“Everything okay?” Deo asks. His eyebrows are raised and the glint in his eyes is one hundred percent conspiratorial. He knows.
I slam the phone back into the drawer. “Yep, everything’s great. About this tattoo, though?” I wheel my swivel chair over to his side. “Where were you thinking of getting it?” I’m close enough to him now that I can smell him. He smells like a guy, in all the wonderful ways that only guys can smell. Musky and sweaty. But also like the ocean. And something sweet. Vanilla?
“I’m thinking right here.” He points to a spot on his forearm. “Maybe. Maybe something that wraps around?” He says it like a question. Like he wants my opinion.
I nod. “That’d be nice, especially with the placement of your others.”
Without thinking, I rub my hand across the spot on his forearm. It’s tan and smooth and feels warm, like the sand that’s been baked by the sun all day. He glances down at my hand on his arm and gives me that freakishly perfect smile, and I jerk my hand away in knee-jerk response to it.
“Do you live around here? Or are you just visiting?” I ask to offset the awkward jitters I’m currently trying to control. The answer is obvious from the olive color of his skin and his sun-lightened hair, both obvious side effects of a vast abundance of Vitamin D. I bet there’s even sand under his nails.
“Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to, either.” There’s something in the way he says it, something behind the simple words. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than me that it’s true.
“So, is that your only tattoo?” He zeroes in on the place no one has ever noticed before. At least, no one has ever brought it up and asked me about it before.
I reach up and touch the delicate skin behind my left ear, trying to conceal it, even though there’s no point now. How did he even notice that?
I nod.
“A ‘W’? Is that for your name? Talk about unoriginal,” he teases, bumping my shoulder like we’re old surf buddies. “So, what is it? Willow? Wendy?”
“Whit,” I say. “My name is Whit.” I leave out the fact that the W behind my ear is not for my name, but for my younger brother, Wakefield.
“Whit? Is that short for something?” he asks. Just like I knew he would.
“Whitley. I know, it’s odd, but Deo isn’t exactly mainstream.” I try to preempt the usual questions. My parents had this weird idea that they should use their mothers’ maiden names as their children’s names, despite the fact that they weren’t even all that close to either set of their parents.
“Cool. I gotcha.” He doesn’t dig for any more information, which is a relief and a disappointment. “So, this tattoo. You got any ideas? I want something with meaning. Something that I won’t regret, you know? This one’s for my mom, so no more lame rebellion ink.”
Before I really know what I’m saying, words I never expected to utter are tumbling out of my mouth. “Well, there’s this one. I sort of drew it up for myself, but I think I’m done with getting tattoos. One is enough.”
I slide a piece of white paper toward him. He turns the paper every which way, trying to read the tiny script I’d written out to make look more like a thin band than actual letters.
“This is part of me now?” he asks, his golden-brown eyes crinkling at the edges from the smile that takes over his face. The rough skin on his index finger scratches over the paper with a rasp.
“Yep.” I’m now regretting showing him the drawing.
“What’s it mean?” His eyes lock on mine, and suddenly, that no-worries surfer boy vibe vanishes. It’s replaced by something sweet and deep that cuts right through me and clean to the root of my heart, to the place no one can see because it’s still to raw and fucked up.
“It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Like, maybe it means that you can’t change the past. You can’t right wrongs. But, I don’t know, you can try to make something meaningful of the future, you know?”
I feel exposed.
He can see inside of me. He sees that to me, the tattoo actually means that the guilt and the grief are all part of me.
I snatch the paper away from him.
But he’s nodding like he gets it. Really, truly gets it. I can see the tendons in his neck stand out when he swallows and his nod is tense.
“Sold,” he says, plucking the piece of paper back from my hands.
-Three—
Deo
Rocko isn’t half bad for a guy with a soul patch and these ironic hipster tortoiseshell glasses. Even if he does have the hots for my mother.
Or maybe I’m high off all the endorphins the relentless prick of the tattoo gun always releases in me.
Or maybe, just maybe, that girl at the reception desk with all the right curves and her mysterious tattoo and her fucking irritating phone and saucy-as-hell, biting attitude is making this whole experience something way more meaningful than even my mom anticipated.
Whit. I like her name. I like the way her hips sway in her tight little skirt when she marches around in those hot heels, putting things in order with this sexy military precision. I like the way her eyes flick over to me, once, twice, a third time, and how her cheeks go pink when she realizes I’m still watching.
“So Whit designed this one?” Rocko clears away some blood and excess ink from my rib and I curl my fucking toes so I won’t wince, on the off chance she’s stealing a look my way. This is a tearing, open flesh wound on the raw skin and muscle of my ribs and it’s been the most agonizing half hour of my life. I thought I was tough-nuts because my arms were no big deal, but I didn’t know what it felt like to have the gun shooting straight pain onto my goddamn bones.
“Yeah.” I watch her tuck a shiny piece of the dark hair that just reaches her chin behind her ear. The tattooless ear. She bites her lip and I have to suck my next breath through my teeth. I always thought girls only did that to flirt, but she’s narrowing her eyes at some receipts that are fucking with her, and that bite is all real, sexy frustration, and I want a nip bad. I focus on Rocko, the pain, anything that will keep the threat of a raging boner at bay. “I thought it would be cool on my forearm, but something this badass needs to go where it hurts.”
“It’s a good spot for it. She’s got an awesome eye for detail, among her hundreds of other talents. I hope she decides to get her PhD somewhere in the area, because I seriously don’t know what I’d do without her.” He glances up and catches sight of the clock on the wall, one of those black cats with a tail pendulum. My grandpa has one like it in his office and thinks it’s the funniest shit. He raises his voice and calls in her direction, “Whit, I’m sorry, babe. You know you can say the word if I go over. It’s late as hell. Go, have some fun. Get.” He waves her away, and I make a frantic attempt to look down at my tattoo. It’s six fucking words. What’s taking so damn long? If this girl leaves before I get her number, there will definitely be more tats in my immediate future.
She’s got this little uptight walk, like she’s at some debutante ball, all straight-backed with these careful, graceful steps. But those hips…they’re fucking hypnotizing, and no stiff-spined walk can stop the pure sexiness of those gorgeous hips. “Rocko, it’s fine. Last time I left you alone, we had to call the lady to come in and fix the register.”
Relief floods through me, and then something hotter and better. She dips her head and looks at the ink on my skin, her dark eyes squinted while she studies it.
“This one’s on the house, nothing to ring up. Go ahead. A beautiful girl on a Thursday night in this college town? C’mon, I know you must have plans. Enjoy your youth.” Rocko notices Whit’s concentrated stare and switches gears, which is good, because the idea of her going out and enjoying her fucking youth without me there to help her out is making my vision blur red. “First time you’ve seen your own design in ink?” She nods, and it’s weirdly shy for a girl so in-charge. “It’s a gorgeous design, Whit. Simple, elegant. You’ve got a real eye for this.”
“Glad to know
my art elective is good for something practical.” The shy sweetness vanishes and she goes all iron-spined again. “So, you’re sure you don’t need me?”
“Much as I love and adore everything you do, I promise I can close the shop up on my own. Fun. You. Now.” When she hesitates and wrings her little hands, he pulls the gun away and says, “Look. I’m all done. Now Deo can be a gentleman and walk you to your car, and you don’t need to worry about the shop falling down around my ears. Okay?”
I hop off the table and inspect the black lines, almost too graceful and neat, but just jagged enough to be bad-ass. And meaningful.
“Thanks, man.” I try a simple shake, but Rocko walks me through a whole complicated hand gesture thing that leaves me trying to hide my smile at his corniness. He’s a good egg. A fucking dope, but a good egg. “You gonna snap a shot for your portfolio?”
“Good idea.” Rocko looks around, confusion all over his face.
The soft footfall of Whit’s steps contrasts with her jangly laugh. “I got this, Rocko. Stop before you hurt yourself.” She comes back with a camera and says, “Say ‘cheese.’”
She’s got a mouth that makes me think dirty thoughts, all pouty, deep pink lips that can’t completely manage to look stern or serious no matter what expression she has on her face. Right now she’s trying to look all business, but that mouth and those sexy dark eyes and her perfect curves are all conspiring to drive me fucking insane.
To the point where I’m standing to get a picture done of my new ink, but I don’t bother to show my new ink. I scramble to turn in the right direction when she raises a dark eyebrow.
She sighs, trying to look irritated, but her mouth curls up in a soft smile. She reaches a hand out and lays it on my hip, her fingers warm on my skin. She slides her hand along my back and shoulder, and follows the line through, propping my arm up, letting the tips of her fingers skim the inside of my wrist and along my palm. Swallowing, blinking, breathing, all suddenly become very difficult.
She snaps a few pictures, says, “Let me do the bandage for you,” and I’m positive this girl will wind up in my bed tonight.
I slide back onto the table and watch her collect the little pot of Udder Butter, the gauze, and tape. I can do this all myself, but I’m not about to point that out. “Thanks for the tat inspiration.” I look at her from under my upheld arm, her hair all glossy, and when I lean closer and take a breath in, she smells like something citrus and something clean, crushed leaves or spring or something I can’t quite put my finger on. “I feel like I kind of stole a piece of your soul.”
Her eyes flick up at me, and I can see the panic she’s wrestling to control. Her voice slices out cold and mean. “It’s just a tattoo. I sketch designs constantly. It helps pass the time.”
“Alright.” Her fingers dip into the ointment and she spreads it over my torn-up skin gently, even though her features have gone ice-hard. “I guess it’s a part of me now whether you like it or not.” It’s a joke. It’s clearly a joke, said in my joking voice, but she doesn’t brush it off or roll her eyes or chuckle along. She blinks back tears and works like mad to get her shaking hands under control enough to twist the lid back on the Udder Butter.
“It’s not a joke.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re flashing with some kind of pain that goes right down to her fucking marrow. It’s raw and pissed-as-hell. She slaps the gauze on with more force than is strictly necessary, and I wince around her roughness as she rips the tape in rushed, angry jerks.
I want to make it better, tell her I know the pain of no one understanding a fucking thing, tell her that jokes or drinks or fucking fun bury it for the moment, but that only makes it hurt more when it rips through and rears its ugly ass head again when you least expect it.
“Hey!” I call. She’s stomping away, throwing things back in their rightful drawers. “Hey, Whit?” I slide off the table and curl a hand around her shoulder. “I was being a dick, alright?” For a second she goes stiff, then relaxes under my touch. She turns her head and looks over her shoulder at me, just slightly.
“I think what I was trying to say but being an asshole about is ‘thank you.’ So, hear me out for a minute, alright? I’ve been going through some shit, and I wasn’t planning on getting anything done tonight because I wanted to make my mom happy, but I knew there wasn’t gonna be anything here that could have any real meaning for me. Then here you are, and here’s this tattoo that, I don’t really know why, but it honestly feels like you reached into my head and pulled out the one thing that could possibly make any sense of all the fucking craziness I’ve been feeling. So thank you.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “That’s all. Thank you.”
She turns around slowly, so close she’s in my arms and I can move less than a handful of inches and have my mouth on hers.
“You’re welcome.” The words slip out quick and rigid. The next words are slightly more relaxed. “Sorry. It’s been a really long day.” She twirls out of my arms and away from me and gathers her purse and that fucking annoying phone, suddenly in a rush to leave. Me. She waves to Rocko, and turns to me as I’m pulling my hoodie over my head. “Well, it was cool meeting you.”
I ignore her attempt at a sendoff and push the door open with one hand so she can walk out in front of me. She tucks her hair behind her ears and heads right to a white Chrysler LeBaron that’s kinda pimp. She leans against the driver’s side door and smiles, but it’s not a real one. It’s too angular, too polite, there’s too much thought in it. I want to see a smile that rips out of somewhere deep and changes the shape and shine of her eyes.
“Thanks for walking me to my car. So, um, I guess I’ll see you around.” She pops the door open and leans in, setting her bag on the passenger seat neatly, then looks back at me with expectation clear on her face. Only it’s like she’s expecting me to go, which I’m not about to do. She’s definitely not expecting me to step closer, run my thumb over those sexy lips, watch while her eyes widen with shock then burn with sexy desire, and kiss her. But that’s exactly what I do anyway.
It’s a good fucking kiss. I hook my arm around her waist and pull her so her body is locked close to mine. She leans her head back, and I put my lips on the curve of her neck and kiss up under her jaw, right where the the crushed leaf smell meets that perfect clean-girl skin smell. I pull back and look at her parted lips, closed eyes, dark, curved eyebrows pressed almost together like she’s overthinking this. Before she can change her mind, I press my mouth to hers.
She opens her lips, and I’m a little shocked by the hungry slide of her tongue and the low moan that echos from her mouth to mine. I pull my hands down to her hips and squeeze tight, wanting to feel her skin under my fingers. She turns her head and deepens the kiss, her hands cupping the back of my neck with a possessive need that makes me hard and blots out all thoughts other than her and the clawing desire to get her in the backseat as quickly as possible and peel back everything until it’s just the two of us and what we want bared between us.
I nip that bottom lip, exactly the way I’d been wanting to since I saw her bite it in the shop, and she lets out a tight sigh from somewhere deep in her throat. She pulls me closer and licks at me with a tongue so soft, my mind reels and crashes before it can imagine everything that tongue might be capable of doing. I press my hands under her shirt, just grazing the soft skin of her stomach and start moving up for more when she tears her lips away.
She’s breathing fast and heavy, her face is pink, her eyes are shiny, she has no idea where she should look or what she should say, and I want to capitalize on her uncertainty by kissing her again, hard and fast, but she ducks out of the way and shakes her head slightly.
“It’s my birthday today.” I pull my fingers down her arm and take her hand. “My grandpa is making some lobster and we’re going to smoke some fucking crazy cigars my dad sent from God knows where. We could pick up some beers. Or some wine or whatever else you want. His place is right by the bay. You can see every star from the
dock.”
She pulls her hand out of my grasp and presses her palms down along the front of her skirt, shaking her head like she’s trying to get her bearings. “Happy birthday, Deo. I’d like to come by, but I…I really can’t. I gotta go.” The buzz of her goddamn phone interrupts her last words, and she glances down at the screen. Her eyes go wide for one split second, and then she looks flustered and embarrassed before she sends a quick reply.
She’s sexting. With someone who isn’t me.
It’s fine. Or it should be fine. I’ve known this girl for just over an hour. We kissed one time. It’s not like she’s wearing my fucking varsity jacket or whatever. So why am I so royally pissed the fuck off?
“Look, it’s cool, right? Do what you gotta do. I’ll see you around, maybe?” I want…more. I want enough to make the tattoo scalding my ribs and that sweet as hell kiss burned in my memory mean something more than they do. But she’s not available, and this is probably a good thing. Whit isn’t the kind of girl I need right now. Way too uptight. Way too control-freak. The ‘W’ inked behind her ear is just an anomaly. I know this girl is probably type-A, high-maintenance, high drama, and that’s not my thing. At all.
“Deo?” I turn and look at her, hands in my hoodie pocket. She takes a few tentative steps my way. “You have a phone?” She nabs her lip between her teeth again, like she’s about to do something she knows she shouldn’t, and it makes me feel this wild surge of triumph. I have a feeling her worst instincts are leading her straight to me whether she likes it or not.
And I’m betting she doesn’t like it much at all.
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