Melting into You

by Trentham, Laura

  He raised his head off the pillow, and she propped her chin on his chest to meet his eyes. “You sure about that?”

  “I’ve wanted one for years. Is there someone around here you would trust not to screw it up? I don’t want to end up on one of those ‘tattoos gone wrong’ shows.”

  Enough time passed to make the silence veer into uncomfortable. He finally dropped his head back and pulled her closer. “I know someone. Be one hundred and ten percent sure you want this.”

  “I want this,” she whispered back, the tattoo no longer forefront on her mind.

  “Saturday work for you?”

  She hummed her response, the hand trailing up and down her back and playing in her hair lulling her to sleep.

  Every evening that week followed the same pattern. He arrived late, looking more and more exhausted and worn as the week progressed. Still he’d insisted on oiling the hinge of her back door, grouting the new tile in the bathroom, and repairing the split duct in the attic. She’d managed to gain Ghost’s trust enough to move her and her kittens into a box in the kitchen, gaining only a few scratches in the process.

  By Thursday night, he collapsed beside her, snuggling her close but making no move to kiss her. She popped onto an elbow and poked him in the ribs. “Do you work this hard every single day? You’re killing yourself.”

  He opened one eye. “Between contracting, the extra time Dalt wants to put in, Hunter, and you, I’m burning out.”

  She wasn’t thrilled to be on a list of his obligations, but cut him a break. “Have you been spending extra time with Hunter?”

  “I’ve been making sure he does his homework and is eating decent. Been teaching him a little about the construction business. Told him it was part of paying me back for his car. He insists on going home every night. Not much I can do to keep him from his brother.” The worry in his voice transmitted, and tension hardened his muscles.

  “Turn over.”

  “Why?” His tone was suspicious.

  “Geez, I’m not going to stab you in the back or anything. Too messy.” She kept her voice light and teasing. “I’d be much more likely to poison you anyway. That’s how women roll.”

  He chuckled and flipped to his stomach. She straddled his hips and worked the muscles of his shoulders and back. The pillow muffled his groan. She continued the massage until he was loose and pliable beneath her. She didn’t do it as a precursor to sex. Nevertheless, she’d gained pleasure from touching him. The man was gorgeous.

  He was also asleep. She leaned over. Yep, definite snoring was taking place. Instead of feeling gypped, she was content to cuddle next to him.

  19

  After the team’s win Friday night put them one step closer to winning state, Alec was more relaxed than he’d felt all week. He parked in front of the tattoo parlor and looked over at Lilliana. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  Her laugh cracked too loud in the cab of the truck. “You sound like Aunt Esmerelda.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  Obvious was an understatement. She chewed on her thumbnail, her knees were pressed together, and her other hand was tucked under her thigh.

  He shook his head, suppressing his laugh, but not his smile. “Not a bit.”

  She grabbed his forearm. “A tattoo is permanent. As in forever. What if thirty years from now, I hate it?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. Trust me, it’s an expensive regret.”

  “But I love your tattoos.” She stroked across his chest and lifted the edge of his T-shirt, exposing the bottom few inches of his ink. Her fingers traced the dark lines he had started not to hate so much anymore. “They’re supersexy.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Her exploring hand sent his blood supply south, leaving him fuzzyheaded. “Are we going in or not?” Because if they weren’t, he was thinking about doing something very inappropriate and most likely illegal, considering it was early afternoon and they were in a parking lot along a busy street.

  She turned away and hopped out of the truck. Her walk toward the parlor was unusually slow. A few feet from the frosted glass door, she grabbed the front of his shirt and whispered, “What if you hate it?”

  He shifted to face her and cupped a hand around her neck. Her dark eyes weren’t flat or cold, but depthless and enveloping, like a hot summer night. She wanted this, and because of that, he wanted it for her. “First of all, this tattoo should be about you, not me. If you love it, that’s all that matters. But, for the record, I could never hate your body.”

  “Even if I got a tattoo right here? Of like, a spider?” She splayed a hand over her right cheek.

  A laugh spurted out, beyond his control. “So not the itsy-bitsy variety?”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. The move was sudden and sweet and unbalancing. Her openness only underscored how cut off he’d become the last few years. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and tell her about the feelings battering around in his chest.

  Her lips curved into a smile against his. “I’m ready now.”

  She opened the door, confidence in the tilt of her chin and her smile. How did she seem to gain strength and bravery from their kiss when it left him trembling and terrified?

  The bells over the door tinkled. A Hispanic man with a shaved head, a barbell in his eyebrow, and tattoos up both sides of his neck popped through a doorway in the back, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

  “Alec, my man. Thought you were done inking.” Joe Montez held out a hand, his accent pure Alabama drawl.

  Alec shook it. “How’s it going, Joe? I am done. My girlfriend Lilliana wants a tattoo.” He’d hesitated only an instant over her word girlfriend.

  Joe’s pierced eyebrow rose, and he half-smiled, but refrained from comment, sidestepping around Alec to stand next to Lilliana. She gazed at the hundreds of sample tattoos hung all over the walls.

  Joe and Alec had graduated high school together, although they had barely known each other back then. Alec hung out with the athletes while Joe had circled the fringes. After Alec left Philly to lick his wounds, their paths crossed when Joe hired Alec to renovate his tattoo shop. They weren’t friends exactly—Alec wasn’t good at making friends—but he appreciated Joe’s no-bullshit mentality.

  “Your boys won their game last night, I heard. Playoffs next?” Joe asked.

  “Yep. We’re headed to Huntsville. Should be fun.”

  Joe wandered over to Lilliana and pointed to groupings of at least fifty different styles of butterfly tattoos. “Butterflies are popular with the ladies. Flowers too.”

  Lilliana pulled a sheet of paper from her back pocket. “I know what I want, but I’m not certain where.”

  Joe opened the paper and smiled. “Nice.”

  Alec took a step over, trying to get a peek, but Lilliana snatched it out of Joe’s hand. “You’ll see it soon enough, Mr. Football.”

  Joe laughed. “I like this one. Lots of sass. Come on back, sweetheart.”

  She disappeared into the back with Joe. How complex the tattoo was would determine how long the process would take. Alec pulled out his smartphone and scrolled through work emails. Lilliana’s tinkling laughter distracted him and had him pacing, trying to see through the gap in the curtain into Joe’s workroom. At the hour mark, the sound of voices grew louder, and Lilliana emerged with a smile.

  “Everything go okay?” Alec’s voice was husky, and he glanced between Lilliana and Joe.

  “Muy bonita,” Joe said in Southern-accented Spanish. He took one of Lilliana’s hands. “Senorita, please stop by once you’re healed, I’d love a picture to put on the wall.”

  Alec stepped behind her, pulling her hand out of his. “Hands off, Cue-ball.”

  Joe kept his smile and winked at Lilliana. “Good luck with that one.”

  Lilliana leaned in and bussed his cheek. “Thanks. You are a true artist, Joe. I’ll be by soon.”

  Alec was silent on t
he way to his truck. Once they were inside the cab, he cranked the engine and tightened his hands around the steering wheel, but didn’t reverse. Lilliana was bowed at the waist, patting at the gauze covering her new addition.

  “No regrets? Not too sore?” he asked.

  “Not yet to both questions. I love it. Hope you do too.”

  He heard the vulnerability in her voice, grabbed up her hand, and pressed a kiss on the palm. “I will.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Because I love you. The words scrolled from his heart, his brain stopping the confession just in time. He swallowed the words back down and bit the inside of his lip until the metallic taste of blood hit his tongue.

  She shook his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Or as fine as someone who’d flung himself off a cliff could be.

  Her smile was quizzical, but she sat back in the seat. “Where to now?”

  His palm grew damp on the leather of the steering wheel. “Will you come with me to see my parents?”

  “I— Geez, of course, I will.” Her wide, blinking eyes reflected her shock, but a slow smile tempered it. “I think this will be good.”

  “Things will never be the same with them,” he said hoarsely.

  “No, not the same. You don’t have to start having cozy Sunday dinners together, but don’t they deserve a second chance?” She took his hand and knitted their fingers. “My father loved me, and I wish I hadn’t judged him so harshly. Cutting your parents out of your life is hurting you. I can see it.”

  He nodded, her words settling like rocks of truth in his heart. If he wanted to move on with his life—with Lilliana—he needed to figure out where his parents fit or if they fit at all. He’d spent the last few years of his life floating in limbo. His connection to Hunter and Lilliana had grounded him.

  “Do you need me to look up their address?” She pulled out her phone.

  “No, I know where they live.” He didn’t want to admit he’d driven past the townhouse complex his parents called home. They’d sold the modest ranch home he’d spent his childhood in when Philly drafted him. It’s funny how his parents had wanted to shed their middle-class existence while Alec longed for his small back bedroom and the simplicity of their family dinners.

  “Should we have a signal, in case things aren’t going well? Maybe a football call. Unsportsmanlike conduct?” She held her arms out straight. “Or how about a safety?” She clapped her hands together over her head like a referee.

  In spite of his jumping nerves, he laughed. For the first time in years, the comfort of someone supporting him, not using him, washed through him. He wasn’t alone. “How about if I turn to you and say something like, ‘It’s time to go.’”

  “Not as much fun, but sometime straightforward is best.”

  He reached the townhouses within minutes and crept through the parking lot, looking for the correct number. He parked next to a silver Honda with a dented bumper. A pot filled with white and pink pansies marked their door.

  He shuffled to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, the flowers blurring into a memory that sliced through his heart—his mother on her knees in their front yard, digging with a trowel and planting buttercup bulbs, singing an Eagles song. He’d dug too, but farther down and with his yellow tractor. His mother had squealed when he’d held up a half-dozen squirming earthworms, and he’d laughed so hard he got the hiccups.

  Lilliana stroked a hand down his arm to where his hand was fisted at his side. Her touch unlocked his muscles, and he let her weave their fingers. “Are you ready?”

  “They might not be home.”

  “Let’s try anyway. Come on now.” Her tone was that of a mother coaxing a toddler into his first day of school.

  He knocked. His grip was too tight on her hand, but she didn’t pull away, only squeezed his hand hard in return. Rustling footsteps sounded on the other side, growing closer.

  Time slowed, and his heart accelerated like cresting the first peak of a rollercoaster. The door swung open, framing his mother, her hair more gray than blonde and her face lined with more wrinkles than he remembered.

  “Alec.” Her voice cracked on his name, and she cleared her throat. Louder, she said, “Honey, Alec is here.”

  Alec’s gaze shot over his mother’s shoulder. His father quickstepped over and stood next to his mother, his arm circling her shoulders. He too had aged. Once as tall as Alec, he’d lost a couple of inches to his stooped shoulders. But his hair was still thick, even if white streaked his temples. His parents wore identical expressions of hopeful shock.

  Alec’s throat closed to a pinhole. Locating the words of a simple greeting was beyond his capability. Lilliana injected a sense of normalcy.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Grayson. I’m Lilliana Hancock, Alec’s girlfriend. It’s so nice to meet you.” She tugged at her claimed right hand, but he refused to give it up, leaving her to exchange awkward left-handed handshakes with his parents.

  His mother pushed his father backward and gestured them in. He didn’t miss the slight shake in her hand. Age or nerves? “Come in, come in. Let me get everyone some iced tea. Or coffee? Would you prefer coffee?” A desperate need to please was in her voice and in her darting glance.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Tea would be great, Mom.”

  Lilliana squeezed his hand and relaxed into his arm, probably relieved he hadn’t turned mute. The small entry opened directly into a den. The overstuffed couch was unfamiliar, but he recognized his father’s lounge chair and the floral loveseat from their old house. He led Lilliana to the loveseat and forced her to sit with him. His hand felt like a damp, sweaty mess in hers, but he couldn’t let go. His father perched close to them on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped together and tucked between his knees.

  A scuffed wooden side table was littered with framed pictures. The closest rocketed him backward in time. It was a JCPenney professional shot, taken when he was around eight. His bowl-shaped haircut framed his huge grin, blank spaces on either side of his newly sprouted, enormous two front teeth. He sat with his arms over their legs, holding onto one of their hands, while his parents’ hands were linked behind him, symbolic of their family’s weird symbiotic relationship.

  My God, he looked ridiculous. He also looked happy. His mother glided in with a tray of teas and a plate of cookies.

  “Are those snickerdoodles?” he asked.

  “I made them yesterday.” His mother tried on a smile even though it was tentative and unsure. “Would you like one?”

  Store-bought versions had never lived up to his mother’s homemade cookies. He picked one, taking a deep cinnamon-scented breath before biting into it. Every lost childhood memory that resurfaced scraped away the recent, more disappointing ones until he felt raw and unprotected.

  “It’s good,” he mumbled before shoving the rest in his mouth. He let go of Lilliana to rub his hands down his thighs. She picked up her tea and sipped, casting him a side-eyed glance through her lashes.

  “Son, we’re so happy you stopped by. Did you read our emails?” his father asked.

  Alec tensed and shook his head, looking back over at his happy eight-year-old self. If they asked for money, he would walk out the door without a word.

  “Then, let me apologize face-to-face. Man-to-man. I let you down, Alec. My gambling”—his father cleared his throat and reached for his wife’s hand—“is under control. I did a program. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.”

  His mother picked up the thread of conversation. “I let you down too, sweetheart. We’ve wanted to tell you we’re sorry. We miss you.”

  He had missed them too. At least, missed the way it used to be with them before football became the only thing about him worth caring about. Lilliana’s hand snaked around his elbow, settling on his forearm.

  “I miss you too, Mom, but I’m not sure . . .” The tears in his mother’s eyes made him feel like he was drowning, his breaths coming shallow and quick.
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  His father sat forward another inch. The intensity in his hazel eyes was like looking in a mirror, tossing Alec off-balance. “Let us earn your trust back, son. We don’t want anything but time with you. A chance to make things right.”

  Alec couldn’t bring himself to break the silence, not sure what to say. Lilliana reached for a cookie and said, “I love your sweater, Mrs. Grayson. Where did you get it?”

  Alec gusted a sigh, scooting his hand to Lilliana’s knee and squeezing. His mother smoothed a hand down the totally ordinary-looking navy blue cable sweater. “I work at a sweet little clothing shop in Jasper. I enjoy it.”

  “What about you, Mr. Grayson?” Lilliana took a sip of her tea.

  “I’m still a licensed contractor and manage construction jobs.”

  Alec was surprised. The building community in north Alabama was a small one. “Who’ve you been working for?”

  “Pearson Construction. Most of my jobs have been in Mississippi.”

  “I’ve heard good things about them. Do you like it?” Now that they were on common if slightly stilted ground, Alec relaxed into the loveseat.

  “The son recently took over. He seems smart enough. I hear your business is booming.”

  “I’m doing well. I’ve had to hire out to subcontractors, but I supervise everything myself so the quality doesn’t suffer.”

  His father smiled. “You were always a hard worker. It’s why you were a successful player. Always studying film, lifting weights, running. You’ve got a good team down there in Falcon. You enjoy coaching?”

  “Love it. My senior quarterback is a natural.”

  His mother bustled to a corner bookcase and pulled out a binder. She leaned over the back of the loveseat and plopped it in his lap. The familiar smell of her hairspray sent a wave of nostalgia washing though him. She backed away, and he turned his head to take another deep breath before the scent vanished.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he flipped the album open to reveal newspaper clippings in clear pockets. Some were the briefest mention of a renovation project he’d accepted or the ribbon cutting of a new building he’d overseen. Others detailed the wins and losses of the Falcon football team since he’d been hired as the quarterback coach. As he turned each page, the lump in his throat sprouted into his chest until the skin over his heart felt too tight.