flow through me with every stroke of my pen on the paper.