by Jessica Roe
I nod silently as he talks. I like how passionate he is about his work – it's how I feel when I think about working with animals one day.
The bell on the door behind me jingles. I get a warm feeling in the back of my neck, somehow already knowing who it is.
Him.
I turn to watch as Reid pushes the door open with his hip, carrying a tray of coffees from Starbucks and looking just as disgustingly gorgeous as he did the last time I was here. A small part of me is almost disappointed; I'd sort of hoped I'd imagined how hot he was, built him up inside my head and that maybe if I saw him again for real I could stop imagining him at all. But oh no, here he is, looking stupid sexy in his tight white tee and dark shades, and I just want to kiss him and slap him, all at once. Today he has a hoop through his lip as well as his eyebrow. All I can think about is kissing it.
“Sorry it took so long, Digby,” he says. “The place was full of fucking college kids and-” He stops when he realizes I'm there, and after looking surprised for just a second, a slow smile spreads across his face. His shades are too dark for me to see his eyes but I can just tell he's checking me out. Suddenly I feel super self-conscious in my scruffiest pair of jeans. I'd worn them on purpose, dressing down like I was proving to myself that I wasn't coming here for Reid and I didn't need to impress him.
I hate being self-conscious. It's a new and unappealing feeling.
“It's my little runaway,” he drawls finally, sauntering over and sliding the coffees onto the counter. “What's up, Cinderella? Forget your glass slipper?”
The man, Digby, picks up a coffee and sips on it slowly, looking both amused and calculating.
A blush warms my cheeks when I open my mouth only to find I have no words, like seeing him again has fried my brain.
“Knew you'd be back.” Reid's downright cockiness is both sexy yet annoying enough that I remember that I'm not that girl, not the girl who swoons and simpers over a guy just because he has eyes that could melt me on the spot. I'm Jemma frakking Peeters. Guys swoon over me.
Though I couldn't imagine this guy swooning over anyone.
I straighten my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest, giving him the full on bitch glare I learned when I was like, eight. “I'm not here for you,” I retort. “I'm here for a tattoo.”
He takes off his shades and slides them over the front of his tee, staring at me for long moments with an inscrutable expression. “That so?”
I like that he didn't immediately laugh the idea off like most people I know would have if I'd told them what I was doing. “Yuh huh.” Oh, I wish that had sounded more confident.
“Well then.” His lips scrunch up together like he's trying to hold back a smile, then he picks up one of the coffees and hands it to me. “For you.”
That makes me laugh. “It is not. You didn't know I was coming here today.”
“Well, Walt's not thirsty any more.”
“Who's Walt?”
“The guy who's coffee you just stole.”
I splutter in indignation.
Watching our interaction like it's an interesting wildlife documentary, Digby suddenly snaps his fingers, grinning his head off. “You're Jemma!” he announces smugly, as if he's just finished putting the pieces of a puzzle together.
“How do you know my name?” I ask curiously.
Reid loses his swagger, his eyes widening as he gives Digby a tiny head shake that I clearly wasn't supposed to notice. Digby just smirks. “Aw, we've heard all about you, Jemma. Mysterious Jemma. Beautiful Jemma. Jemma with the gorgeous eyes and smokin' booty. Ain't that right, lover boy?” He reaches over the counter and rubs a hand playfully over Reid's buzzed black hair.
Reid's cheeks actually grow pink, just the tiniest little bit, as he glares hard at Digby. It's not a truly angry glare, more like a hey-man-you-know-I-love-you-but-later-I'm-gonna-have-to-end-you kind of glare. I like their vibe, like father/son instead of boss/employee.
A herd of butterflies start a funky rave inside my stomach when I realize he's blushing because of me. This sexy, swaggering, tattooed hunk of perfect man specimen is blushing because of me!
“Goodbye, Digby,” Reid hints forcefully.
Digby isn't even trying to hide his amused laughter. “But Jemma wants a tattoo.”
“Yeah,” I play along, because making fun of an uncomfortable Reid is way more fun than him doing it to me. “But I want a tattoo, Reid.”
Reid glowers at the pair of us.
Digby holds his hands up in surrender, still grinning. As he walks backwards towards the other room, he says, “I'll tell Walt you gave his coffee to Jemma. He'll probably understand, you know, since it's Jemma.”
Silence falls when it's just Reid and I. He walks around me to take his place behind the counter. I sip my coffee as I watch him and almost spit it back out again – no milk or sugar. . .blegh!
“Soo. . .” I say slowly, trying to hide my beam behind my drink. I don't know why I'm flirting with him, I did not come here for this. It's not like Reid and I are going to date. And yet. . . “You've been talking about me, huh?”
He points a long, warning finger at me. “Stop that.”
I laugh again. “Is Digby your dad? He seems super friendly.”
He shakes his head. “Too young. He's only thirty four.”
“That's not that young. How old are you?”
Just like that, his confidence returns. “Fishing for info, Cinderella?”
“Ego much?” I try to cover. “It was just a question.”
“Twenty two. I'm twenty two, Cindy.” He pulls out a thick folder and slaps it down on the counter between us. “Let's take a look at some ideas of what you want me to ink on that pretty skin of yours, huh?”
“So, do you have maybe a general idea of what you want?” he asks a couple of hours later as we close yet another folder of tattoo designs. To his credit he's been very patient with me and hasn't gotten annoyed with my indecision once. We stopped for lunch at one point and he took me to his favorite diner which was just. . .questionable. It was questionable, and that's as nice as I can be about it. He managed to scarf down two entire burgers in the time that it took me to poke around at my oddly colored soup. Why is it that some guys can eat like pigs yet still have bodies to die for? Not fair.
After the diner we came back here to the shop so I could attempt to decide what I want to permanently mark my body with. I tried to suggest that I go home and think about it, but he was adamantly against that idea. I'm pretty sure he's just trying to keep me hanging around a little longer.
“I don't know,” I whine, wishing I'd thought this whole thing through properly before waltzing back in here to see him. Because yeah, let's be honest – I came back here specifically for him.
I follow him outside so he can take a smoke. We lean back against the brick wall next to one another.
“Something. . .pretty and girly. But not something super obvious like a butterfly or stars. I just want something. . .me. Does that make sense?”
“That makes total sense.” He studies me with those dark eyes, his head tilted to one side as he blows out a thin stream of smoke. I hate how sexy he looks doing it. “A pixie.”
Okay, Sir Random. “What?”
“That's what you remind me of. A sexy, mischievous little pixie. Fluttering into the shop like that and teasing me with kisses before vanishing into thin air. Yeah, a pixie.”
I giggle and slap his arm. Mm, strong. “Shut the heck up! You think I should get a pixie tattoo?”
The past couple of hours have flown by like time doesn't even exist. Luckily Reid had a slow morning and my class was canceled because I don't think we could have dragged ourselves away even if we had to. Being with him, talking to him, it's just so. . .easy. Like we've known each other for years and not hours. Yet despite the easiness, being near him fills me with excitement and wonder and fizz. I feel like a bottle of cola someone has just shaken violently, about to explode. It's a dizzying combination.
>
“I think you should get something you want.”
Some part of me realizes that I've been unconsciously leaning towards him, but the other part, the stupid part, decides to ignore this fact. “Which was your first tattoo?”
He turns over his arm to show me the inside of his wrist and points to a small, plain looking tattoo. It's a black circle, naturally faded with years gone by. Inside the circle are three lines, shaped kind of like an upside-down fork. “That's the symbol for peace, right?” I guess, vaguely recognizing it.
He nods. “Got it in memory of my pops. He was a big believer in peace. It's all he ever wanted.”
I want to ask him more about his dad, about why his eyes suddenly grow so sad and why he speaks about him in the past tense, but I'm a coward. Despite how comfortable being around him feels, the reality is that I've only just met him and he's only just met me. It's way too inappropriately soon to be asking such personal questions.
“Maybe I'm not actually ready for a tattoo,” I say, heaving a sigh. “I feel like if I was ready then it wouldn't be so hard to choose something. Those are bad for you, by the way.” I nod at his cigarette.
“No shit,” he dismisses my last statement easily. “If you're not sure then you should definitely wait,” he continues with understanding. “Inking your body isn't something you should do on impulse. It's not like you can just rid it with an eraser. Laser removal is expensive and painful as fuck, so I hear.”
“I can handle pain.” I don't know why I felt the need to argue that.
“Sure you can, Cindy.”
Now that I've decided to put a – temporary – halt on getting a tattoo, I feel really stupid. I worked myself up and now I'm letting myself down. It's all very anticlimactic.
“Hey, you ever rode a motorbike?” he questions suddenly. He drops the cigarette to the floor and stomps on it with a heavy boot.
I glance up at the sudden subject change, pretty sure he's only doing it because he senses my self-annoyance. He's grinning again. He seems like the kind of guy who's usually grinning. “Of course you have a motorbike.” I roll my eyes playfully.
“'Cause I'm so hot and sexy?” He sucks the lip hoop into his mouth. I want to hate his cockiness, but everything about him is just. . .yum. Besides, I can tell he's not really serious. He's too laid back to be the kind of guy who thinks his looks make him God's gift to women everywhere. Like. . .the kind of guys I usually date.
“Because you're a total cliche. A sexy, tattooed bad boy. Obviously you ride a motorcycle. I bet you even play an instrument. Guitar or drums, maybe.”
“Ha, totally wrong – can't play music for shit. And don't think I didn't notice you calling me sexy.”
“Ugh, whatever,” I sass, trying to hide how much I like when he teases me.
“So, you wanna ride with me? I get off at five.” He waggles his dark eyebrows up and down. “Come on, you know you wanna run away with me.”
“Do I look like I have a death wish?” I scoff.
“I dare you.”
Damn him.
It's my turn to point a finger his way. “Fine. But it's not a date.”
His mouth twists into a sexy smirk that no female would ever be able to pull off. “Sure. Definitely not a date. Hold on.” He whips out his cell.
“What are you you doing?”
“Calling Della. Or was it Danica? Gonna cancel our date tonight.”
“You're going on a date with a girl and you don't even know her name?”
He shrugs. “Do I have to?”
“You're a pig. What do you have her saved as in your cell?”
With a grimace because he knows I'm not going to be impressed, he holds the screen up for me to see.
“Wednesday?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“I was saving her for Wednesday.” At my look, he pulls an angelic face. “I met her at a bar. It was loud.”
Snatching his cell, I scroll through the contacts. As I expected, it's full of girls names – probably ones he's slept with once and forgotten about. “I knew it,” I say, handing his cell back as he laughs at my expression. “You're a ladies man. I know the type,” I warn, crossing my arms across my chest. “My brother, Nash, is just like you.”
Still laughing, he hooks an arm around my neck. “Can't help it if the ladies love me. And hey, they know what they're getting into. I never promise more than I'm willing to give.”
“Which is one night?” I guess.
He just smirks in response.
“Well I'm not sleeping with you,” I tell him. “So you'd better not forget my name.”
“My little mystery girl? Never.” He smiles down at me. “I'll never forget.”
So it begins, a beautiful friendship between two people so different they should probably never have even crossed paths in the first place.
It all starts with an incredible ride on the back of Reid's motorcycle. We drive right out of the city for miles and miles until I stop caring that I barely know him and that I'm totally skipping my afternoon class, until I stop caring all about helmet hair, until I stop caring about anything but the wind on my skin and the warmth of his narrow waist beneath my arms and his smell. Leather and cologne and antiseptic and smoke. An oddly intoxicating combination.
On the back of his bike I feel like I could do anything, achieve anything, be anything. It feels a lot like freedom. He drives way too fast and I scream like a girl most of the time, but I love it. I want more, so much more.
It becomes a regular thing for us. When I finish classes for the day and he finishes with his clients he picks me up and we ride, sometimes for hours with no destination, sometimes to places he's found that he knows I'll enjoy. Like the beautiful field full of flowers of so many colors, way out of the city. It took my breath away, but not as much as when I turned to him to find him watching me with as much fascination as I was them.
Once or twice he even tries to teach me to ride myself, but I'm not very good. I think we both just secretly like when I ride on the back and hold him tight.
Soon we don't even need the excuse of the bike to hang out. Soon we're just hanging out, just him and me. It's like we can't get enough of each other. Every minute I'm not at college or studying and every minute he's not working, we're together.
It's not romantic between us, no way. It's a line we just don't cross. So what if he's the most gorgeous guy I've ever met, and so what if he makes me laugh and I can talk to him and he actually listens and cares about what I have to say? So what if his eyes practically smolder every time he looks my way?
It's not happening.
Reid does not fit in with my future. He just doesn't. He's the kind of guy who would have the ability to completely shatter my future, should I let him in. And I'm not the kind of girl who does casual.
Besides, why would I want to ruin one of the best friendships I've ever had?
“So this is your place,” I muse, bobbing my head up and down as I look around. He'd avoided bringing me here so far, seeming almost shy about it (as shy as Reid can ever get, anyway), but I wore him down.
“You look surprised.” He's watching me from the closed front door, his face a blank mask. I can tell what I think of the place is important to him though.
“It's just. . .not what I was expecting.”
What I was expecting was some kind of bachelor pad. A total guy place. Like, with leather sofas and a stupid sized TV and empty beer bottles and leftover panties littering every available surface. Okay, maybe I wasn't expecting it to be that bad, but he's told me all about his friends, how they're fun and chill but like to party hard. He says he's not into the party scene – any more, at least – but still. . .
I'm super impressed. In reality Reid's apartment is so warm, cozy even, and kind of cluttered but definitely very clean. A big red sofa breaks up the living room and the kitchen area, covered in mismatched pillows and throws that somehow make sense. Paintings and framed photos fill up his walls, a rickety wooden dining table
sits by the kitchen, and black curtains frame a large window. It shouldn't work, this insane decoration scheme, but it does. It really does.
“You don't like?”
I spin back to face him. “No, I love it! It's so nice. This is a nice part of Brooklyn – it must be expensive.”
He shrugs almost bashfully. “Well, I have a good reputation as a tattoo artist, so I get paid pretty well. My mom actually bought most of this stuff though. The decorations, I mean. I'm no good with that shit. Left up to me this place would be empty.”
“Your mom has good taste.”
“Yeah, she's okay.” He smiles fondly. I like that – a guy who respects his mom.
Damn him. It would really help my resolve if I could stop finding reasons to like him so much.
“Take a seat, I'll get you something to drink. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
His front door suddenly opens and a short woman with a cheerful face and shoulder length brown hair lets herself in with a key, a washing basket full of neatly folded clothes in her arms. She stops when she spots Reid. “Pudding, you're home!” she exclaims in an English accent. I adore English accents. “I thought you'd be at work, love. I was just dropping off your clean washing.”
“Not working today, Mom.” His shoulders stiffen as he glances between the two of us sheepishly, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Clearly he hadn't anticipated introducing me to his mom. I feel his awkwardness times a million percent. Meeting his mom? Seriously? “Uh. . .Mom, this is Jemma. Jemma, Mom.”
She blinks rapidly when she sees me, not having noticed me before around the basket that's way too big for a little person like her. A wide, downright mischievous smile lights her up. She hurries to dump the basket on the floor so she can rush over to me.
“You're a girl!” She picks up one of my hands in both of hers and squeezes. “And so pretty! Reid never introduces me to any girlfriends, and on the rare occasion that I do stumble across one they've never been as pretty as you. Or as elegant!” She's twisting me from side to side, looking me over like she's inspecting a show horse.