Inked on Paper

by Nicole Edwards

  “Your favorite place is a bookstore?” It didn’t escape my notice that this was an independent book store and not one of the chain places that had taken over. It appealed to me greatly that he was supporting places like this. As an independent artist, I felt it was important to know that we could still depend on places such as this to keep pushing for us, unlike the megastores who dealt solely based on volume.

  “It is,” he said. “Come on.”

  He climbed out and met me at my door, closing it once I stepped out of the way. I didn’t balk when he took my hand again and led me across the parking lot and into the front doors.

  The place was huge and as soon as I stepped inside, I could see why he liked it here. There was something about a brick-and-mortar bookstore that could never be replaced, and this one still felt uniquely Austin. Sort of like the library, only better, in my opinion.

  We maneuvered through the doors, and the first thing I noticed was a table set up with new releases, then right behind that, there was a table dedicated to Jake’s books.

  I chuckled, picking up a hardcover copy of Forbidden. “Is this why you like this place so much? Because they love you here?”

  He was still smiling, but I noticed his eyes were slowly scanning the people around us. I knew then that he didn’t want the people to recognize him.

  “You should wear a ball cap and sunglasses,” I told him, trying to keep my voice down. “That way people don’t recognize you.”

  “Most people don’t,” he told me.

  “Really?”

  Jake nodded. “Who’s your favorite author?” he asked.

  That was a good question. I really didn’t know. I’d read a handful of books over the last few years, but I wasn’t sure I had a favorite.

  “Okay, fine,” he said when I didn’t answer. “If you saw the author of the last book you read, would you recognize them?”

  I reluctantly set the book back down, then moved closer, feeling bold. I peered up at him and wrapped my arms around his waist until we were practically flattened against one another. “I would. He’s this hot guy who writes incredibly sexy stories.”

  He scowled at me, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

  “And no, if the author of the last book I read wasn’t you, I can’t say that I would recognize them if I saw them.”

  “My point exactly.” Jake’s arms wrapped around me as he continued to stare down at me. “Now, come on. I’ll show you why I like this place so much.”

  How could I say no to that?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jake

  I couldn’t lie; I loved this place.

  Even more so now that Presley was here with me.

  “What is it about this place?” Presley questioned, picking things up and setting them down as we moved through the store.

  “From the time I was a kid, I’ve been in awe of books. I’ve spent my fair share of time in public libraries over the years, but I found I was more fond of bookstores.”

  “So why a bookstore and not the library?” Presley asked.

  “I think that it has to do with the fact that I can get my hands on a brand-new book, one that no one has ever touched before, and it’ll belong only to me.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I continued. “As I got older and decided that one day I wanted to be a published author, I hoped to see one of my books in stores.”

  “What was that like?” She stopped and turned to face me. “Seeing them for the first time?”

  I still remembered the first time I had. “I was so caught up in the moment I ended up knocking the entire display over right here in this very store.” I lowered my voice and smiled. “They weren’t too pissed when they found out who I was, but still, it wasn’t my finest moment.”

  As we strolled through the books, I watched Presley, grinning when she would get excited about a book she remembered from her childhood. When she saw a copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein, she snatched it up and grinned like a kid in a candy store.

  “I loved this book,” she said, peering up at me, a bewildered expression on her face.

  “Yeah?” That was one of my favorites as well. “I’ve still got my copy from when I was a kid.” In fact, I had a lot of the books I’d read when I was a kid.

  “I think I need this,” she said, staring down at it before clutching it close to her chest.

  “I think you do, too,” I told her, taking her hand and leading her around the store as we continued to look at all the books.

  Somehow we ended up in the section with all the journals.

  “So, what made you want to write your book in one of these?” Presley asked, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through the blank pages.

  I picked up one of the leather journals and smiled. “I was suffering from writer’s block, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt. Abby, my niece, bought me one for my birthday last month.”

  Presley’s forehead creased. “Do you always write your books by hand?”

  “The computer’s more my style,” I told her honestly.

  “But you’re writing the one you’re working on now—Unexpected?”

  I noticed a woman standing behind us had just taken a keen interest in our conversation. I offered her a smile when she looked up at me, and that was when I realized she had recognized me.

  “You’re Jacob Wild.”

  I laughed. It wasn’t a question; it was a matter-of-fact statement. “I am,” I responded politely.

  “Oh, my God!” The woman looked around her, searching for… “Charlene! Come here. You gotta see this. It’s Jacob Wild.”

  Great.

  I glanced down at Presley and offered an apology with my eyes. I noticed she had taken a step back, her gaze settling on the two women who had started to invade my personal space.

  “Would it be possible for you to sign this?” the first woman asked, holding out a copy of Forbidden, which she’d been carrying with her.

  “Of course,” I said, taking a pen when she offered it.

  I scribbled my name in the front of the book and handed it back to her. I did the same with the next woman, and when I looked up, I noticed that I had drawn a crowd, and Presley was nowhere in sight.

  Twenty minutes later, I had finished signing a stack of books at the store manager’s request, then wound my way through the shelves of books until I found Presley sitting in a chair in a corner, reading the Shel Silverstein book. She looked content, and I hated to interrupt, but I was ready to get out of there.

  “Hey,” she said, glancing up at me suddenly. “Are you done?”

  I nodded. “You ready to go?”

  “Yep. It’s my turn, right? I get to show you the place I enjoy the most?”

  “It’s definitely your turn,” I told her, then took the book from her hand as I led her to the front. I paid for it as well as the copy of Forbidden she’d picked up earlier, ignoring Presley when she insisted that she could do that herself, then snuck out before anyone else noticed me.

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” Presley asked when we were back on the road.

  “What? People wanting me to sign a book?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not as often as you might think. In a bookstore … that one in particular, yeah. But most of the time no one recognizes me.”

  “That’s surprising,” she said, and by the tone of her voice, I could tell that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the fact that I’d been recognized.

  I started to wonder why that was, but then it hit me. Presley had mentioned she had dated Gavin’s brother, Adrian. And Adrian was in a fairly popular local band, which meant he was probably recognized quite frequently. Far more than I ever was, I knew.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “No,” she said, but I could tell that it did.

  Figuring we would get nowhere by hashing it out, I let it go. It didn’t bother me that people recognized me, and it definitely didn’t bother me that
they wanted me to sign a book for them—though I still had a hard time wrapping my head around why they would want me to. If it weren’t for those people who read my books and enjoyed what I did, I wouldn’t have made it to where I was today.

  And for that reason alone, I would never turn someone away who wanted my autograph.

  I only hoped that it didn’t bother Presley too much, because if it did, that could be a problem.

  A big one.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Presley

  After following my directions through the city, Jake pulled into the parking lot of the art museum, and I felt my heart race. It was this place that made me giddy with excitement. Probably the same feeling Jake had when he walked into a bookstore.

  This particular gallery was privately owned and one of the best in the art district, at least in my opinion. I’d stumbled upon it years ago, and came to visit often, but not nearly as much as I would like. In fact, I’d come in once a week if it wouldn’t freak out the owners.

  I stepped inside and a smile instantly landed on my face as I took in all that was familiar. The pristine white walls and the art that decorated them, the lighting, the concrete floors, the soft music that drifted from above… I loved every square inch.

  When Jake took my hand, I was fairly certain he could tell I was shaking.

  “This is nice,” Jake said as he glanced around, leading me closer to the wall with the paintings.

  The gallery wasn’t very big, but it was open and airy and bright, which made it feel bigger than it was. On the walls were various pieces from both local and national artists, in a broad range of experience. In a word, it was fantastic.

  “I love it here,” I told him, allowing him to lead as we perused the pictures on the wall.

  I noticed the owner talking to someone, so I offered a small wave and earned a smile in return.

  “Which one is your favorite?” Jake asked.

  “You’ll see,” I told him, not wanting to give away the surprise.

  “So we haven’t gotten to it yet?”

  “Nope. Not yet.”

  We continued along, stopping momentarily to look at ones that Jake liked, and I could tell he was looking at the cards beneath that detailed the name of the artist and the artwork, so it wasn’t surprising that he came to a jarring halt when we got to the one that happened to be my favorite.

  “That’s yours,” he said, his voice soft.

  “It is,” I told him. “That’s my dad.”

  I loved this particular piece, and I had a similar one hanging on my wall in my bedroom. It was one of my father sitting at his workbench, writing something down on a sheet of paper, his tools scattered over the top of the bench. I remembered the day. He’d recently gotten a new bike, or the shell of one, really, and he’d been noting what parts he needed and which people he would contact to get them.

  “Wow, Presley. This is … phenomenal.”

  “Thanks.” I really wasn’t sure what to say to that. Jake seemed genuinely impressed and I couldn’t help but be proud of that.

  “When did you do this?”

  “Last year. It’s one of the last ones I did.” Since the inspiration had seemed to leave me, I hadn’t done any more, but I continued to hold out hope that I would get that back soon.

  It seemed that the more time I spent with Jake, the more I wanted to draw. And after today’s trip to the bookstore, I even had an idea of what it would be.

  “Are these for sale?” Jake asked, looking around.

  “They are,” I confirmed.

  “So, how does it feel?” he asked.

  Confused, I looked up at him.

  “How does what feel?”

  “To have this here? Honestly, I think it’s the best piece they’ve got.” His eyes were locked on my face, and the sincerity in his tone made warmth fill my entire body.

  “It’s a little surreal. I never thought I’d get to a point in my life where my art was in a gallery.” It was true. I tattooed for a living, even came up with some rather interesting designs that I was incredibly proud of. But this … having this particular piece in the gallery… There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about it.

  Jake pulled me to him, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed the top of my head. “I’m proud of you, Pres. This is amazing. I can see why this is your favorite place.”

  “Yeah, well, I won’t be mobbed by fans, but I’m happy with it.”

  “You should be.” He was watching me closely; I could feel his intent stare.

  “So, now what?” I asked, taking a step back and looking up at him.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “What time is it?”

  Jake pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. “It’s just now noon.”

  “We can always grab lunch.”

  He was still staring at me, but this time, I noticed the heat in his gaze. “Lunch works. Have a place in mind?”

  “My place?” I blurted before I thought better of it.

  His eyebrows lifted in question. “You sure about that?”

  “Are you doubting my cooking ability, Chapter One?”

  “Never.”

  “Good.” I slid my fingers in his again and turned toward the door. “So, how do you feel about tofu?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Jake

  “Tofu?” I glanced down at Presley as we stepped out onto the street, secretly hoping she wasn’t serious.

  She laughed, squeezing my hand, confirming that she was joking. At least I hoped she was joking. I could deal with a lot of things, but tofu was not one of them. I had tried it once and it had been an experience I would never forget. Nor would I repeat it.

  “I’m kidding,” she said, beaming up at me.

  I opened the car door and waited for her to get in, then closed it behind her and made my way around to the driver’s side.

  “Seriously, though,” Presley said when I pulled away from the curb. “I can cook and I’ll even make something with meat in it for you.”

  “So, your place?” I asked, confirming once again that this was what she wanted to do. After the conversation at the coffee shop that morning, as well as her reaction to what had happened at the bookstore, I truly hadn’t expected her to invite me back to her place. Definitely not yet and certainly not until we had cleared the air between us.

  “Yep, my place.”

  I glanced over at her.

  “Don’t worry, Chapter One. I’m not gonna jump your bones. I’ll make you lunch and there’s something I wanna show you.”

  I smirked. “Do you now?”

  She laughed, then smacked my arm. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m gonna keep all my clothes on.”

  “I’m sure I can work around them,” I joked. Although I wasn’t joking entirely.

  “I’m sure you can. Now come on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was following Presley into her condo. It smelled like bacon and aftershave and I could hear the sound of grease popping.

  “Hey,” Gil greeted us almost instantly. “Didn’t know you were gone,” he told Presley.

  “Aren’t you working today?” Presley asked him.

  “Not till later tonight. Blaze and Charlie are over there now.”

  “Gotcha,” she told him. “Gil, you remember Jacob Wild.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Gil said, grinning. “The voyeur.”

  I laughed but didn’t deny it. Since it was the only time I’d seen Gil other than at the tattoo shop, I knew he was referring to the night he’d invited me over here for a beer, which had turned into a long night. I hadn’t participated in the wild and crazy activities, but I definitely hadn’t had a problem watching, which, I guessed, by definition was a voyeur.

  “What are y’all up to?” Gil asked, turning back to the kitchen. “Want me to make you something?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Presley warned with a chuckle. “Then again, it’s not tofu.”

  �
�Fuck no,” Gil said with a grimace. “Who eats that shit?”

  “I do,” Presley said sweetly before both of them looked at me.

  “Thanks,” I told Gil, “but I’m good.”

  “Oh, come on,” Gil said. “Live a little.”

  “Where’s the screamer?” Presley questioned, taking a seat at the bar and motioning for me to take a seat on the other stool.

  “She’s … uh … sleeping?” Gil explained, tossing something into a skillet.

  “You know that for a fact?” Presley laughed. “Or you’re guessing?”

  Gil glanced between me and Presley. “She said she had to work early, so I thought she’d be gone by now.”

  “Where does she work?” Presley asked.

  Gil shrugged.

  “Isn’t this the chick you tattooed?” Presley grimaced when Gil nodded. “You didn’t ask where she worked?”

  “I’m sure I did,” Gil said, meeting Presley’s gaze, then mine. “Just don’t remember.”

  I felt Gil’s pain. I’d been there numerous times. Not that I was proud of myself, but hey, it was the way it was. Hookups were meant to be just that. No strings.

  “What’ve y’all been up to?” Gil inquired as he continued to focus on his bacon.

  “Jake got mobbed at Book People, then I took him over to the gallery to show him my work.”

  “Mobbed, huh?” Gil’s eyes lit up with interest. “By hot chicks?”

  I wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

  “It was kinda hot, actually,” Presley said.

  My gaze darted to her. Was she serious?

  “So, kinda like Adrian, huh?” Gil said absently.

  That was obviously not the right thing to say, because Presley’s smile disappeared instantly, and Gil was too busy to even notice.

  “Let me know when you’re done here,” Presley told him, twisting around as though she was going to get down from the stool. “I’m gonna make us some lunch when you are. But first, I want to show Jake some more of my work.”

  I looked at Presley, something inside me loosening somewhat. I don’t know why it made me feel good that she wanted to show me what she was proud of, but it did. The idea that she would share part of herself with me, it was unexpected.