by Nicole Dykes
He budgeted for repairs though, the fucker, and even though I have some money saved, he made me use it for supplies. So I ordered everything I’d need. Bought paint and materials to redo the floor because it was shit.
I’ll have clients before I know it because Chris has a solid reputation, and for whatever reason he’s willing to put that on the line for me. And there is no way in hell I’ll let him down.
As I sand down the marred parts on the wall and apply putty, I think about Blair and yesterday in the bathroom stall. You would think fucking in a bathroom would feel dirty, but not at the country club. That bathroom is cleaner than any I've ever been in.
She could be in St. Louis by now for all I know. I didn’t ask her any questions. I already knew she’s moving here. I never ask questions. I let people tell me whatever they want me to hear. It works out better that way.
I’ve found most people want to talk. But Blair is fucking stubborn.
She was pissed. I know she wanted me to say so much to her, but I can’t. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know.
She seems to think it’s the latter. That I just don’t want to talk about anything real. Not even to her. Like she’s something special.
She seemed so safe at first, but then, it finally became clear she’s far more dangerous to me than anyone else.
Two years ago
It’s been a month since I fucked Blair in my apartment above the tattoo shop, and I’m still stunned it happened. That my dick was hard and stayed hard the entire time. Hell, it stayed hard even after she left.
No alcohol needed.
Just her.
It’s really fucking crazy. I’ve been staying clean. Going to meetings.
But as if she already knew, she comes in through the front door of the shop with that fucking smirk on her pale pink lips. I’ve been having new cravings.
I stand up, not letting Jay get to her first, not giving him a chance to let me know she’s here in his own clever little way that I won’t find funny.
I stand inches from her, out of anyone’s listening range because of the music playing in the shop and the sounds of the tattoo guns. “What are you doing here?”
My tone comes out almost playful. At least for me. “I need a tattoo. Know anyone who can do that for me?” Her eyebrow lifts, and I swear everything this girl says drips with sex.
“You don’t have to get a tattoo every time you want me to fuck you.”
She doesn’t flinch. Not even a little bit. Instead she laughs easily. “Good to know, but I really do want a tattoo first. I’ve looked like a damn Barbie doll my entire life.” She shrugs, and I almost smile at that because she’s not wrong. She definitely resembles the doll but with a serious edge. “I might as well be Badass Barbie.”
And I know she added the “first” to let me know she definitely wants to fuck me. She makes it easy for me. Easy is something I've never really had. My entire life has been layered with complicated.
“Private room?”
She nods her head. “Of course.”
I lead the way and leave the door open. I don’t want her getting any crazy ideas. I’m not fucking her in my place of work.
Only above it.
She takes her jacket off and then lifts her shirt off, leaving her completely bare. “Fuck.” I close the door, and she laughs and sits down in the chair, settling back.
“Jesus, do they have to be leather seats? That’s fucking cold.”
“Then put your shirt back on,” I growl as I sit on the stool next to the chair and try my best to remain professional.
Don’t look at her tits.
“I can’t. I want my tattoo right here . . .” She points to her side right next to her right breast.
“You can leave your shirt on. Or you could have worn a bra.”
She just shrugs. “Don’t get all shy on me now, Rhys. You’ve seen it all before.”
Every fucking time I close my eyes.
“This is my job.”
She gives me a no-nonsense look. “Then do your job.”
It’s going to be difficult with my dick trying to escape my jeans, but I guess I should thank her for the hard-on. Seems my dick is used to her now. Not only that, it wants to fucking own her.
“What tattoo?”
“A rose.”
I tilt my head to the side, cocking an eyebrow. She doesn’t seem like a flower girl. I can’t tell you how many flowers I've tattooed onto chicks.
She just shrugs, totally unbothered by my judgment. “Beauty and the Beast was my favorite movie growing up. So, sue me.”
My eyes lock on hers and she sucks in a surprised breath as if connecting some dots I'm not aware of. “I’ve never seen it.”
Now she’s looking at me like I’m a fucking freak, and yeah, maybe I am. I was nearly an adult before I had my own television, and believe me, I wasn’t watching Disney. “Never?”
“Never. I know what it is though. Disney,” I grunt with disgust.
Her eyes roll. “Yes. Disney, and don’t fucking give me that look like I'm a little princess watching silly cartoons. Anyone who grew up watching Disney will tell you that’s the most depressing shit you’ll ever watch. Almost downright depraved.”
I show her several roses, and she picks one. “Depraved? Disney?”
Again, with the fucking rolling of her eyes. “Yes. Beauty and the Beast. The Beast was a beautiful, spoiled prince who had a spell cast on him, turning him into this hideous beast. And the Beauty? She was this sweet, innocent little bookworm, a dreamer who traded herself for her father when the Beast held him captive.” I start to work as she continues, not flinching at the needle. “And of course, at first, she’s totally repulsed by him and afraid, but then she gets Stockholm syndrome and falls completely in love with him.”
“With her captor.”
She nods her head. “Totally. I mean, the dude did have a kickass library and talking furniture. So, I get it.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
She laughs. “But when they fall for each other. When she loves him, seeing the good inside him, that’s when he turns into the hot prince again. But it’s pretty fucked-up.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Definitely. And then Snow White? I mean, holy fuck. Her stepmother tries to have her murdered because Snow White is prettier than her. Then she shacks up with seven dudes until she’s poisoned, and the only thing that can bring her back is a kiss from a prince.”
“Sounds fucking stupid.”
“Oh, for sure,” she agrees and laughs again. “Honestly, all Disney did was teach little girls that a prince would come and rescue them someday, which is definitely fucking stupid. They never tell you that princes really just want to stick their dick in you until they get bored.”
I stare at her, and her eyes widen as they meet mine. I don’t think she meant to get so deep. And I'm definitely uncomfortable as she shifts in her seat. “Stay still.”
She nods and shuts up. And oddly enough, I miss her voice babbling on.
“But you still like it?” Enough to get a tattoo of it. Even though I still have no idea what the rose has to do with the story, I’m not going to ask.
She lifts her shoulder. “At least she kind of made him work for it. And he was a surly bastard for everyone else but her. I kind of like that.”
I finish, and she looks down at my work.
“Thanks.”
I nod and start to tell her where she can pay, but she silences me.
“Pay at the counter. When are you finished?”
I look at the clock. “Ten minutes.”
“See you then.”
And sure enough, when I clock out and go up to my apartment, she’s waiting for me at the outside door. I let her in, and she strips off her jacket, tossing it to my couch like she lives here. “So, you want to do something different this time?”
I know I look like a frightened kid right now, my eyes wide. My palms are sweating so much I have to wipe them off on
my jeans. She just snickers as she stands right in front of me. She doesn’t touch me though.
“Relax. I didn’t mean touching you. I mean a different position.”
“Oh.” My throat is still dry as I stare at her. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
That really makes her laugh as she pulls her shirt over her head again, and this time I do look at her tits. Because they’re fucking nice.
I lift my shirt off over my head, tossing it behind me because I know the game by now.
“First of all, I'm not fucking nice.” She kicks her heels off, and I take my shoes and socks off. “Second of all, I think that’s the longest sentence you’ve spoken to me, so congrats on that.” I make an irritated grunt, but she just keeps going as we both push our jeans down, kicking them away. She removes her panties, leaving us both fully naked. “And third, you’re a good lay with a big dick. And I've been fucking college boys who can’t find my clit for way too long.”
“You really are Badass Barbie.”
She laughs again, effortless and free as she looks back over at my bed. “How about doggie style? That doesn’t require eye contact or much touching.”
I nod in silent agreement as she goes to my bed and I follow.
She really doesn’t mind catering to my bullshit.
Or maybe I'm the beast to her beauty. Whatever, I'm just here for the ride.
I’ve been in St. Louis for almost a week, and I'm fucking bored out of my mind. I mean, surprise, surprise, right?
I’ve always been bored with my own existence.
I moved into the house my father bought that was already fully furnished. I started working at his company like I was supposed to. I’m a bitch on the outside, that’s how most people see me, but let’s face it, I’m really just the dutiful daughter doing what I’m told.
I don’t really go outside the box until it comes to fucking.
Somehow, that gave me a kind of control over my life. But it never changes much for long.
I’m annoyed by the hands on my hips right now, sliding lower and lower and then over my ass. He’s grinding against me on the dancefloor, but I don’t really want him to.
I don’t not want him to either though.
I’m dying to feel even a small spark. Some kind of thrilling connection that will wake me from my boredom. But this dumbass behind me with spiky hair and a button-down shirt?
Yeah, it’s not gonna be him.
I push his hands off me and make my way to the bar, ordering two tequila shots as I check my phone.
There’s a text from Mel that makes me smile. She’s sent a picture of Sean and her standing in front of their new apartment building. They look happy.
“I got it.” I look over to see a guy dressed in a black leather jacket and tight jeans paying for my shots.
He has short hair, almost trimmed to his scalp, decently built.
He could do for tonight.
“Thanks.”
His eyes glide down my body with absolutely no shame. “Wanna dance?”
I down both shots quickly and turn back to him. “Lead the way.”
We move out to the dance floor, and he doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a split second. His hands move right to my hips. Possessive. Hungry. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
I place my hands on his shoulder and move my body along with him. He doesn’t flinch at my touch. He doesn’t push me away. He pulls me closer, and it should be hot. I should love that this guy runs his hands all over my body as we dance. That he wants me to touch him.
“Jesus, your body is insane.” He shouts into my ear because the music in the club is really loud.
What a dumbass.
I just want him to shut the fuck up. I keep dancing with him though, letting his dick press against me. A promise of what’s to come, and by the way he’s dancing, I'm betting it won’t be me.
So why do it?
I stare out into the crowd, searching for eyes that aren’t there, for a man who can’t stand for me to touch him.
Who only wants quiet.
And I drift back to the beginning of the end as I lift my hair and drop it slowly, letting it fall, and the guy grinds against me.
But I'm not here with him.
I’m there.
Almost a year ago
This has been the trip from hell. Going on this road trip with Sean, Mel, and Rhys to see Quinn in concert was so epically fucking stupid.
I’ve hooked up with Rhys a lot over the last year. We’ve kept it quiet because who the fuck needs to know?
I feel bad for not telling Melody, but she figured it out anyway because, when I’m around Rhys, I can’t fucking hide it.
It’s been nice. I don’t ask him any questions. I don’t touch him. We just fuck, but lately . . . I don’t know. Maybe I want a little more.
Maybe I want to know if he’s fucking other chicks on the side.
I haven’t been with anyone else for a while now. But I don’t ask. That would make me vulnerable, and I don’t think he’d answer me anyway.
He doesn’t talk.
He doesn’t want me that way. I’m a warm body for him to sink into.
But after we’re done fucking, I have this lingering desire to stay behind, to make him talk to me, to find out who he is. To ask him about his scars on the outside as well as inside.
I made the mistake last night of asking him to tell me about his childhood. Anything. Some stupid little detail about him.
His response?
“Don’t.” One word. A command. Don’t ask.
Because I’m no one to him. And I'm an idiot.
So now, at Quinn’s show, I find a warm body to dance with. A body that will fucking dance with me. I turn around, and the guy presses against my ass. I can feel all of him as my eyes lock with Rhys. He’s sober. He shouldn’t even be in a club, but for his precious Quinn he will be.
I’m starting to figure him out even if he won’t talk to me. The way he looks at her? Yeah. She’s the one he wants, but she’s with Logan now. Quinn told me she used to date Rhys. She played it down like it was nothing, but I can see it meant something to him.
I wonder if he let her touch him. Did she get to kiss him?
I bite my bottom lip and make a big show of moaning and leaning back into the nobody behind me. The guy’s hands move up my sides as he presses his dick against me, his hands making contact with the rose tattoo Rhys gave me over the fabric of my dress.
I see Rhys’s eyes flash with something as they dart to where the guy’s hand is touching me.
Does he care?
One of the guy’s hands moves over my stomach and pushes up between my breasts as I dance and I allow it, keeping my eyes on Rhys.
I see his jaw ticking with something that looks like jealousy, but I’m not sure if he feels that emotion. I don’t know if he feels anything.
The guy’s lips move to my neck, and he starts to lick and suck like a slobbery dog. I don’t want him to. I don’t like it, but still I moan, making sure Rhys thinks this is what I want. Because fuck him.
It’s been almost a year of him using my body. Of me accommodating him and letting him fuck me in positions so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye. I don’t make him talk. I don’t make him do anything, and he’s all too happy to use me, but he doesn’t want to know me. He doesn’t want me to know him.
He’s like every other guy I’ve ever known. I thought he was different, but he’s not. Soon, he’ll be bored. Maybe he already is. And he’ll toss me to the side.
He’ll find a new toy.
The guy’s mouth hurts and not in the good way as he hoovers my neck, leaving his drool behind. “Let’s get out of here.”
I feel Rhys’s eyes on me.
Will he come for me? Stop this guy from escorting me out to fuck me in the bathroom or the alley?
I take the guy’s hand and lead him toward the door.
Of course, he won’t. And as I push the door open, this guy’s hand in mine,
no one follows.
No one else even cares.
I’ve been here a month, and my shop is up and running. It still needs a little work, but with me doing all the work by myself for the last month, it’s not bad.
The “OPEN” sign is on, and I’ve had a decent number of customers already.
Sean has called several times to check on me, and so has Chris. I tell them I'm fine, and that’s really all I offer. Because that’s just me.
I hate fucking talking.
I think about the night at the shitty club in Chicago that all but ended the good thing I had with Blair. She’d asked me about my childhood, and then, when I didn’t fucking tell her, she threw a hissy fit.
She tried her best to make me jealous by dancing with some hipster douchebag and taking him out of the club. She let him touch her in front of me. She touched him to show me she fucking could. That normal guys don’t flinch when a hot chick touches them.
That was the worst trip of my life. Being stuck with a vengeful Blair. I mean, what the fuck did she expect? After a year of not letting her touch me, of not talking, that I would all of the sudden open up to her?
Rehab couldn’t make me talk about my past. There was no fucking way Badass Barbie was going to make me do it.
The bell on the door dings, and I look up. I’m shocked when a girl around ten- or eleven-years-old with a head-full of wild curls runs in and jumps behind the counter where I'm standing at the front of the shop. dark blue eyes look up at me and pleads, “Hide me.”
“What?” I look down at her. She looks lost and afraid. Her clothes look like she goes to a prep school of sorts. Her shoes are nice, no scuffs. But still, I recognize something about her.
I nod at her and look up in time for the bell to ding again and a man in a suit and tie to push through. “Did a little girl come in here?”
I shake my head instantly, feeling the girl crouched at my feet. “No kids allowed.”
I point to the sign that says “18 and up.” His eyes shift around the shop, searching, and I don’t know if it’s the suit or something else, but I want to punch the motherfucker in his face for looking around.