He laughed that big Samoan timbre, the one I missed terribly after not hearing it for a week.
“Will do. Take care of yourself and I want regular updates. Every week or two. Promise me.”
“Okay, okay. I promise.”
“Anything happens to you, Mia, I’m on the first plane out to kick serious ass. I’ll protect you, girlie. You need me, I’m there. Amy knows and agrees. What you’re doing, your job, it can be dangerous, but I get it. Family’s first.”
“Yes Tai. I don’t think anyone else gets it the way you do. Family’s first.”
“Take care of your tama, girle.” He used the Samoan word for father. “But until you get a man to be your forever, I’m there. The big Samoan brother you never had.”
“From lover to brother?”
He chuckled. “You get the drift. Promise me you’ll be safe.”
“I’ll be safe. Love you, Tai.”
“I love you, girlie. Friends for life.”
“Friends for life.”
I hung up and blew out a long breath. Everyone around me was moving forward, everyone but me. I had another six months to go to finish this with Blaine so Pops could be free. Even though it’s not what I would have picked for my life. Serving as an escort to rich men wasn’t really so bad. Thinking back to the very beginning, I’d actually been pretty lucky.
Weston Charles Channing, the Third. I snickered recalling how much crap I gave Wes about the numbers at the end of his name. Wes played the dutiful son card well. He was devastatingly attractive, laid back, hard-working, and took the time to enjoy the simple things in life. My time with him was so much more than I’d ever have believed it could be. He made a very scary situation a cake walk. I learned to surf, and was shown that not all men are cut from the same cloth.
The men I’d been with before him, the ones I’d devoted myself to, had completely hurt me, broke me, and made me cynical about love. Wes restored my faith in men, in the belief that I, too, could have something that every woman in the known universe dreamed of having. True love. Only I couldn’t have it now. But with Wes, I’d experienced being made love to for the very first time, and it’s something I’ll never forget or forsake. That night was the most beautiful moment of my life. I finally felt whole…loved. No matter what the future brought, I would always have that.
Alec Dubois, my filthy talking Frenchman was the second. God, he was lovely. From his long hair to his unique man-bun, coupled with the beard and mustache combo, he was nothing but yummy. The reminder of all that thick, rich hair sent bubbles of desire tickling along my spine. Thinking back, I’d spent most of an entire month attached to his hip, and I didn’t mind. The work he’d done, the art he’d created would show the world a piece of me that I’d never been able to demonstrate. The vulnerable, the imperfect, the lonely, the wanton, and the lost woman I’d become over the last twenty-four years was so clearly visible in his work. The entire Love on Canvas campaign was me, and for the first time, I felt beautiful. He made me see myself in a new light, and I liked it. Too much. Better yet, I was okay with the world seeing it, and I strived every day now to live up to it.
Tony Fasano and Hector Chavez, my Chicago guys. Odd, just thinking their names made me feel lonely. With them I knew companionship. I learned that no matter what love looked like, or how hard I had to put myself out there and take risks, it had to be done. If what I wanted in life and love was meant to be, it would be worth it in the end. That’s something I was holding onto so tightly; I could only dream that one day it would ring true for me.
Mason Murphy, the arrogant, hot shot baseball player, who had a heart of gold if you dug deep enough, ended up being the brother I never had. He liked to pretend that he was someone else, the same way I do, but really, when you got down to the heart of him, he wanted the same things we all do. Friendship, companionship, and a place and a person to call his own. And now he had it…with Rachel. She’d be that and more for him. My time with Mace helped me to realize that trying to be something I wasn’t only hurt me and the others around me.
And then there was my sweet, loving, sexy Samoan. God, the space between my thighs ached remembering how long, thick, and hard he was. He was the biggest I’d had by far, and Wes and Alec were no slouches in the sack. With Tai, it was all about the fun, friendship, and fucking. I’d had more sex with him in one month than most single women—or couples for that matter—probably had in a year. We couldn’t get enough of each other. It was as if we both had something to prove. After all was said and done, that time together cemented our friendship in a way that we never could have without that physical connection. I knew for the rest of my life, he’d be there. His culture and the type of love he gave his friends was all encompassing and didn’t have time limits.
Remembering each month of this past year and the experiences I’d had solidified my idea. If I didn’t do it now, I’d never do it.
Leaving my room, I fled down the staircase and skidded to a halt. James looked up from his desk in the sitting room. “Ms. Saunders, do you need a lift?”
“I do! Do you have time now?”
He tipped his chin. “Of course.” He held out a hand gesturing that I walk ahead.
Once we were in the Town Car, I pulled out my phone, did a Google search, and found exactly what I was looking for.
“Where to?” he asked as we drove down the long winding estate road.
“Place called Pins N Needles.”
“The tattoo shop?” he said with surprise.
“Yep. Hurry, too, before I change my mind.”
Chapter 4
The buzz of the tattoo needle filtered through the low hum of the shop. A few stations had patrons sitting in black leather seats similar to mine. One guy was getting lightning bolts tattooed along the side of his head where he’d shaved off all his hair. Only a thin patch of fuzz ran straight down the middle of his dome. There were nickel-sized guages in his ears and more metal on his face than the crotch rocket he rode in on. The bike was sweet. Made me miss Suzi back home. Again, I looked at the fella who thought it a good idea to tat his head.
While the needle bit into my flesh I wondered what the guy planned to do about those earlobes when he was seventy. They would certainly be hanging flesh by then, especially if he stretched them any further. I guess that wasn’t something a twenty-year-old skinhead type cared about. Probably didn’t even think he’d live to see seventy, and by the looks of him, twitching like he had somewhere to be right this very second, he was on the fast track to an early grave.
Down the aisle, there was a Barbie-doll looking chick getting what was probably her man’s name inked into a decent tramp stamp. I snickered under my breath knowing that the moment a person got a tat with their man’s—or woman’s—name, it was the kiss of death. The person getting the tat didn’t think it applied to them and they could test fate with it. Not wise. The laughter caused my foot to jiggle, and I winced as the artist held on tighter to my left ankle. The black swirling text was almost finished, and then she’d start the dandelion.
The skin of my foot was already numb; the pain for the first twenty minutes had been a piercing, gnawing sensation that irked as much as it pleasured. That saying about pain and pleasure being flipsides of the same coin is very true. At this point, I was used to both. Every time the artist picked up the gun for more ink then pressed that fiery tip into my skin once more, a little jolt of excitement lit up my nerve endings like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
“So Mask is an unusual name, especially for a chick.” I said simply, attempting to strike up a conversation with the small Asian woman working on my tat.
Her smile reached her eyes. It was like looking into a pitch dark galaxy with nothing but tiny specks of white lights where the starry gases burst into flames. She had bright red lipstick and a tiny silver hoop through the side of her bottom lip. Her Asian heritage was strong in the pretty shade of her smooth skin against the stark ebony of her hair that she had pulled back into a sleek
bun at the nape of her neck. If she didn’t have the lip piercing and two tatted forearms, she’d fit perfectly in any of these downtown Washington DC offices.
Mask tilted her head and focused on the letters of ink she pressed into my skin. “It’s short for Maskatun. Mask is easier for Americans.” Her voice didn’t have even a hint of an Asian dialect.
“You’re not American?”
“No, I am. My family and friends can say my full name easier than the tourists and locals that come in to get some ink.” She smiled softly.
“Well, I think your full name is beautiful but Mask is badass so I’m going with that.”
“My family comes from Brunei, in the middle of Southeast Asia, but I’m American.”
“I think it’s cool.”
“Thank you,” she said and then sat up and inspected her work, turning my foot this way and that under the bright light. Along the entire side of my foot, from about an inch above the heel to the toe was the text I’d settled on. It’s just above an inch from the sole where I walk. When Mask asked me what I wanted, I knew instantly. We chose a font that suited my tastes and now that part was done. “Check it out before I start on the dandelion.”
I flexed my foot this way and that, grimacing when the skin pulled at the marred flesh. It was beautiful, exactly as I’d pictured it. “I love it.”
“Okay so the dandelion goes here,” she ran a finger up the bare spot just above the heel and up the side of my inner ankle about four inches. I nodded. “Then the petals blowing in the wind will have each letter you chose as part of the stem. Incognito right?” Her gaze met mine and she grinned.
“That’s right.”
This time I laid back and let Mask do her thing. The prickling sensation started anew the second that gun touched my ankle. It stung, sending a sharp bite of pain through my leg. I gritted my teeth and waited for that pain to turn to pleasure once more. After about ten minutes, I was flying on pure endorphins.
“I’ve got the W and the A done.” Mask pointed at my foot where two little wish petals were blowing across the text alongside several others. Only these two were unique. One had the letter “W” to represent my time with Wes and the other an “A” for Alec. “How did you want to do the T and the H again.”
“If possible I’d like both of them somehow intertwined on the same petal wish-type thingy.”
Mask looked at my foot, again rotated it back and forth in the light, then nodded succinctly and went back to work.
“Finished with the M and the single T, too. I put a couple more plain ones here and here,” she pointed to the simple ones interspersed between the special ones. “But you mentioned that you might want to add to this later in the year so I left some space down the foot?”
I nodded. “Yeah, if the year goes as planned, I could have several more petals with new letters to add.”
“I think this looks good and doesn’t look incomplete but you can easily have an artist add to it though I’d prefer it was me. Kind of like having my tats be mine, you dig?”
I held up my hands in peace. “Absolutely. I’ll be back toward the end of the year if I need to add to it. I promise.” I held out my hand and she shook it.
“Well, all right. Check it out?”
The dandelion was incredible and realistic. It framed the text so beautifully, showing exactly how much I wanted the saying to pop, yet flow with the meaning behind making wishes. Along a gust of wind you can see each dandelion petal. Five of the fifteen interspersed have a letter intertwined in the stem of the blown petal. Wes, Alec, Mason and Tai each have a single letter etched into the movement of the stem. Tony and Hector are a TH combo on the same tiny petal.
The importance of having a piece of each man with me, treading that path each day was not lost on me. It’s something I knew in my heart I needed to get me through the remainder of the year. Having those men, the first letter of their name, hovering around the text that has become my own personal theme was utterly perfect. I looked down at the text, admiring the statement as it became a part of my life and truth, forever printed on my body.
Trust the journey…
***
My foot ached as I made my way back into the house and limped up the stairs toward my room.
“Sweet heavens, what happened? Did you hurt yourself?” Kathleen rushed up the steps and took hold of my shoulder, cradling me into her chest as I limped up the remaining steps. She helped me get to my room, which took an inordinate amount of time. Every step hurt more than the last and more than the entire process of getting the tattoo all together.
I hopped on one foot once we made it to my room and landed in a heap on the bed.
“What’s wrong?” she said inspecting every inch of my body until finally settling her gaze on the shiny area of my foot where Mask had slathered petroleum jelly. “Oh, my. It seems you’ve done this to yourself then.” She leaned down close and inspected the area.
“It’s very beautiful and it looks like the meaning behind the text is very important to you.”
I smiled around a grimace. “It is. Thank you. I don’t know. I woke up today and just knew what I had to do. Since I don’t have to be at an event for another few days, now was the best time,” I told her.
Kathleen nodded prettily. “I’ll get you some tea and cookies. Here, let’s get you set up.” She lifted a pillow and placed it under my foot delicately, being extra careful of the raw ink. Then she patted a pillow, and with two fingers, had me leaning forward to place one behind my back. “That better?”
Laughing, I tilted my head and took in the lovely woman. Any man worth his salt would scoop her up and keep her for his very own, not hire an escort so he could save face with the big wigs. Momentarily, my opinion of Warren plummeted, but really, it wasn’t my place to judge.
“You know, I’m not sick. I just got a tattoo.” We both chuckled as she smoothed the blanket around my legs.
“True, but you’re in pain. Let me care for you. It will be a nice change of pace for me to spend time taking care of a woman rather than two prickly men who think they can take care of themselves.” She winked and treated me to that soft small smile I’d begun to recognize as her own way of communication. Kathleen was a kind woman with a strong will and a gentle manner. I found I liked the quiet way she handled things. For me, she was the epitome of grace. Maybe I could borrow a page or two from her book.
When Kathleen returned, she was not empty handed. Her arms were filled with items including wine, not tea, snacks, magazines, and chocolates. “What’s all this?” I asked as she set the tray down.
“I rarely get a girls’ night, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to you know you better.”
I smiled and shimmied in place. “Heck yeah. Hand me a glass of the good stuff.”
Her eyes lit up and sparkled like a ten-carat diamond. “And it is the good stuff. Taken directly from Mr. Shipley’s private stash.”
My eyes widened. “Are you sure we should be drinking it? He won’t get mad when he sees a couple bottles missing?”
She shook her head emphatically. “I’m sleeping with the boss. I have my ways of buttering him up. ‘Sides, he said I could have whatever I wanted, and I happen to know these have been sitting awhile. He doesn’t like Zinfandel as much as I do.”
“Aww, I see. How does that work anyway?” Her eyebrows rose in question. “The part about banging your boss?” I chuckled and she followed suit. Though I knew damn well how it went to hit the sheets with the man paying your salary. Then again, I hadn’t stayed with any of them longer than a month, whereas she’s been around for decades.
Slowly she inhaled and sat down on the bed next to me, propping herself up with the plush pillows. She sipped a bit of wine, and seemed to mull the question over. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Warren and I have been friends for thirty years. I was enamored with him when he was still with his wife. And then when she died, well, he needed me. It wasn’t until years later that we started a covert rel
ationship. Now, I share his bed most nights.” Even though what she said sounded like they were in a full blown relationship, there was something she was hiding.
“Then why do I get the feeling that things aren’t what they’re cracked up to be.”
She shrugged and sighed. “I guess I just figured by now, we’d be out in the open. That he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be with me.” Her eyes got glassy and she sniffed softly.
I shook my head. “I do not get the impression that he is embarrassed to be with you. But, I will say, I’ve been to these events, and you’d be the odd duck out for sure.” I looked over her beautifully pressed blouse, her frilly apron, and figure-flattering pencil skirt. Definitely. She was leagues above the young tarts the men in Warren’s group paraded around. Women just like me. With effort, I choked back a gag.
“I see,” were the words she said, but they could have just as easily been a cursed challenge, except that she was far too classy.
Placing my hand on her forearm, I held her tight until her gaze reached mine. “You don’t see, but I’ll show you.” Looking like a woman with ants in her pants, I reached back under me and yanked my phone out of my back pocket. Then I pulled up the image I’d sent Ginelle last week. “This is what you’re up against.” I handed her the phone. For long moments, she inspected the image.
“These women are young enough to be their daughters.” A slightly shaky hand lifted in front of her mouth. “Some possibly even their granddaughters.”
I nodded. “Yep. That’s why I’m here.”
A horrified look crossed her face. “No, nuh uh, not because of what you think. His reasons are actually really altruistic.”
That’s when her do-I-look-stupid face graced her features along with an eye roll.
“Okay, it’s weird, but I get it. He needs his own bimbo,“ I ran my hands in the air closely over my form. “To make him look like he’s one of them. It’s all for a good reason though. He has this project that he needs these rich guys and a bunch of stodgy politicians to support so he can get medicine and vaccines to third world countries.”
June (Calendar Girl #6) Page 4