Lengths
Page 18
I blink the sleep from my eyes and roll over to face him.
“Morning,” I grumble. Deo runs his hand through his thick hair and his smile is wide and sexy. “What?”
He puts the tip of his index finger between my eyebrows and slides it down to the tip of my nose, then brushes his thumb over my lips, his eyes lazy and a deep, gorgeous gold. I’ve only ever noticed them this particular shade in the early morning, after a long night of sex. Can sex change the color of your eyes? Or is it something way simpler? Did the sex change me and what I notice about Deo?
“Nothing, I just love it when you actually sleep. Even though you’re still a scary beast in the morning.”
“Deo, we haven’t exactly done a whole lot of sleeping.” I bite his thumb when it slides too close to my teeth. It’s true. We haven’t left my bed in three days, but there have been other extra-curricular activities to keep us busy. Very busy. Very deliciously busy.
I stare up at the popcorn ceiling while Deo traces an invisible line up my arm. I know what he’s doing. Next, he’ll move on to my collarbone, then my neck, and then—
I roll off of the bed to stop it before it can start, but Deo hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me back to his warm, bare chest. He presses his mouth to the back of my neck and the room starts to go fuzzy.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls. Deo’s hand grazes up my thigh.
“Come on, let me up. Rocko and Marigold came back from their honeymoon last night; you know I’ve got to go to the shop before him to set up. I don’t want him stressing on his first day back.” The words are supposed to sound tough and confident, but they come out on a little gasp when his fingers creep higher than my upper thigh. I want to be able to sashay away from Deo, but he knows me too well, and he’s doing every single thing he can to ensure I get back in bed with him, wrapped tight in his arms, my brain nothing but a blob of over-sexed jelly.
His fingers are doing things that actually make me weak in the knees with excited craziness, but his words are kicked-back and calm.
“First of all, doll, they honeymooned at an ashram, so I doubt anything could stress him out. He’s probably still got a contact high. Second, he’d understand if I told him you were late because we had to thread the needle.” I clamp my fingers over his wrist, push his hand away, and bite my bottom lip hard. I need to focus, or I’ll fall into his amazing net of sexiness and exchange my job, my degree, my life for endless hours of mind-blowing sex with this irresistible slacker.
Which I realize, with a stab of humiliating horror, does not bother my independent soul the way it should. Am I becoming some love-sick romantic? This is worse than I thought.
I mull over his last words and blink, before his euphemism clicks. “Seriously, can’t you just say ‘fuck’?” I let the rough word crash over the dewy romance of this morning and enjoy the little frown Deo exhibits when he’s confronted with unsettling lack of subtlety before I flip over and kiss him quickly on the lips. He tries to lunge at me, and manages to pull me back down, but I roll out of his embrace and hop off the bed.
“Are you going surfing this morning?” I take in his long, lean body and have to wrestle down the crazy-strong urge to jump right back into bed with him. He’s stretched out in the bed’s dead center, sheets wrapped around some of him, while other parts are gorgeously displayed. He has his arms behind his head and is grinning like he’s got a secret.
“Nope.” His smile lures me in and makes me ask my next question, eyes narrowed. I’m not huge on surprises, and Deo’s are always the kind that shock me in every way. After the furniture store date and subsequent sex-cation, I don’t know if I’m ready for any more shenanigans from him.
It occurs to me that I should try to keep him close, so I make sure my voice stays nonchalant when I ask him. “Okay, so what are you up to? Want to come to the shop with me?”
Usually Deo jumps at a chance to spend the day bumming around Rocko’s with me, but he shakes his head, his smile so huge, a tiny twinge of panic surges through me. What is this all about? “I can’t, I’ve got a few things to take care of.”
I pull my eyebrows together. “Oh really? Like what things?” I try to make my voice sound light, and casual, but I can’t disguise the tone that screams what the hell? Deo tends to get crazy ideas and just…run wild with them. Sometimes a little too wild.
Deo laughs, and I realize that he knows exactly how nervous he’s making me and is enjoying it thoroughly. “Like…things.” He stretches his arms back and every bulging muscle silently invites me to press my body against his. I decline the invitations through gritted teeth. This boy and his addictive sex will be the death of my productivity. It’s so damn tempting to just bury my workload and fall into him. Just for one more day.
And those thoughts are exactly why I need this distance, this safe space away from his irresistible allure. Deo is too wild, too unpredictable, too crazy when I’m trying to take things slow and plot my life out.
Still, I wonder what the hell he’s up to.
I hate this. I hate that I don’t have a leg to stand on in this case, when all I want to do is scream at him about keeping shit from me. But I can’t. Still, I thought we’d sort of made a silent pact that things would be different the other night when he came home with me and then took up semi-permanent residence in my bed.
I inhale deeply and push the air back out in one loud, long whoosh. Deo raises a dark eyebrow and glances at me out of the corner of his eye, smiling in this adorably indulgent way that makes me furious and light-headed at the same time. He notices my dramatics, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he climbs out of bed and puts his pants on, the zip of his zipper indicating that the conversation is over.
I wish that I was above using my womanly charms to get information, but in this case, I’m not. I cross the room and wrap my arms around him from behind. I let my fingernails rake across his chest and bump gently over the ripples of his abs. I watch as his breathing picks up and, when he looks at me over his shoulder, he lets his eyes half-close in that sexy way that lets me know just how much I’m turning him on.
“Whit,” he says, turning around to face me and putting a few inches of space between us, I know so he can clear his head. Fail. “You are damn sexy, but I’m not telling you where I’m going.”
I push my bottom lip out into my best pout, my last ditch effort to sexually extort this information.
“I’ll tell you later. Tonight even. You’ll love it. Promise. Don’t be a big, nervous grizzly about this.” Deo kisses my pouty bottom lip and chuckles as he snatches his shirt off of the floor.
“I get first shower!” I yell, dashing into the bathroom before he can duck in.
I’m dabbing on my dark red lipstick after the quick shower that washed off the last of the Deo’s smell from my skin. I ignored the little part of me that sighed sadly when the smell of my body wash replaced the scent of him. Something small and bright and heart-stoppingly distinct catches my eye in the reflection of the hallway mirror.
I turn around to make sure it isn’t a mirage.
Sure enough, next to Deo’s Vans are the dress pants that he kicked off hastily, when we barely made it in the front door after the wedding, but before we fell into my bed for an extended stay. And next to the pants is a tiny red box that must have fallen out of his pocket. I cross the room and pick it up and run my thumb over the soft velvet. My heart is thumping so ferociously in my chest, it wouldn’t surprise me if Deo could hear the steady pounding over the sound the shower and his passionately off-key rendition of Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness.”
The room feels like it’s tilted off its axis, and I grip the wall to keep from sliding to the side. I don’t want to open it. I know what’s in it.
The croak of the old hinges reverberates through the entire apartment, and my fingers shake slightly, making the box flutter in my hand.
It’s bad. It’s really bad.
Inside is a gorgeous, vintage-
looking sapphire ring. It’s something that, if this were a time far in the future and things were completely settled and I were ready to get married, I would drool over and lust after and drop major hints about. It’s something so beautiful and perfect, it’s as if it were hand-picked for me by someone who knows me inside and out. It’s unique and breath-taking and so, so…wrong.
I snap the box shut, hiding that perfect ring that twists my guts and stare at the red velvet box. When I blink, I’m furious over the sting of tears that threaten to smudge my eye-makeup. I just wanted things to be normal. Not rushed, not heart-crushing. Normal. He can’t even give me a few days to breathe, a few weeks to get back into our groove, a few months to feel out where this is going. My fist locks hard around the velvet.
I can’t believe Deo thinks this is a good idea. I can’t believe he thinks we’re there without even talking to me, after everything we just went through. I thought he’d respect the boundaries we clearly need to establish to keep this relationship from taking over our lives, but he obviously thinks he can barge through every closed door, no matter how much I value my privacy.
I set the box down with a thud on the small table and back away with my limbs stiff, like it’s a ticking bomb, ready to explode and ruin everything. Just like the one that took Wakefield away.
I manage the tears and lock my heart against his voice, singing those romantic words through the wall of the apartment we just started sharing again. I want to march into the bathroom and demand answers. I want to order him the hell out so I can think without his smell and laugh and crazy sexy self screwing with my judgment. I want to throw him on the bed and have my way with him, because he still turns me on so completely it’s scary, even when I’m furious at him. All I know right now is that I can’t be here when Deo gets out of the shower. I grab my purse and keys and bolt out the door.
Rocko’s tattoo gun is already buzzing away when I push through the door of the shop.
“Morning, kiddo!” he yells cheerfully.
“You’re here already.” I stop, confused, wondering if Deo threw my world off so completely, he’d even made me lose my handle on the most basic of things. Like time. “Why?”
“Well, I missed you, too, darling. Had a special appointment.” He nods at the guy whose arm he is tattooing.
“Okay.” I’m trying really hard not to be annoyed. I wanted a few more minutes of quiet. A few more chances to collect my thoughts and push the rising panic away. But I’m pissed at Deo, not Rocko. I have to remind myself of that. “How’s Marigold?”
Rocko stops tattooing for a minute and smiles a dazed, proud smile.
“Marigold.” He pauses and shakes his head like he can’t come up with the words to describe exactly what he’s feeling. “That woman is amazing.”
And that sentiment and the look on his face, that pure happiness, makes me want to run home and crawl back into bed with Deo.
“Good.” I nod. “I’m gonna go to the bank, then. Get some change. Or something.”
“Whit, come see this before you go.” Rocko waves me over to see what he’s working on. I set my purse down and sigh.
The man who’s being tattooed looks a little older than me, or maybe just a little more tired and worn. His skin is deeply tanned and small lines fan out from the creases of his eyes. Still, he’s smiling and talking with Rocko like he’s completely at ease, and, you know, not being stabbed repeatedly by the tiny needle of the tattoo gun. Rocko pauses for a second so I can see what’s being inked on the guy’s arm.
“What’s up?” I smile at Rocko’s client to prove I’m not a total ogre. “Whit.” I extend my hand to introduce myself, and he shakes with his left, since he’s trying to hold his freshly inked right arm steady.
“Eric. Eric Brown. Pleasure to meet you.” His eyes are a nice, clear green and his smile makes him look so much younger, I make up my mind that the lines around his eyes are definitely more about stress than age.
“Take a look at this.” Rocko’s voice is soft, not like he’s proud of the precise font or color contrast or design in general. This isn’t Rocko sharing his skills, but I’m not quite sure what it is instead.
I look over at the fresh ink on this man’s arm.
It’s intricate lettering, wrapping around his forearm that reads, “Here I am. Send me.”
“Nice.” I wonder if Rocko is thinking about the tattoo I designed for Deo. Well, the tattoo I designed that Deo wound up getting, anyway. I decide to put all of my mental powers towards going more than fifteen minutes without thinking about Deo if that’s possible. I direct my next question at Eric, whose smile puts me at ease. “What’s the significance?”
Rocko knows I’m a sucker for this part of the job. It’s like my own version of US Weekly. I love hearing the stories behind the ink.
“It’s Isaiah, 6:8.” His eyes are clear and open, letting me know it’s okay to ask. So I do.
“Isaiah 6:8?” I don’t bother to wrack my brain, because I wouldn’t be able to use all the fingers on one hand to count the number of Bible verses I can even recognize. “I’m not familiar.” I haven’t been to church or cracked a Bible open in years. My parents still go twice a week, but after I hit double-digits in age, they couldn’t drag me with them.
“Isaiah 6:8, “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us? And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”’” Eric recites in a voice that’s ringed with conviction and just the shadow of a hint of sadness.
“Oh, okay.” Call me dense, but I don’t get it. “I’m not super religious, but it’s nice.”
Eric chuckles and eyes the ink fondly. “Honestly? Neither am I, but it’s fitting.”
“Nice job.” It’s a clean tattoo, and the language is direct and powerful. I get the feeling there’s something more they expect me to notice about it, but if there is, I don’t get it. It reminds me of Deo and the words tattooed on his ribs. And I sigh when I realize, with that one thought, I’ve proven beyond a doubt I am a miserable failure at keeping that boy out of my brain for even a tiny sliver of time. “Especially for coming in so early.”
“It was worth it to come in early for. Explain it to her.” Rocko and Eric exchange a Look, and I feel the slow sludge of panic creep through my veins. Explain what?
“I’m in the military, and after each tour that I make it home safely for, I get another tat.” Eric glances at the words on his arm, and, suddenly, they don’t look sharp and clear. I feel the burn of rage that always comes when tears threaten. I’m not fucking crying for the second time today. What the hell is with me lately? Eric’s voice helps me pull my shit together and focus on anything other than the tears that are clawing at my ducts. “This is number three.”
“Three?” I try not to choke on the word. Three tours he’s made it back from. Three times he’d escaped. I full-on glare at Rocko for doing this to me. For dragging me over here and into this. Especially after the morning I had. If I cry now, it will be from pure, scathing pissed-off anger.
“Yep, I guess you could call it war paint.” Eric’s smile is defiant. He sounds proud, like he’s spitting in the face of what has to be one of the scariest situations any person could ever have to face.
My head spins, my legs feel like rubber, and I have to sit down, or I’ll crumple in a heap on the floor. I pretty much fall into the swivel chair next to Rocko and Eric and rub my temples, which are tightening like I’m about to suffer from the clamp of a serious migraine.
“You okay, kid?” Rocko’s voice is low and worried, but it’s like barbs pressing against my already aching skull. Like he didn’t know what this was going to do to me. Like this wasn’t part of a plan. I don’t even have the strength to glare or scowl, because I’m worn the hell out.
“Yeah. Just…” But I’m not okay. I grip the seat of the chair until my fingernails bore into the cloth and my knuckles turn white and I lock my feet back around the base to keep from tilting off the seat. Because even though my chair
is completely still, the room is spinning.
The world is spinning.
And it has been since the day Wakefield died.
Because of me.
And just when I thought things were slowing down, that I wasn’t so miserably dizzy and could maybe stand on my own and start picking up the pieces, Deo buys a fucking perfect, stupid, fuck-up-my-world ring.
“My brother was in the service,” I blurt out. My words hang harsh and blunt in the air for a few breaths.
“That’s what I heard.” Eric doesn’t sound impressed or unimpressed, reverent or flippant, excited or bored. He sounds like he just heard a fact that he understands. I manage to lift my pounding head and make eye contact with him, locking on those clear green eyes that have lost the crinkle from his smile, because his mouth is fixed in a straight, tight line. I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. He stares right into me. I want to break his stare and shoot daggers at Rocko with my eyes, but I can’t. Because there’s something in Eric’s eyes that tells me he knows heartache and loss. Maybe even more than I do. And, as painful as it is to see that, I can’t look away. Because for the first time in months, I feel like someone gets it.
“He didn’t make it,” I finally say. The relief that unfurls in me at being able to say those words without having to deal with someone’s misguided pity or discomfort is so freeing, I feel the iron clamps of my migraine loosening. I lose my death-grip on the chair and drop my feet back to the floor, taking slow, deep breaths, before I say the words I still can’t quite believe are true, forever now. “He never came home.”
Rocko stands up and pretends to be busy across the shop. This was a set up. But the fire of my rage has long since died out. I focus on Eric, calmed by his even, quiet presence.
My fingers hover over the still-raw design on his arm, and I swallow hard before I make myself ask, so I can know the truth. So I can stop ignoring any grief other than my own. “So what’s the tattoo mean?”
“It sort of has a double meaning. The first is that, in the military, we do a lot of things that civilians may think are impossible. And we just say, ‘send me.’ Because that’s the job.” Eric’s shrug is an unconcerned tip of his shoulders, a modest, honest statement about what he and people like him do, like it’s nothing particularly heinous or horrifying or amazing.