Numbers Game

by Nicole Casey

  Numbers Game - by Nicole Casey

  Copyright © 2017. All Rights Reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  ***

  “Is this going to hurt?” I asked.

  “A little,” my tattoo artist, a man by the name of Hunter, replied, aligning the needle against my skin. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded and braced myself for what was to come.

  The initial sting of the tattoo needle injecting ink into my skin was comparable to that of a cat scratch. Sharp, piercing, with enough bite to cause discomfort but not intense pain, I grimaced as he began to drag the tattoo gun down my arm in one of the perfectly-straight lines Hunter Cross was so famous for doing.

  “How does that feel?” the artist asked, lifting his head to look at me.

  “It feels all right,” I said, mesmerized by the beauty in his green eyes.

  He returned to his work with finesse I found extraordinary considering that he was working on a living, breathing canvas— me. Head bowed, eyes set firmly on the freshly-shaved skin of my upper arm, he guided the needle with precision that I knew had come from years of practice and began to inscribe his art into my arm forever.

  The mark I had chosen to have permanently inked into my skin—known as a Sierpinski triangle—was a fractal, otherwise known as a mathematical set that repeated at every scale, and was meant to pay tribute to my days of studying mathematics in college. As a student I had been enamored by its design, its complexity, its modern and, in my opinion, perfect ingenuity. Very little could compare to the shape as a whole, which began as a simple triangle and progressed into a more advanced shape when additional inverted triangles were added into it. On paper it looked like a puzzle, in a computer program a complex pyramid that was nothing short of a work of art. It was my first tattoo, and nothing short of exquisite.

  “You know,” Hunter said as he continued to create the outline of the outer triangle, “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do this piece when you walked in with it.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It reminded me too much of my high school math class.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Hunter, in response, smiled, revealing sterling white teeth beneath a Monroe piercing on the left side of his face

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, lifting his eyes to face me.

  “I’m a math teacher,” I replied. “That’s why I’m getting the Sierpinski.”

  “The what?”

  “The mark you’re tattooing onto my arm. It’s a fractal.”

  “Ah. Ok. I know what that is. At least, I think I do.” Hunter bowed his head to continue his work. “What grade do you teach?”

  “Freshmen and Sophomore.”

  “At Crestwood, I take it?”

  “Yes sir. That’d be the one.”

  “Nice.” Hunter completed the solid line of the outer triangle and began to work on the more complex triangles within. “Honestly, I thought it was something from a video game.”

  “It could easily be,” I replied. “There’s this one old game I used to play when I was a kid that had a golden triangle with inverted ones within it.”

  “I know which one you’re talking about,” Hunter smiled. “I’ve had clients come in and request the design. I always thought it looked kind of cool, but this is ten times better, and more challenging.”

  He continued to perform his work, meticulously creating lines and completing triangles with the efficiency of an artesian carving into marble block the Statue of David. As he did so, I took in his handsome features—the array of stars over his left eyebrow, the Monroe piercing above his lip, the scruff of hair along his tight jaw and broad cheeks. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had a crush on the man—bad. Had since I’d walked into the Lucky Stars tattoo shop two weeks ago with my design in hand. I wasn’t going to get my hopes up though. I didn’t even know if the man was gay, let alone available.

  “Make sure to hold still,” Hunter reminded me. “Any tiny movements and I’ll fuck this up for life.”

  “All right,” I said, leaning back and relaxing my arm as much as I could. I definitely did not want my first tattoo to come out looking like it’d been done by an amateur, especially when it was being done by none other then line-master Hunter Cross.

  His grip on my arm was strong—magnetic in that it compelled me to look at him every second I could and passionate in that it instilled within me a sense of responsibility I felt came from his dedication as an artist. A part of me wanted to think that I was fascinated with the process as a whole, but another part told me that was some class-A nonsense. There was nothing intrinsically fascinating what he was doing. It was just a needle puncturing flesh over and over again. Right?

  Wrong, I thought.

  I wasn’t fascinated with the process as much as I was the man in front of me.

  “So, Adam,” Hunter said, lifting his eyes once more to look at me. “How does it feel?

  Anything like you expected?”

  “It’s not bad,” I replied, grimacing as he wiped the residual ink from the surface of my skin.

  “I thought it’d be worse.”

  “I was afraid you’d pass out.”

  “How come?”

  “You just seem like a collapse-to-the-floor kind of client.”

  “You’re kidding,” I laughed. “You have to be.”

  “I’m not,” Hunter replied. “You should see some of the men that come in here. Think they’re all tough shit until the needle starts piercing their skin. Then they’re on the floor crying and telling me to stop.”

  I laughed—a sound that reverberated throughout the interior of the room and caused the hairs on the back of my neck to rise in pleasure. Hunter lifted his eyes, watched me for a moment, then winked before returning to his work.

  I paused as he resumed tattooing me—unsure how, or even if, I should respond.

  Had he merely winked to tease me, or had he meant it to seem flirtatious like I thought it had?

  Even the remote possibility that he might be interested in me spurred me to compose myself—to act as cool and calm as possible. I didn’t want to come off as desperate.

  Truth of the matter was though: I couldn’t have been more desperate if I wanted to. I hadn’t been on a date in nearly a year, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. I understood that part of it had to do with work, another the fact that I didn’t get out as much, but I was on the apps, on the websites, and was more than willing to meet up with people. I knew I was at least semi-attractive in the eyes of other men, and as such did not worry about my looks so much as I did my position as an underpaid teacher.

  As Hunter continued his work, guiding the needle along my flesh and carving into my skin the lines I was paying top-dollar for, I looked at our reflections in the nearby mirror and tried to determine what, if anything, was wrong with me. At five-foot-six, I wasn’t a big guy, but I was toned and broad-shouldered, blonde-haired and bearded, with glasses fixed at the bridge of my nose and perfectly-straight teeth from years of braces as a kid. I was, by textbook definition, attractive. So why couldn’t I get a date? Why weren’t men interested in me? And why, for the life of me, was I desperate for a man who might not even
be gay?

  Rather than dwell on the possibilities at hand, I expelled a breath and decided to let him finish his work.

  It took little more than an hour for the design to be completed in full. After adding the finishing touches, closing any unnecessary gaps and wiping it down with cleaning solution, he gestured me to stand and said, “Well? What do you think?”

  I flexed my well-muscled arm, grimacing at the slight pain caused by the contracting muscle, and grinned as I took the view in. “It looks great,” I said, turning to face the gorgeous man whom had just inked me for life. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Hunter said. “I was happy to do it. Hell of a job, though. I think it turned out great.”

  “It turned out amazing,” I said, reaching into my pocket to withdraw my wallet. I combed through my bills until I found three twenties, then extended it to him as a tip. “For you, and all your hard work.”

  “Thank you, sir. Let’s get you wrapped up and then you can be on your way.”

  I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t offer me any further response, but rather than say anything, I extended my arm and allowed him to wrap it up.

  “Thanks again,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “I really appreciate you taking the time out of your schedule to ink me.”

  “Not a problem,” Hunter smiled. “Oh, hey—before you go.”

  I paused at the threshold and turned to face him.

  He fished a business card out from a rack on the wall, flipped it over, and scribbled something on the back of it before passing it forward. “If you need anything or have any questions,” he said.

  I nodded, palmed the card, and exited the room.

  ***

  I debated whether or not to call Hunter Cross in the hours after getting my tattoo. Swamped with tests I’d yet to grade but too excited at the prospect of meeting up with a gorgeous man like the tattooist, I paced my apartment and tried, without success, to calm the butterflies making their way about my stomach. They seemed ready to possess me at any moment—to take hold of my mind and declare that I was being a complete and utter idiot. I should just get the call over with. Besides—I’d have more time to recover from a potential rejection now than if I called later.

  With a struggled sigh, I pulled out my cell phone, lifted the card, and examined the number first on the front, then on the back.

  That was when I realized they were both different.

  Had he given me a line to his direct cell?

  No ordinary businessman would’ve done that. Unless…

  I swallowed.

  Consumed by nerves now more than I had been previously, I entered the number into my phone—desperate to keep from misdialing—and waited a moment before pushing the call button.

  The phone rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  I was just about to give up when the phone clicked and a voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Hello,” I managed. “Hunter?”

  “Yes. This is he. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Adam Warwood. From the tattoo shop.”

  “Oh. Hey, Adam. What’s up?”

  “Not a whole lot,” I replied, reaching up to palm the back of my neck as I paced toward the nearby window. “I just thought I’d call and see what was happening.”

  “Not a whole lot,” the man replied. “Just got out of the shop. God. That was a long day.”

  “I hope I didn’t contribute to it,” I said.

  “You were my highlight, actually.”

  I wasn’t able to prevent the smile that followed. “Thanks,” I said. “So… the real reason I wanted to call you was because… well… and excuse me if this is being a bit forward, but—”

  “Are you asking me out, Adam?”

  I paled. “Pardon?” I asked.

  The man laughed, his voice rich with mirth. “I said: are you asking me out?”

  “I,” I started. “I…”

  “Go on. Spit it out.”

  “Okay. Yes. I’m asking you out.”

  “Excellent. I was wondering when I’d get you to say it.” He paused, likely to wait for me to say something further. When I didn’t, however, he chuckled and said, “Adam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Not too far from downtown.”

  “My studio apartment is in the area. If you’d like, we can meet up at Amy’s, get a drink, maybe dance some.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” I replied.

  “Neither am I,” Hunter said. “Anyhow, how does… eight-ish sound?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, looking over at the clock. It was already getting late at six-thirty, and though it wouldn’t take me long to get ready, I would still have to dedicate at least an hour to showering, trimming my beard and making my way downtown to find parking. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “All right then. See you.”

  I lowered the phone once the connection ended and burst into a stupid grin.

  I was going on a date with Hunter Cross.

  I couldn’t be more excited if I wanted to.

  I chose to wear a simple button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, given the cooler weather, and slipped into my car at roughly seven-twenty-five to make my way to downtown Austin. Alight with traffic at this early hour of the evening, the college town gleamed in the light of the setting sun and promised a night of untold excitement I hadn’t experienced in over a year.

  I still couldn’t believe it.

  I was going out with Hunter Cross—the one man I’d had my eye on for the past two weeks.

  I couldn’t figure out whether I was incredibly lucky or just stupidly blessed. On one hand, meeting him had been on complete accident, but on another seemed like it had been destined to happen.

  “Don’t start thinking about destiny now,” I mumbled while merging onto Sixth Street. “That isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

  True. It would only lead to false expectations, unlikely promises and potential disappointment.

  For that reason, I decided to just play it by ear—to see how I would like Hunter both as a man outside his business and as a potential suitor. Maybe he’d be an ass. Maybe he’d be a perfect gentleman. All I knew was that he was at least interested.

  I pulled into the nearby parking lot, paid my outrageous—but hopefully appropriate—fare to park for the evening, then began to make my way down the road and toward the club.

  Amy’s was the premiere gay club in downtown Austin. Old as shit but contemporary in that it allowed the local community a place to relax and party when the time was appropriate, it bolstered yellow lighting fixtures outside its establishment and an old neon sign that appeared to be dying with each passing day. Already the A in the name was fading—flickering like a dying lamp in the middle of a darkened park—and while passing under its red light, I briefly considered my attire and the way I carried myself. Did I look okay? Decent? Was the long-sleeved shirt too much? I looked at my left shoulder to see whether or not any blood had seeped through the fresh bandaging on the wound and found none of it had, so I sighed and entered the establishment with the knowledge that Hunter Cross would either be here or would soon arrive.

  I scanned the miasma of bodies on the dance floor and breathed in the scent of sweat and leather.

  I was just about to reach into my pocket to grab my phone when a hand touched my right shoulder.

  “Adam,” Hunter said, leaning in close enough to be heard over the noise pulsating from the nearby speakers. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, turning to face the man. “You?”

  “Traffic was a bitch to get through, but that’s downtown,” Hunter laughed. He wrapped me in a one-armed embrace before gesturing me to the nearby bar, where he hailed an attractive Asian man and ordered us a pair of shots. “So,” he said as he seated himself on the barstool. “How’s the arm doing?”

  “A bit sore, but otherwise fine.”

&nbs
p; “Good choice in wearing long sleeves. Easier to cover the bandaging.”

  “Yeah,” I said, seating myself upon the stool beside him. “How long have you worked at Lucky Stars?”

  “The past three years,” Hunter replied. “Been there since I was twenty-one, fresh out of my apprenticeship. I’m good with lines, as you can probably tell.”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “What about you? How long have you been teaching?”

  “Not that long,” I replied. “About a year now.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do,” I replied, lifting my head when the bartender appeared carrying the shots of whiskey.

  “Thanks, Hunter. Do you want to go halfsies on this, or—”

  “Nah,” the tattooist said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You sure?”

  “You gave me a pretty big tip this afternoon. Like I said: don’t worry about it.”

  “All right.”

  That at least confirmed my suspicions: that he liked me, at least enough to buy me a drink.

  How often did a guy do that in a town like this?

  Rarely ever, I thought, but bit my tongue to keep from expressing my feelings.

  The man smiled, downed his shot in one great gulp, then stood and gestured me toward the dance floor. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” I replied after downing my shot and standing alongside with him.

  “Neither am I,” Hunter replied.

  He took my hand and dragged me into the crowd—into the sea of glistening male bodies.

  The scent was intoxicating.

  All that sex, all that sweat, all that raw, primal energy— It threw me over the edge.

  I locked my hands at Hunter’s waist and began to grind my body against his, reveling in the hardness beneath my touch and the rough fabric of his tight-fitting jeans. As we danced, our bodies melding and colliding to the tune of Top 100 pop music, I took in his body and the beautiful portraitures upon it. His undershirt displayed two full sleeves of tattoos that featured rampaging dragons and battling gryphons from fantasy lands, skulls and hammers and wicked snakes of torture, while his chest displayed a grand latticework of chains that snaked from his pectorals and down into the deeper parts of his undershirt. This mystery, as haunting as it was, compelled me to lift his shirt further up—to reveal the mostly-smooth abdomen above the thick treasure trail snaking up from his privates.