Hard Truths

by Alex Whitehall

  “So do you like tattoos or hate them?” Logan asked.

  “Huh?”

  He quirked a brow. “You keep glancing at my hands and collar, and unless you’ve got a hand and neck thing . . .”

  I paused, momentarily considering whether I did have a hand and neck thing. No, my eyes had definitely been drawn to his tattoos. One arm was covered in geometric and tribal-esque designs in black, while the other had a mix of designs that wove in and out of each other—making it hard to pin down exactly what they were, although waves seemed to have been incorporated throughout. Both tattoos didn’t stop at the wrists, but swept down across the back of his hands, waves leaving a spray of black dots on one and the tribal swirls curling along the knuckles of the other.

  “Isaac?”

  I met his gaze. Had I been staring again? Going by his smug grin, I probably had. “Sorry, what?”

  “So you like tattoos?”

  “Oh, yes. And yours are exquisite.”

  “Got any of your own?”

  It was my turn to grin. “Maybe you’ll find out.”

  He chuckled. “That’s a yes, then. I hope to—maybe—see them someday.”

  “Eh, it doesn’t nearly stack up compared to yours.” I sighed, thinking of my sparse ink. “Yours weren’t youthful indulgences, were they?”

  “Nope, all but one was after my rebellious stage. And trust me, if you see them, you’ll be able to pick that one out.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “A little. Kind of a terrible design and . . .” He made a gesture that I interpreted as overall bad. “I’m working with my tattoo artist on something to cover it, but it has to be perfect. I want to accent it and blend it, not remove it entirely. It was still my design. That time was still part of my life, you know?” He ran a hand over his head, looking sheepish. “Though I guess you don’t have tattoos you’re ashamed of.”

  “I got mine when I was older so I didn’t need parental permission. Hah, can you imagine my mom if she found out I had tattoos?”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “I placed it so it's not visible unless I want it to be. And I burn after a minute in the sun, so I wear one of those super-cool swimming shirts when I’m there over the summer.”

  “Neeerd.”

  “Pot, kettle.”

  He whistled like a teapot going off.

  “She somehow hasn’t seen my piercings either. Or else she’s ignoring them. Or I’m that good at hiding them.” I sighed, hoping we weren’t about to list all of the things I was keeping from my mother.

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  I shrugged.

  “Not that you have to tell them everything. It’s just . . . You love them, but are you letting them love the real you if you keep so much from them? Like, do they get to see the real you?”

  I tilted my head and met his straightforward gaze. “Do you think I’m that different because you know I have ink and piercings now? I’m the same person.”

  Logan opened his mouth, then closed it with a grimace. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be sitting here lecturing you. So, uh, see the latest Star Wars?”

  Thankfully we were both nerd stereotypes enough to be able to geek out over the newest series of films—and argue how they were tweaking the universe and if it was a good or a bad thing. That led to what books we read, although he confessed he didn’t do a lot of reading since he tended to fall asleep without visual stimulation. Comics were a definite, but when he did read books . . .

  “Oh my god, you read romances?”

  His glare across the table was firm but not yet angry. “Don’t even start.”

  “No, no, but I never would have pegged you as a romance reader.”

  He shrugged his big, broad shoulders and resettled his arms on the table, making his biceps bulge, as if they were contributing to the conversation. “I like happy endings. And it covers every genre under the sun, so I can hop around and always know I’ll get that happy ending—eventually. Some of them put you through the wringer. They’re not all bodice rippers.”

  I tried not to judge. Really hard. We all had stuff we enjoyed that would get us ridiculed by others. But my brain couldn’t compute the big biker dude reading romance.

  “God, you’re still thinking about it,” Logan said, although laughter filled the words. “You’re gonna strain yourself. Two things: one, I could be reading it for the hot sex scenes—because no genre does sex quite like romance—and also, if I’m reading romance, then don’t you think I’ll be good involved in romance?”

  I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say. Unsurprisingly, nothing came out.

  His smug expression returned. “See. And I know it’s fiction, but I think it’s nice when someone reads romance. Shows that they want that happy ending in their life.”

  “Yeah, after everything falls apart first.”

  He chuckled. “Like every other book? It’d make a boring read if nothing fell apart.”

  “True. Though I do have some slice-of-life manga that don’t have huge amounts of conflict. Simply people going about their everyday lives and what happens. I mean, there’s little conflicts, but not the drama you see on sitcoms. But I think you’ve won me over. Not sure I’ll start reading it . . .”

  I stopped, brow raised, and he smirked. “I won’t force you, but I bet I could give some recommendations that would change your mind.”

  I thought about how much I hated the heroes in those stories always falling for the heroines—or, I supposed, the other way around—and how much it distracted from the plot. I couldn’t imagine enjoying books where there was nothing but girls falling for guys and fucking. I wrinkled my nose. “You’ll have to work harder on that.”

  His dark eyes brightened, and he sat up a little straighter. “That sounds like an offer of a second date.”

  Another date hadn’t crossed my mind. We were both having so much fun that obviously we’d see each other again. “I’m all for that.”

  Dates with Logan were like potato chips: I couldn’t stop with just one. And since we’d both taken off the week before New Year’s, we had too much time on our hands.

  “Hey, have you seen that new Studio Ghibli movie?”

  “No, wanna go?”

  So we went.

  “I never have gotten around to going to the art museum.”

  “Want me to show you around?”

  So we went.

  One date tumbled into the next, usually on the following day. In some ways, we were moving incredibly fast—seeing each other daily—but each date was like going with a new best friend. Yes, that flare of attraction was still there, at least for me, but we kept it mellow.

  Until one night we were standing on the front steps of my apartment building, the wind blocked by the little alcove, our breaths forming a cloud between us.

  I peered up at him, stepping closer, until I could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

  He slid a hand onto my hip, then curled it around to press against my lower back, drawing me ever nearer. “So did I.”

  “And we’re on for tomorrow?” I tilted my head up, offering my lips to him as I tried not to tremble with excitement.

  “Yes. Though I’m not done thinking about tonight.” He met my lips with his. They were warm, slightly rough from the cold, and the kiss was nearly chaste, a question, asking permission, opening a conversation.

  I answered by parting my lips and welcoming him in. His tongue caressed the seam of my lips, teasing, not yet giving me a taste. I slid my hand up his chest, over the folds of wool and fluffy scarf, until I hooked my hand around the back of his neck.

  He smiled against my lips, and my own tongue darted out to catch a hint of it. It was just as delightful as I’d expected—a tingling spark like Pop Rocks. With the added benefit that my tongue lured his back, until he was taking a taste of me and giving a taste of himself.

  Heat poured through me like mulled wine, running dow
n my spine, flooding through my limbs. I didn’t feel the cold anymore, just his firm body molded to me, the warmth of our embrace, the hand pressed to my back, and the one trailing along my jaw. I felt nothing but him.

  The kisses lingered, starting like embers and flaring to life, burning hotter as each one led into the next, until I shoved him against the hard brick wall. The kiss deepened as I pushed my tongue into his mouth, drinking down his flavor and reveling in it. I could get drunk off this.

  The hand on my back tightened, drawing my hips to his and fanning the flames between us. I gripped his neck, pulling back from the kiss only to gasp in heavy breaths. His dark eyes glittered in the streetlights, and he looked as stunned as I felt. No, not stunned. Astounded. I slipped my thumb along his neck, tracing the softest parts where his pulse hammered. He shivered and brushed his lips against mine.

  “Is this a kiss good night?” I murmured.

  “I think it’d better be.”

  I huffed a laugh against his mouth. “Gonna leave me wanting?”

  “Leave us both looking forward to tomorrow.” Gently, after another kiss, he backed me off him and pulled his arms away. I expected the cold to immediately wrap around me and sneak into all the pockets of heat he’d made, but the fire still burned in my chest.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” I said with the sappiest smile. Then I reached up and stole one more kiss.

  The next night we went to a local band’s show, which was mostly an excuse to listen to music, dance ridiculously close together, and pretty much dry-hump each other in public—not that I was much aware of anyone around us.

  And then it was New Year’s Eve’s eve. That’s December thirtieth, in case you were confused. The night was dark and crisp, tasting of snow despite the forecast only calling for flurries. It was wintery and magical. As we stepped inside the restaurant, the heat blasting against my chilled cheeks, everything felt like it was going to be perfect.

  I approached the podium, where a waifish young man stood, suit impeccable. “Reservation for Landes for two.”

  His brow scrunched and his eyes dropped, skimming through the list he had, then skimming through again, slower. He bit his lip and met my gaze. “Um, I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not finding your name. Are you sure you made a reservation?”

  I was absolutely certain I’d made a reservation. Logan and I had been discussing restaurants and our favorite dishes, and I’d gushed over Être Nourri's roast duck with ginger and he’d said we should go here next. So I’d called, reserving the day before New Year’s, figuring it would be less crazy. Judging by the noise and the well-dressed crowd in the entryway, the date hadn’t worked in my favor. “Yes, I’m sure I made a reservation for tonight. Can you please check again?”

  Anger was swelling in my chest, but I tried to keep it out of my voice. It wasn’t this kid’s fault that my reservation had gotten lost— Well, it probably wasn’t.

  Logan wrapped his hand around my elbow and tugged gently. “Hey, it’s no big deal, we can come some other time.”

  “I made a reservation,” I snapped, then immediately winced. I was getting far too pissed about missing that duck.

  “I believe you.” He grinned, very devil-may-care, and patted the air with his hands. With his fitted suit emphasizing his broad shoulders and letting a few tattoos peek out, I was getting less interested in the duck by the minute.

  “Sorry.” I huffed. “I’m getting hangry.”

  “Um, sir,” the maître d’ squeaked.

  I tried not to glare at him and managed to not sound murderous when I said, “Yes?”

  “Um, I see a reservation for Landes for two, next week at this time.”

  “I didn’t make—” I clicked my teeth shut and inhaled noisily through my nose. Logan squeezed my arm, and I exhaled slowly. “Well, I made my reservation for tonight, but there must have been a mistake when it was taken down. It happens. I’ll take the reservation next week. Thank you for being so thorough. We’ll be going.”

  Behind his cheerful smile, the guy looked like he’d avoided a beheading. “Thank you for your patience, sir. I’m extremely sorry about the confusion. I’ll make sure that you have complimentary desserts then.”

  “Thank you.” I turned and walked out, Logan right by my side.

  The cool night air felt bitter against my cheeks as we headed down the street toward his car. We’d barely gone half a block when I pulled up short, tilted my head back, and shouted, “Goddamn motherfucker!”

  The pressure on my chest lifted; the boiling anger washed away. And then Logan was standing there, towering over me. He met my gaze, passion flaring in his expression. It made his eyes shimmer and my skin warm. He slid his hands into my hair, lowered his face, and kissed me. Despite the firm grip he had on my hair, his lips were soft and open, deepening the kiss without demanding. The last remnants of my icy frustration melted under his touch. After a few kisses, he wrapped his arms around me, and then he murmured, as if we hadn’t just been kissing, “Are you done scaring all the other pedestrians?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I’ve no idea why that set me off like that.” My stomach grumbled, as if it knew exactly why.

  “Hey, you didn’t scream at the host, and I think the night sky can take it. Let’s go grab some Chinese food and head back to my place. We can even order duck.” He grinned.

  “Asshole.” Though I was excited to see his apartment.

  The grin broke into a chuckle. “They might have some very good duck!” He kissed my nose. “And now we know what our plans are for next week.”

  “Oh shit, I said we’d be there! You probably have plans with your friends—”

  “No, I’m totally free. Unless you don’t want to have dinner with me.” He blinked his big eyes at me like some moe anime girl. It looked better on him.

  “Of course I want to have dinner with you. I was hoping to have it tonight.” I wrinkled my nose.

  He kissed it again. “Good. Then let’s get going.”

  We ordered the Chinese food on the phone as we walked to his place, and arrived when the delivery guy did. As if the world was trying to make up for one obstacle by having the solution go so smoothly.

  Inside we shucked our jackets and coats, rolled up our sleeves—I had a feeling he’d done it to tease me with his ink, while I was trying to keep the sauces off the whites—and sat down to dinner at the kitchen table.

  His apartment was pretty much what I expected: the basic white walls covered by framed art, most of it illustrated like comic books, but a few classics in the vein of Escher and Hokusai. Everything was neater than I’d thought it would be—not that I’d thought he’d be a slob, but most bachelors I knew tended not to tidy as often as they should. He had a vibrant red blanket folded over the back of his plush, dark-brown couch, and the accompanying pillows were tucked into the corners where they belonged. Nothing was dusty, and the carpet was fairly clean. But his coffee table was covered in clutter, and dirty dishes were stacked by the sink, so he probably wasn’t a neat-freak.

  He opened up the container with the duck-something-or-other that he’d ordered. “Want the duck?”

  “I hate you.” I held out my plate so it was closer to the container. “Yes.”

  Grinning, he scooped some onto my plate.

  No, the duck at China Inn wasn’t as good as the duck at Être Nourri, but it wasn’t a disappointment either. That might have been because I barely paid attention to what I was eating while we talked and joked. It didn’t matter that we were all dressed up with nowhere to go. We’d found a place to go. Even if it ended up being a small apartment downtown with delivery takeout.

  After eating too much and putting away the leftovers, we made our way to his living room and couch with plans to watch a movie. Instead, he pulled me from the stacks of DVDs to the couch, as I put up a half-hearted fight, then tugged me onto his lap. I wasn’t a waifish maître d’, but his legs could handle me, and the firm muscles provided a cushion as I landed and fell against his chest.r />
  I laughed, slinging my arm over the back of the couch and tucking it behind his head, drawing our faces closer. Better to take advantage of the position, right? “What? Am I some damsel in distress now?”

  His hands slid around my waist, one ending up low on my hip, the other spreading high across my thigh, the thumb dangerously—deliciously?—close to my crotch. “I think the only thing you’d need saved from is yourself. I rather like that about you.”

  “Mmm. I think I should be offended.” I squirmed a little closer and pressed my lips to his. They were still salty and sweet from dinner, but it was no hardship to search deeper to get a taste of him. The hand on my hip squeezed, holding me securely as his tongue caressed mine. I hummed against his mouth, and then my smile broke our kiss as his left hand nudged higher. “And where is that hand headed, Mr. Mazza?”

  He pressed his thumb against the bulge at my zipper, not quite stroking. “Just getting a lay of the land.”

  “A lay of the land?” I snickered, and he groaned.

  “Puns are the death of erections, you know.”

  “Mm-hmm?” I grazed my free hand down his chest to where his groin was wedged by my thigh. The angle was awkward, but I could rub the heel of my hand against his cock.

  He inhaled sharply, and I shifted to give my hand room to work, melting that hiss into a moan.

  “My touch must have revitalizing powers, then.”

  He gave a breathy chuckle as his own fingers grew more insistent on my dick, matching my tease stroke for stroke. “Yeah, a regular Phoenix Down.”

  It was my turn to groan against his lips. “Oh god, Final Fantasy sex talk. I’m not sure if that’s going to get you kicked out or laid.”

  His palm folded heat over the growing bulge in my pants and rubbed with the perfect amount of pressure. “We both know this is my place.”

  “I guess that only leaves one option, then.”