A Kiss For You

by Rachel Van Dyken

  What? It was a very pretty dick.

  He handed the artwork over, his eyes twinkling.

  “Thank you.” I stood, stepping into him until I was pressed against his chest. “Let me know what time works for you tomorrow, and I’ll be there.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, and his wound around my waist.

  “I’ll see you then.” And with that little sentence, he kissed me like he was trying to make sure I never forgot him.

  As if.

  I was all warm and tingly again when he pulled away. He slapped my ass with a pop and stepped into Jersey pants before walking me to the door, leaving my body singing his name as it did every time we were together.

  I felt like my feet were barely touching the ground as I walked the few blocks to the shop, daydreaming about Bodie’s body and his smile and his dimple.

  He was right; things didn’t have to be complicated. I didn’t have to answer to him, and Ididn’t expect him to answer to me. Although I did find myself telling him where I’d be or what I’d be doing, and he seemed to do the same. It was just so easy, just the two of us.

  Of course, we’d spent every minute we could together, though it didn’t feel unreasonable. We’d never spent the night together, but we’d spent late nights and full afternoons all tangled up with each other. I knew the amazing noises he made, knew what he liked, what he wanted from my body. I knew his laugh and his smile, knew his hands, knew every inch of his body. I’d spent over a week exploring it, and what a glorious week it had been.

  I was struck for a moment that I hadn’t even considered being with anyone besides him since I met him. But the thought didn’t freak me out — how could I want something other than absolute perfection? What could possibly lure me away?

  I was struck again when it crossed my mind that he could be seeing someone else, so struck that I nearly tripped over my own feet and hit the sidewalk.

  Surely he felt like I did. I mean, we hadn’t discussed our relationship or defined anything. He’d said I didn’t owe him anything, including exclusivity.

  The thought made me irrationally angry, so irrationally angry that I fantasized about hunting down an imaginary bitch who had tried to touch him and scratching her eyes out.

  I frowned as I crossed the street.

  It had been a very long time since I was jealous, particularly of a made-up thieving man-stealer.

  This confused me on levels I wasn’t ready to admit existed.

  So instead of admitting anything, I reminded myself that he had been with me daily. We’d had so much sex that there was no physical way he’d be able to have more.

  At least I had that. The thought cheered me up.

  I bounced into the coffee shop to grab goodies for everyone before heading to Tonic. I made the rounds once I got there, passing out everyone’s usual drinks along with a few lemon bars — they were the best in the city, I swear — stopping at Joel’s booth last. The Clash was playing over the speakers, and I smiled, thinking about kissing Bodie as a hundred people sang along with “Rock the Casbah” all around us.

  Joel eyed me, smirking a little from behind his dark beard. “You okay?”

  I smiled and leaned on the wall around his booth. “Peachy keen, jelly bean. I’m here for my interview with Annika.”

  His eyes sparked at the mention of her name. “She’s upstairs in the control room getting everything ready.”

  “You excited to start filming again?”

  He shrugged. “You know how I feel about all that. But I’m glad Annika has something to do. Without an objective, she comes unglued. I think she reorganized every book I own, color-coded my closet, and rearranged my sock drawer twice. And that was just in the first week.”

  I laughed. “Well, I’m glad she has a sweater to knit now, something to keep her busy.”

  “Me too.”

  “Hey, I wanted to run something by you. I was going to do some work on a friend of mine tomorrow, if it’s okay. You don’t need my booth, right?”

  He shook his head. “You’re good. Who’s the friend?”

  I couldn’t even play it cool; I found myself grinning. “Bodie.”

  One of his brows rose. “The guy who was supposed to send you flowers but didn’t?”

  I waved a hand, dismissing him. “No, I didn’t want him to send flowers, but if I get flowers, yes, I’d like them to be from him.”

  He narrowed his eyes in concentration. “It’s like you’re trying to tell me something.”

  I laughed. “Yes, that’s the guy.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed, watching me.

  “What?”

  He shrugged and rearranged things on his desk. “Nothing. It’s just you’ve never brought a flowers-not-flowers guy around.”

  “It’s no big deal. He was supposed to have work done in LA and moved here before he could. I’m not even drawing it.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I mean, that makes it completely impersonal.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, Joel. You’re such a drama queen.”

  He laughed extra loud at that.

  I pushed off the counter and winked at him. “I’ll tell Annika you said hi.”

  “You do that.”

  The bell dinged as I left and turned into the door right next to the shop, climbing two flights to get to the control room. Joel and Annika’s apartment was on the second floor, and the third was rented out by the network to set up as an on-site base of operations. The door was unlocked, and I walked through the monitor room, which was usually bustling with PAs and producers, but it was relatively empty since we hadn’t really started rolling yet.

  Annika was back in the green screen room, waiting for me with a cameraman. She slipped off her director’s chair and glided over to me, smiling.

  I swear to God, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. If Joel were a dark, grumbly bear, Annika was like a porcelain doll — all icy-blue eyes and ruby-red lips and long legs, her hair blonde and skin like milk.

  “Penny,” she said, cheerily — at least for her. She wasn’t overly emotive.

  “Hey, Annika,” I answered. “Look at you, working that skirt.”

  I gestured to her black and white business clothes, which sounded nerdier than it was. Her clothes were immaculately cut, the lines clean and simple and modern and flattering. She looked straight off a runway.

  She laughed. “I learned this summer that casual wear and free time don’t suit me.”

  “I swear, I almost passed out when you came into the shop in leggings a couple of weeks ago.”

  “If a pipe hadn’t burst, you’d never have seen it.”

  I chuckled and took my seat across from hers as a PA entered the room and miked me.

  Annika sat and flipped through the sheets on her clipboard. “So, we’re pretty basic today, just a little bit of catch-up. What have you been working on, how’s the shop, how’s life — that sort of stuff.”

  “Cool,” I said, settling back into my seat as the camera started rolling.

  Annika smiled. “All right, let’s start easy. What’s the weirdest tattoo you’ve done since we saw you last?”

  “Well, weird’s relative, right? Like, you’d think it was super crazy to get a tattoo of a gun, but I have two on my stomach, pointing down to my I-can’t-say-that-on-network-television.”

  She laughed. “That’s true. That’s the whole point of a tattoo, right? That it means something to you. Lessons I learned from your boss.”

  “He’s a smart dude. But to answer your question, I did a Care Bear tattoo on the back of a girl’s calf that made me salute her bravery. Everybody has their thing,” I said with a shrug.

  “Okay, favorite piece you did?”

  I thought about it and crossed my legs. “Damn, that’s a hard one. But I did one on Veronica’s arm that’s two skeletons embracing, like one is clutching the other to its chest. I love being able to work with nothing but black ink, no color, just that ink and the negative space of skin to
tell a story.”

  Annika was still smiling, her lips wide and red and perfect. “I love to hear you guys talk about your work. Sometimes I just listen to Joel geek out about art and tattoos with my head propped on my hand and my heart all fluttery.” She sighed and glanced down at her clipboard. “So, what have you been up to this summer?”

  “Nothing much. We’ve mostly been working on Ramona’s wedding, but everything’s been done for a few weeks, so now it’s just a matter of waiting.”

  “What’s left to come?”

  I ticked everything off on my fingers. “Dress fittings tomorrow. Bachelorette party in a few days. Then it’s time to get the lovebirds hitched.”

  “You make it sound so easy.” She looked a little skeptical.

  I chuckled. “Yep, and you’re next. But you were built for wedding planning. I bet you have spreadsheets out the wang. Color-coded. With, like, fourteen tabs.”

  “At least I’m consistent enough to be predictable,” she said on a laugh. “So tell me about the bachelorette party.”

  “Oh, that’s not fit for censored television. Let’s just say, there will be debauchery and plastic penis accoutrements.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  I pointed at her. “You’re participating. No pussing out, dude.”

  Annika dodged the implication and smiled. “Have a date for the wedding?”

  I waved a hand. “Nah, I’ll just go stag.”

  Her smile fell. “You don’t have anyone to bring? You always seem to have guys on your heel. Surely one of them looks good in a suit. Your taste in men is impeccable.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a nod of my head, but I squirmed a little. “I dunno. Weddings are a big deal. Like, I’ll have pictures from this wedding on my fridge until I’ve got tennis balls on the feet of my walker. Plus, there’s love in the air at those things. I wouldn’t want to catch something.”

  She laughed. “So you’re not seeing anyone?”

  I shrugged, still feeling squirmy. “I’m always seeing someone,” I answered lightly.

  “Who’s the current guy?”

  That stupid smile crept onto my face again. “Oh, just a guy,” I lied, not wanting to talk about him on camera.

  When things fell apart, I’d have to look back on any admissions without regrets. My stomach sank at the thought, but I put a lifejacket on that motherfucker, and it perked back up.

  “Favorite thing about the guy?”

  “His dick,” I said without hesitation, knowing she’d have to cut the whole segment.

  She burst out laughing, which was especially funny for her — she was a self-contained creature. But when she let loose, it was like a unicorn galloping across a rainbow.

  “Well, I hope you change your mind about inviting Mr. Dick Guy to the wedding.”

  I laughed. “Oh my God. That’s going to be my new name for him. Mr. Richard Guy.”

  “I’d love to meet the man who has you so into him that you won’t kiss and tell.” One of her brows was up, teasing me.

  “Oh, come on. I don’t always kiss and tell.”

  She gave me a look.

  “Fine,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I just want to keep this one to myself for a minute. Is that so wrong?”

  “Not at all. I’m intrigued, that’s all.”

  At that, I smiled. “You and me both.”

  Operation: Penny Jar

  The next afternoon, I walked down the sidewalk toward the tattoo parlor where Penny worked, the sun shining on my skin, the birds chirping in my ears, and the same smile plastered on my face that had been there for a week.

  Operation: Penny Jar had been a success. So far at least.

  I’d seen her every day since we ran into each other at the ice cream shop. She’d knocked me out then, and just when I’d thought it couldn’t get better with her, she’d proven me wrong.

  I was right after all; Penny didn’t want complicated. So I didn’t complicate things. It wasn’t hard — being with her was so easy and so fun that there wasn’t a need to talk about more. Every second with her was perfect to the point of disbelief. A crush realized. A fantasy in physical form.

  I’d shown her that I meant what I’d said, even if my heart betrayed it all. Because the pretense hung in the air between us — the pretense she’d asked for and I’d agreed to.

  For her, this was temporary.

  For me, it wasn’t.

  Not that I was looking for a commitment. I wasn’t. But I knew I didn’t want it to end until we’d run our course. Thing was, I didn’t know how long the tracks were, and I had a feeling mine were longer than hers.

  My plan was still in place: be so fucking awesome that I became essential, necessary to her. Of course, in doing that, I’d also found that she was indispensable to me.

  Catch-22.

  In any event, I was taking advantage of every second with her. Including today.

  She’d surprised me when she’d offered to do my tattoo — it felt like a relationshippy thing to do. Personal. Intimate. She was going to mark me with ink that would stain my skin for my whole life. Of course, she’d marked hundreds of people, maybe even thousands over her career.

  It was as small and impersonal as it was huge and meaningful. But I locked my focus on the end of the spectrum labeled Not a Big Deal just as I approached the parlor.

  The word Tonic was printed in a font that looked like an old Victorian apothecary label with gold leaf and line work above and below, framing the word. When I pulled open the door, the sounds of Nirvana hit my ears as the sights the shop had to offer washed over me.

  Everything looked vintage with a Victorian flair. Old velvet couches lined the full waiting area, and the walls were covered in macabre paintings in elaborate frames. Booths lined the long wall, all with counter-high walls to mark each space. Each booth contained a retro black tattoo chair, an antique desk, and cabinets for inks and supplies, I assumed. The electric buzz of tattoo guns hummed in an undercurrent to Kurt Cobain as he sang about heart-shaped boxes, and I scanned the room, looking for the flash of purple that would tell me where Penny was.

  She bounded out from a hallway leading to the back, smiling and practically skipping to me as everyone in the shop watched her — her coworkers curious, the people in the waiting room practically salivating.

  I had no idea the protocol for such a public greeting, so I stood there smiling, waiting for her to make a move that would tell me where the boundary was.

  The thought was moot. She practically jumped into my arms, hooking hers around my neck as she kissed me hello with enough gusto that I felt it all the way down to my shoes.

  She broke away, smiling at me with twinkling eyes. “Hey,” she said, the sweet scent of bubble gum on her breath.

  “Hey,” I echoed, setting her feet on the ground.

  She grabbed my hand and pulled. “Come on, let me introduce you to everybody.”

  I already knew who everyone was from watching the show, which was really weird. So I played dumb, following her into the shop a bit, walking up the line of booths to start at the front where a gigantic dude with an intense beard and the thickest head of hair I’d ever seen was tattooing a girl’s back. She was stretched out on her stomach, back bare, and he moved his machine, stopping the buzzing by removing his foot from the pedal.

  “This,” Penny said, extending a hand toward him, “is Joel, the owner of the shop.”

  Joel smiled, but his eyes sized me up. “Good to meet you.”

  “You too.” I tried to smile in a way that was amiable but also as masculine as possible, feeling the alpha roll off of him. He was most definitely the boss.

  “And this,” she said, guiding me to the next booth back, “is Tricky. Patrick if he’s in trouble.”

  Patrick stood and extended a tattooed hand for a shake. The guy looked like a male model with a sharp jaw and deep, dark eyes, every inch of his skin tattooed, except for his face.

  “Hey, man,” he said with a sideways sm
ile. “Heard a lot about you.”

  I took his hand and pumped it. “Thanks,” I said lamely, wishing I had something to offer other than, Cool tattoos, bro.

  Next down was a dark-haired, leggy brunette with lined eyes and red lips.

  “So, you didn’t officially meet the other night, but this is one of my roommates, Veronica.”

  Veronica smiled and waved. “Glad to finally meet you, Bodie.”

  “And this,” she said as she dragged me across the room to the counter where a blonde stood, smiling, “is Ramona, my best friend and our piercer.”

  “Need your dick pierced?” she asked brazenly.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m good today, but thanks.”

  She shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ve heard good things.” She looked down and jerked a chin toward my waistline.

  The girls cracked up laughing, and I shook my head, not even embarrassed. I took the fact that they had talked about my dick as a good sign.

  A couple of guys were laughing in the booth behind Veronica’s, which was our next stop.

  “These knuckleheads are Eli and Max.”

  “Hey,” they said at the same time. One punched the other in the arm.

  I waved a hand, and she pulled me back to her booth.

  It was very Penny. The artwork on her walls was everything from comic-style to detailed portraits. The largest heavy-framed painting was of a woman with a starburst crown, holding a flaming heart in one hand and a rosary in the other. And in the center of the smaller pieces on her wall was a gilded mirror, speckled and veined with age.

  She smirked at me and patted the seat of her tattoo chair. “Come on. I don’t bite.”

  “That’s a lie, and I have the marks to prove it.”

  She giggled, her cheeks high and flushed and pretty.

  I took a seat, and she moved to her desk to get the transfer she’d printed.

  “Shirt off, please.”

  I waited until she turned around to face me before reaching back between my shoulder blades and grabbing a handful of T-shirt, pulling it over my head.

  Her lip was between her teeth. She was wearing the same high-waisted shorts she’d had on that first night with the buttons on the front with a T-shirt that said, Feed Me Tacos and Tell Me I’m Pretty, in red iron-on letters that matched her lipstick. But the best part was that she had on tall black wedges, her legs long and knees together, toes pointed in. She looked like a goddamn calendar girl, and the way she was eye-fucking me had me wishing the booth had four walls and a door.