The Science of Loving

by Candace Vianna

  Contents

  book description

  The Science of Loving

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE Pavlovian Serial Killers

  CHAPTER TWO Red Dresses and Rock Stars

  CHAPTER THREE Old Engine Oil and Blowjobs

  CHAPTER FOUR Caffienated Goddesses

  CHAPTER FIVE A Camping We Will Go

  CHAPTER SIX Flirting With the Dark Side

  CHAPTER SEVEN Water Sports

  CHAPTER EIGHT Drinking in the Woods

  CHAPTER NINE Blindfolds and Zipties, Oh My

  CHAPTER TEN All Good Things Come to an End

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Hey Daddy Look What Followed Me Home

  CHAPTER TWELVE Dreamers Dream

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Bitter Bitch Strikes Again

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Sidewalks and Shotguns

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN Hot Coffee and Cold Feet

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers, Absolutely Nothing

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN It’s My Party

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Brawn vs Bitter

  CHAPTER NINETEEN The Road to Hell and Best Laid Plans

  CHAPTER TWENTY It's the Stiff Ones You Have to Watch Out For

  epilog

  Afterword

  About the Author

  This story’s about…

  This is a sweet romance, with some hot sex and not so sweet language. If you are bothered by sexually explicit scenes or profanity, put the book down and back away. This story is intended for a mature audience.

  She’s a shy researcher obsessed with muscles. She even has a muscle car. He’s the bad boy rock star of the architectural world, perfectly content with his bachelor status until his tattoo artist sister decides to play matchmaker. Then sparks fly.

  Him… Danny was in love. Again. So, she thought everyone else, meaning me, should be, too. She didn’t appreciate that I was already living my dream: no drama, no mess. My life was just the way I liked it; orderly. I liked my shit organized, and I lived alone just so I could have things my way. I’d go out if I wanted company.

  “And what’s so special about this particular hottie? She’s a hottie, right? Danny?”

  “Well… She’s hot in an understated sort of way. She’s quietly hot.”

  Shit. She probably had a great personality too.

  Her… I hated parties. Crowds always left me slightly off balance and inevitably, I drew the attention of creepiest, most annoying guy there. Once caught, I could never shake them. By the end of the night, I was a nervous wreck. But Danny wouldn’t take no for an answer, or as she put it, giving me her best death stare. “You might as well give in gracefully chica, because I’m not to be denied.” I gave in gracefully.

  Now some creep had me backed up as far as I could go without falling into the bushes. “Please leave me alone.” I knew I sounded weak, but I couldn’t help it. I never knew what to do when guys like this cornered me, so I froze, unable to move, breathe or think, cringing as he brushed a nonexistent hair from my cheek. Ew…

  “Excuse me, I know you’re not macking on my girl.” Holy shit, that was the scariest man I’d ever seen. He was huge. He was bald. He was tattooed. He was a painted Aztec god; all he needed was a bloody alter and some gold jewelry.

  The Science of Loving

  by Candace Vianna

  The Science of Loving

  Copyright © 2014

  by Candace Vianna

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever other than those listed below without the express written permission of the publisher author/publisher:

  Exerts and brief quotations may be used in a book reviews so long as they are accurate and not taken out of context.

  This title has been intentionally published DRM free and may be lent out. If you have a borrowed copy, please consider purchasing a personal copy to keep.

  This is a work of fiction. References to historical events, locales, businesses or products are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to specific persons alive or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To My Husband

  “What ya’ wearin’?” A gruff breathy voice oozes from the handset into my ear.

  Responding, “Nothin’ but a smile,” I promptly hang up.

  That obscene caller has seen me through three decades of misadventure and folly. Throughout that time, he has endured my domestic ineptitude (which exists on monumental scale) without criticism. He quietly suffers the waves of obsessive interests that capture my sanity with equanimity and stoic resolve. He knows that like a tsunami, occluding everything in its path, they will not abate until their energy is spent. And I know that when I am in the thrall of these feverish psychoses, he will see to it that I don’t misplace our children. He will ensure that we are fed; that we sleep, and he will gently remind us that bathing is a good thing. He is my anchor, forcing me to keep at least one foot on firm ground.

  I never tire of hearing his voice. It has a timbre, a quality of tone that fascinates me. It transmits a gentle warmth and surety, and is never cruel. He could read a dictionary aloud and make it interesting. And hearing him recount his day is the highlight of mine.

  I asked him once, “What is most important in a successful marriage?”

  After the initial deer-in-the-headlights paralysis had passed, noting no marital land mines in evidence, he retorted, “A swift kick and firm fist.” Then strutted from the room. I mulled over his sanguine witticism and realized he’d captured the character of our marriage perfectly, and it’s still true today.

  That is not to say that cruel acts of violence occur in our home, quite the opposite. Anger is a stranger, an unwelcome caller, whose rare presence is always polite. Rather, he’d captured the tone of our relationship, the cautious optimism and mandatory humor necessary to survive the chaos that is my nature. He balances me, enduring my idiosyncrasies. He has grace. The grace to overlook small annoyances, to support me even when he disagrees. He gives me the courage to trust, the confidence to fail, and permission to look foolish. Which I do often and unapologetically.

  Grace is not easy. It requires a selflessness and integrity that is unnatural. The snoring that robs you of a good night’s sleep is born gracefully. Late night runs to the pharmacy for soda and aspirin are proffered unconditionally. The occasional request for an evening’s revelry with the girls is unreservedly approved. It takes a sense of grace to acknowledge the right to privacy, to thoughts and personal opinions. And, it takes a strength of purpose to refrain from making another’s existence contingent on your own. It requires maintenance and sustained effort.

  So honey, thank you for our children, for giving the occasional “swift kick” when I need it, and obscene phone calls. Most of all thank you for the laughter and always being there. You are the jam on my toast.

  Prologue

  “Come on. Just think about it,” Danny whined above the buzz of her tattoo gun. She enjoyed torturing me, paying me back for all the times I tickled her until she peed her pants when we were growing up. But we’d been at it so long now I was past the pain: my skin humming, almost numb.

  “And what’s so special about this particular hottie? She’s a hottie, right?” Danny was uncharacteristically quiet. “Danny?”

  “Well…” Danny considered, chewing her lip. “She’s hot in an understated sort of way.” She glanced up through her eyelashes, adding. “She’s quietly hot.” Motherfucker.

  She might as well tattoo sucker across my forehead and she knew it. I’d make her work for it, but eventually she’d get her way; my body’s living proof of that. I wouldn’t have any ink at all i
f it weren’t for her. I was my baby sister’s favorite canvas; my arms and torso chronicle her evolution from tentative inker to fully matured artist.

  “Quietly hot, huh.” Shit. She probably had a great personality too.

  Danny was in love—again—so, she thought everyone else—meaning me—should be too. She didn’t appreciate that I was already living my dream: no drama, no mess. My life was just the way I wanted it: orderly. I liked my shit organized, and I lived alone just so I could keep it that way. If I wanted company, I’d go to the corner bar.

  Swiping away some blood and excess ink, she studied her work. “I’m thinking red and orange… add some more shading… Maybe toss in some green to make things it pop.” The tattoo was originally just black ink: a fish on my forearm chasing after another swimming up over my shoulder. It was an ambitious piece for a beginner, but then Danny’s always been a ‘Go big or go home’ kinda girl.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Really? You’re going to love Angie.” Now, she was being intentionally obtuse. Brat.

  “No, no. The red, orange. The whole popping thing.” I had to put up a token resistance for appearance sake, but we both knew I was going to fold.

  “You know, Biggie, you should really take my requests more seriously when this gun’s in my hand.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “Muuhahahah… And don’t you forget it.” Good thing I loved her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pavlovian Serial Killers

  I hated parties. I fidgeted in the brightly lit kitchen surrounded by strangers with pounding bass vibrating in my molars. Unfortunately, Danny wouldn’t take no for an answer, or as she put it, giving me her best death stare. “You might as well give in gracefully chica, because I’m not to be denied.” I gave in gracefully.

  Crowds always left me slightly off balance. Of course, I couldn’t avoid them altogether, no matter how hard I tried. There’d always be the occasional professional mixer like the one tomorrow. And since both my mentor, Bob Tate, and my mother, claimed I was the face behind the science, refusal was not an option; although, I didn’t know why they bothered. I had neither my mother’s classic charm, nor Danny’s sparkling joi de vivre. And my attempts at small talk were dismal and few. At least Mom would be there tomorrow to handle center stage while I lurked on the fringes.

  “—I kid you not,” Danny continued. “This knucklehead actually had a monkey’s ass tattooed around his bellybutton.” She nodded when she caught my how-can-anyone-be-that-stupid look. “I know right? But it’s more common than you’d think. I’ve seen all kinds of bellybutton ass tats: Everything from cats to jackasses. I have to admit, since the guy’s name was Jack, the jackass one tickled the hell out of me at the time. I do love a good pun.”

  “So what do you do when someone comes in with something like that?” I asked, morbid curiosity overcoming my innate shyness. I was sandwiched between Danny and a leggy blond girl named Ashley, who guessing from Danny’s frown, hadn’t been invited.

  “It depends. Most of the time it’s a matter of buyer’s remorse. Once they’ve sobered up, the tattoo isn’t nearly as clever as they’d originally thought. Since it can’t really be undone, I try to minimize the damage by covering it with something cool that will make it less offensive.”

  “Like, with what?” Ashley asked.

  “Usually something with a hole,” Danny snickered. “For dudes: a lion or tiger’s mouth; for girls—I know right? You’d think they’d know better—a flower, or if the line work is light enough, I can do something like Celtic knots, or a mehndi style design. On this one chick, I did a Mayan calendar.”

  “Like, what’s mehndi?” Ashley’s annoying habit of peppering her sentences with meaningless ‘likes,’ “causes’ and ‘ya knows’ was really starting grate; especially when she put them all together—‘cause like, I find that, like, ya know, really irritating… Ya know?

  “Mehndi’s a thousands years old art form originating in India,” I answered, glancing around. Why was everyone so surprised? So I’ve cracked open a book or two. “Why don’t they laser them off?” Not that I had anything against tattoos, I’ve seen some that were truly breathtaking, but why throw a carpet over a pile of crap?

  “That’s what I usually recommend during an initial consult since over time the old tattoo will eventually show through, even with a really good cover up. But most of the people needing cover-ups don’t want to wait, poor impulse control. That’s what got them in trouble to begin with. Well, except for Biggie, I’m completely to blame for that.”

  “Like, you did his tattoos? ‘Cause, when we met at Flash, I thought you were, like, the receptionist, ya know? I had no idea you were an artist.”

  “Yeah, he’s not be the sharpest tool in the shed,” Danny smiled impishly. “He’s so stupidly sweet that he let me practice on him when I was just starting out.” Talk about trust.

  Sadly, I was totally devoid of artistic talent. Oh, I did all right with a stencil. I could even paint pin stripes as long as there wasn’t a lot of scrollwork involved, but creating something original? Not in this life. I was far too literal to create art. Even as a child, my grass was green, my suns were yellow and my dinosaurs were never purple. Perhaps coloring outside the lines was something they taught in kindergarten.

  “I haven’t seen him around lately. Like, how’s he doing?” Ashley pressed.

  “He’s good, but you can judge for yourself when he gets here,” Danny said then rolled her eyes when the rest of the group emitted a collective sigh. What kind of man made grown women sigh at just the mention of his name? I thought that only happened in the movies.

  Ashley fanned herself. “God, he’s so drool worthy.” Or she needed a strong dose of antibiotics.

  More guests packed into the kitchen, and the walls started closing in on me and it became hard to breathe. When the press of bodies nudged me towards the patio door, I slipped outside, edging away from the tiki torches and candles to lurk in the shadows.

  There was a group of guys huddled around some coolers trading annoyed glances and eye rolls while a tall, spindly guy appeared to be in full rant, talking and waving. I guess he didn’t realize no one was listening, or perhaps he just didn’t he care.

  That was the reason I wasn’t particularly chatty. I doubted anyone here cared about the gene expression of a fruit fly. It’s not a commonly held interest after all. Even my mom’s eyes tended to glaze over after a few minutes chatting with me—it’s either that or one too many cocktails. No, it’s me—I’ve seen her down half a bottle of Ciroc then carry on conversations in German, French and English, concurrently.

  Inside, I saw the girls straightened; their heads snapped up and magnetically aligned on something off stage—the Pavlovian Wunderkind must have arrived—Ding… Let the salivation commence—maybe I could escape while he had Danny distracted; I doubt anyone else would notice I’d left. Twenty minutes from now, I could be home sipping a Guinness and watching Top Gear reruns—the British version, of course.

  “Hey babe.” Damn, it was the spindly guy. I flinched when he invaded my personal space, finger combing his greasy hair. Sweat rings bloomed from his armpits and a miasma of cheap body spray and dirty laundry assaulted my senses. It was as if he tried smothering one stink with another, but instead of canceling each other out, they somehow mixed into a caustic concoction that amplified his funk.

  Did I mention how much I hate parties?

  Music throbbed dully down the walk as I approached the front door. It sounded like Danny’s barbecue was in full swing. I’d hoped to get here earlier, meet this Angie chick, knock back the socially mandated beer, then beat feet before the crazies arrived. Unfortunately, I had to stay late at the office tweaking a presentation due on Monday. I pushed through the door without knocking. It was doubtful anyone would’ve heard me over the pulsating house music and shouted conversations pouring out. The gathering was smaller than Danny’s usual. An impromptu Facebook event she tossed out hoping
to end my soul crushing loneliness. She actually said that. ‘Soul crushing loneliness.’ There was tequila involved.

  “Matty!” Ashley’s shudder worthy squeal knifed through me lodging somewhere in the region of my balls. Shit, I was going to kill Danny. Ashley was one of Danny’s matchmaking fails. Let’s just say, Hell no! Because of her, I had to change my number, my email and close my Facebook account. This Angie chick had better be worth it.

  “Hey Ashley, still stalking strong I see.” I stepped back in a failed effort to escape her groping hands.

  “Oh Matty, you know you’re the only man for me,” she simpered. I fought off her hug, my ass clenching as she copped a feel. Geez, was she drunk already?

  Danny came from of the kitchen with an apologetic look on her face, nudging Ashley none too gently aside to get her own hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “She saw it on Facebook and just showed up. Besides,” Danny added loudly, smacking me upside the head. “You’re late.”

  “Yeah, shit happens. I need a beer,” I muttered, looking at Ashley. “Or six.”

  Danny jerked her head. “Outback on the patio. Angie’s out there too. You can’t miss her. She’s the only black haired pixie here.”

  “Ladies.” I sauntered through the giggling estrogen cloud in the kitchen. I’d never had a problem getting chicks, even back in the day when I was just a big doofus. Although, I had to work a little harder at it back then. I’d smile and tell stupid jokes until they were laughing too hard to turn me down. All that changed after I started getting ink. Now, I get eye-fucked as Danny called it, the moment I walked into a room, and if she’s to be believed, not just by chicks. But what really sucked was my ink attracted the wrong kind of women, pushy bitches like Ashley. They latched on to me like a leaches, and chase off the few sweethearts who didn’t take one look at me and run.