by R. C. Martin
“Then, as soon as he ended the call, he bailed on the rest of the game,” I finish for him, the details of that day coming back to me.
“He said he had to go play caregiver. You asked why he didn’t just tell Daphne he was coming over, instead of making her believe that he was going to stay out with us.” I stare at him suspiciously as I begin to realize where he’s going with this walk down memory lane. “And he said…?”
“She’d tell him not to come.”
“Even if that’s exactly what she wanted.”
“What’s your point?” I ask, already aware I’m probably not going to like what he’s about to say.
“I hope I find someone I love that much one day. Someone I’d be willing to drop anything for when she’s puking her guts out. It’s possibly the must unglamorous and unattractive way to see your girl; not to mention, she’s probably so miserable that she can’t even appreciate your presence until after it’s all said and done—at which point, the best she could possibly offer is a thank you.
“Trevor loves your sister that much. Logan might be every bit the spoiled princess, and her plan might be crazy—”
“Might be?” I interrupt, my eyebrows shooting up in protest of his understatement.
“Okay—it’s totally crazy, but she’s not wrong about those two. What they have is worth fighting for. If there is one thing irrefutably sincere about Logan, it’s her friendship with Daphne. This might be the most selfless idea she’s ever had.”
“I’m sorry—are you saying you think I should do it?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair. I need to hear his confirmation, just to be sure I’m not making things up.
“I’m saying, maybe you should think about it,” he replies with a shrug.
One of the waitresses calls for me at the other end of the bar. I look back at her and nod, signaling that I’ll be right there, before glancing back at Ashton.
“Fake dating The Princess might not be that bad.”
“Wha—have you met her?” I ask incredulously.
He smiles at me, lifting his glass of beer as if he’s cheering on my surrender to Logan. “It’s for the greater good.”
I chuckle, sure that I’ve been sucked into some sort of alternate reality, and get back to work.
I lean back in my chair, my arm stretched out as I rotate the empty bottle between my fingers in slow circles on top of the patio table. A lazy smirk plays at my lips as I watch them laugh so hard they can hardly breathe. I swear, I work with a bunch of dipshits—but I love them. Every last one. They’re my family, all of us tied together by ink. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Coder, our baby rascal, is trying—and failing miserably—to demonstrate a card trick. He tugs his fingers through his dark hair as he laughs off his frustration. He’s convinced he can pull it off, but he’s too tipsy to concentrate. Coder’s still a light-weight, and not just because he’s no bigger than a beanpole; although, I’m sure that doesn’t help. No, the real reason is he’s still just a kid. We wouldn’t let him drink with us until he was of age, which just happened last month. His brother, Pete, will have to take him home.
Pete, who is essentially an older, more filled out version of Coder, is the first guy we hired after we got the shop up and running. We needed the extra help, which was reason to celebrate and go looking for more hands. He’s our resident piercer and he does a hell-of-a job. He had been in the business for about five years before he applied to Generation Ink. Lucky for us, he came with a following and Harvey and I have gotten to tattoo some of his clients. Coder, who is almost nine years Pete’s junior, came on as his apprentice about a year ago. He didn’t last long before he became Harvey’s shadow and decided he would rather tattoo than pierce. Maybe in a few more months, he’ll be ready to fly solo.
Willow, or Granola, has been with us for three years now. She’s known as our little hippy because of her long strawberry blonde hair, which reaches down to her waist. The little is in reference to her height, which is barely five-two; however, she’s also an incredibly healthy eater, so she’s small around, as well. When she’s not working, she’s harping on all of us for our poor eating habits. She tattoos, mostly. Like me, she’ll do an occasional piercing upon request. Her specialty is calligraphy. She actually did the script on my side and designed the script I tattooed on Wings.
Harvey, or Muscles as I like to call him, got his start in California. I met him back when Rett was going through bootcamp. We hit it off right away. He’s three years older than me and his experience has definitely taught me a lot—then and now. At thirty-one, he’s the oldest at the shop. Not one of us mentions it, sure he’ll kick our ass if we do. He could. I don’t call him Muscles for nothing.
He likes to hit the gym. A lot. He used to be a smoker. When he quit, he started working out instead of lighting up. I’d say it was a good move on his part, for more reasons than one. His chiseled build brings in the ladies all the time. Well, his muscles and his blue eyes. It’s amusing how often he gets hit on, mostly because he doesn’t give any flirt the time of day. I’m sure they all see his wedding ring and then conveniently forget it’s there once he’s pulled on his gloves. Regardless, he’s got eyes for one woman and one woman only. Grace.
He met Grace after he moved to Fort Collins to start the shop with me. We joke about how he might have bailed on me a few months in if he hadn’t met Grace. We laugh every time he tells the story, but I think it holds more truth than either of us are willing to admit. Generation Ink had a rocky beginning, seeing as we started with nothing but a shop no one had ever heard of. Grace saved both our asses. The two of them met one night while he and I were out. She was with a group of her girlfriends. We bought them a round of beers—as broke as the shop was—and it was probably the second greatest investment we made that year.
It wasn’t long before Harvey and Grace were together almost constantly. She was around so much I told her she had to earn her keep at the shop. I was just joking, but she jumped in head first. That year was her last at CSU. She was studying marketing and, to this day, I don’t know what we did to deserve her. She not only promoted our business, but she also manned the front desk whenever she wasn’t in class. We couldn’t pay her, but she didn’t mind. She was a fucking godsend, keeping our asses organized and up to code. When she graduated the following spring, we made sure to add her to the payroll. There was no way we were letting her go.
A couple months later, she and Harvey were engaged. They took their sweet ass time getting down the aisle, but they got around to tying the knot a couple years later. They’ve been married for four years now.
The cool thing about Grace is that she’s not like any of us. She doesn’t have a single tattoo and the only piercings she’s got are the two in her ears. Harvey calls her his Southern Bell, because she was raised in Tennessee and she “acts like the lady her mama taught her to be.” She really is a sweetheart, in looks and mannerism. She’s about the same height as Daph, but with more curves. Her long, dark hair falls halfway down her back, and her ice-blue eyes and enchanting smile could light up any room. Her personality softens the shop a bit and keeps us in check, which we all need from time to time. She’s also a badass in the kitchen, which is why we spend every Sunday at their house.
Yeah—Harvey definitely struck gold with that one.
I look across the table, where Harvey sits with Grace on his knee, and think of Daphne. The two of them get along really well, especially in the kitchen. It’s nice to see them together, as I feel that Daph belongs here just as much as any of us. She’s part of this family, too.
Grace catches me staring and smiles before she slides from Harvey’s lap and makes her way over to me. “I made ice cream last night.” Of course, she did. “Why don’t you help me scoop everyone a bowl?” I answer her by standing and following her inside. I head to the cabinet where the bowls are—I know this house almost as well as I know my own—and pull out the entire stack. “I’m missing me some Daphne today,�
�� she says, pulling the ice cream from the freezer. “What is she up to?”
“She’s hanging out with Logan.” She hands me the ice cream scoop and we switch places. “I didn’t press. Figured I’d be nice and share.”
Grace giggles. “How kind of you. Don’t be such a pushover next week, okay?” I grin at her before scooping out another serving. “How was the wedding, by the way?”
“It wasn’t bad, actually. We had a good time.”
“Of course, you did,” she murmurs, nudging me with her elbow. “I would be surprised if you said otherwise.”
“You know, I haven’t been to a wedding since—”
“Harv and me,” she interrupts with a laugh. “I know. And ours was so nontraditional that it barely even counts. I’m glad you took her, though. She sent me the selfie you guys snapped. You two looked mighty spiffy.”
“She did look great.”
She hums her amusement at my dodge. “Did you go out after the wedding?”
“No.We just went back to her place and hung out for a little bit. I don’t remember when we went to bed, but I’m sure it was before last call.”
“So you slept at her place?”
“Yeah.”
She nods and hands me another bowl.
I can tell by her lack of follow up comment that she wants to say something more. She’s waiting for me to bite. Amused, I let her simmer for a moment. I love that Grace will never push when it comes to discussing what goes on between Daph and me. She takes what I’m willing to offer and nothing more. I know her curiosity and concern is twice as much, seeing as how she plays hunter and gatherer for herself as well as Harvey. Muscles pretends to ignore the complicated nature of my relationship with Wings, but I know any and all information Grace can get out of me is reported to him as soon as they’re alone.
“Go ahead. Say what you want to say,” I finally concede.
“Man,” she bursts out in relief. I chuckle and glance down at her. “I just don’t get how you do it. How you sleep together without being all over each other.”
“We don’t,” I state, setting aside another full bowl. “She’s like a heated pillow. I hold her all night.”
“Daphne? A pillow?” she laughs. “She doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her.”
“You know what I mean,” I reply, joining in on her laughter.
“Yeah, as do you! I know you’re attracted to her. Don’t you desire her? Don’t you ever feel tempted and just drunk enough to cross a line?”
Suddenly, our conversation doesn’t feel as light as it was seconds ago. My smile fades as I fill the last dish with ice cream and then return the container to the freezer.
“Hey,” Grace murmurs, resting a hand on my shoulder. She waits to continue until my gaze aligns with hers. “I’m sorry. I know you would never take advantage of each other.”
“I know that’s not what you meant,” I assure her. “The truth is, I think I love her too much to surrender to the animal in me. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense, seeing as how the sexual tension between us can be palpable—”
Especially in the morning, right when we’re coming out of sleep. There’s something about waking up tangled together that seems to make us both vulnerable—not to mention, hyperaware of my hard on. My dick is pretty good at reminding us how much we affect each other. My dick has also gotten me into enough trouble, already. I won’t sacrifice what I have with Daph for a quick lay.
“I just think sex and intimacy together is too powerful. It’s like a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Or—it’s the greatest expression of love you could ever share with the person who holds your heart,” she says with a small smile. “Of course, if you’re not ready for it, I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re right—it is powerful.” She sighs as she grips both of my shoulders and turns me so that she can look me square in the eyes. “I know you hate to hear it, but it’s been too long since I’ve said it and I just have to.
“I believe in what the two of you have. We all do. It’s beautiful and precious. I also wholeheartedly respect your boundaries, even if I don’t understand them. But I wouldn’t be a true friend if I didn’t tell you that you guys would be more than great together. You’re her Harvey and she’s your Grace and you know it—you just have to take life by the balls and say to hell with anything or anyone that’s trying to stand in your way.
“Now, let’s get this ice cream out there before it all melts.”
She turns away from me and starts piling bowls in her arms before I can say a word. Again—this is why I love Grace; she doesn’t push. I opened the door to this conversation and she closed it before I had to. I heard what she had to say. I always do. Part of me would like to take her words of encouragement and run with them, but I can’t. She’s right, what I have with Daphne is precious. I’m not convinced we can be more without fucking it all up. If there is one thing I regret more than anything, it’s a single moment when I was thinking with the wrong head. Sex changes everything—a truth that just might haunt me forever.
Home for me is about thirty minutes away from the heart of Fort Collins.
Home for me is a ranch style house painted gray with white trim. There’s a stone walkway that leads up to the porch that frames the front door. I keep a wooden rocking chair out there so I have someplace to sit on balmy nights like this one. The porch is what sold me when I bought the place. It reminded me of Grams. I know she’d have liked it.
Home for me is three bedrooms and an unfinished basement. I keep the stuff I couldn’t get rid of after selling Grams’ place downstairs. Some of Rett’s old things, too. Over the years, I’ve accumulated enough shit to make it look like I live here, which is good enough for me. I’m not picky. As long as I have a table where I can sketch and a bed where I can sleep, I’m good.
Home for me is quiet. Just the way I like it. It’s why I picked a place on the outskirts of town. Where Rett and I grew up was quiet, too. Lots of land meant plenty of space to play and not a lot of loud neighbors. It also allowed for a better view of the stars. I plop down into my chair and take my hat off, propping it on my knee. Leaning back, I direct my gaze toward the night sky and admire the moon.
After I lost Grams, and then Rett, I was left with more money than any nineteen year old should be in possession of. When I decided to sell Grams’ place, I got even more. Lucky for me, I’m not a complete moron and I got connected with a good finance guy. He helped Harvey and me with obtaining the space for our shop and I was able to buy this house and my truck outright. The rest I invested or put into savings. I don’t think about it much. I like to spend the money I earn, not the money that I inherited by way of death.
I’m unaware that I’ve started to doze until my phone starts ringing from inside my pocket, startling me awake. I shake off sleep as I reach for it and answer right away—the personalized ringtone cluing me in to the caller.
She did that. Not me.
“Hey, Wings.”
“Trev, say something compelling. But it has to be more inspiring than brooding. And maybe a little witty?”
I chuckle, reaching up to scrub my hand down my face. “You’re the writer, not me. I’ve told you, if you need an illustrator, I’m your guy—until then—”
“Ugh! I’m the aspiring writer who is currently in the middle of writing the worst first novel ever. Come on. Just try. Please? I feel completely tapped out.”
“You’re not writing the worst novel ever,” I correct her. I don’t read much, but I’ve read some of her stuff. It’s far better than she gives herself credit for. When she told me she was going to try her hand at a novel, I didn’t hesitate to back her up. That wasn’t me just being nice, either. “Maybe you need to sleep on it. There’s no rush, you know?”
She sighs into the phone and I imagine her shoulders sagging with her exhale. “You’re always reminding me of that.”
“Someone’s got to.”
“True story. Anyway, how was your day?”
<
br /> “We missed you,” I tell her as I stand and make my way into the house. I lock myself inside and head to my room. “Grace made ice cream.”
“What?! I missed homemade ice cream?” she groans. “What kind?”
“Mint chocolate chip,” I answer, putting her on speaker phone. I toss my mobile in the middle of my king sized bed and then tug off my shirt before kicking off my shoes and dropping my pants. I hit the lights, open the window, and throw myself across the bed. She’s still complaining when I bring the phone back up to my ear. “Was hanging out with Logan really so bad?”
“No,” she says with a laugh. “I just love it when Gracie makes ice cream. Actually, hanging out with Logan today was very interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Get this—she’s ready to start dating again.”
I scrunch my eyebrows together, genuinely surprised by this news. Logan is many things—funny, irritating as hell, talented, somehow respectfully arrogant, beautiful, spoiled, generous, and bitchy, like a true Cali-mean-girl—to name a few. I think she’s incredibly misunderstood. The only reason I have a clue about who she is underneath the armor she wears, which is three inches deep and made up of pure fear, is because of Daphne. If I look at her through Daphne’s eyes, I see an idealist who has been beat up by unfortunate circumstances. However, she’s an incredibly fortunate person. If she reached out with open hands, she could have the world. She simply lacks the bravery.
From my own point of view, I see a warrior who takes no captives. But she’s fighting herself. She’s on the wrong side of her own little war. She’s the biggest damn flirt I’ve ever met in my life. To watch her in action is actually impressive. Sad, yeah, but never desperate. Yet, not once have I ever known her to go on a single date. She’s a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of girl. Put a few drinks in her and she might be interested in you for a couple hours.
“I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“I don’t blame you. She can talk a big game but we’ll see if she actually follows through. I hope she does,” she adds softly. “I think this modified lifestyle could be good for her. If she found the right guy. I would hate for her to put herself out there only to find another douche bag.”
