Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  “I’ll come to you guys,” I say, then pause. “And I’m gonna work on forgiveness and all that.”

  Neither of us speaks for a moment. “I love you, son, so much. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, Dad, we’ll figure it all out,” I say, my voice raspy but strong and I’m surprised to realize that I mean it. For the first time in years I actually feel like maybe we can.

  “Do you want to speak to your mom?” My dad asks, a catch in his voice again.

  “Not tonight. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I should go,” I say.

  “Okay, night, Park.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  Ending the call, I slide my cell into my pocket and scan my apartment. My bed’s calling me, and I make my way across the space, kicking off my shoes before I fall onto the mattress. The comforter swallows me, and I groan as a wave of stress and anxiety fades from my muscles.

  What a fucking day. My cell is digging into my hip, so I pull it out and quickly type out a text to Smoke.

  Park: Hey, can you go grab Rosie from Miss Mimi’s old place in the morning and bring her to me at the shop?

  His response is almost immediate.

  Smoke: Sure.

  I lower my cell, intent on dropping it to the bed, then a thought occurs to me and I frantically type out another message.

  Park: Take the van or borrow a car. Don’t take her on your bike.

  It takes a moment for him to reply this time and I feel sick to my stomach waiting. When my cell beeps, I stab at my screen to get to his response. It’s a row of laughing face emojis. I reply.

  Park: Laugh it up, pretty boy, but if you take her on the back of your bike, I’ll break that pretty little face of yours, then tattoo my name on your fucking ass.

  He responds immediately with another row of laughing emojis. Fucker. Dropping my cell to the comforter, I try to remember who I have booked in tomorrow and who I can move around so I can go and pick Rosebud up myself, rather than trusting that fucker Smoke. It shouldn’t bother me if she rides on my brother’s bike, but for some reason the thought of her on the back of anyone else’s bike but mine makes me irrationally angry.

  My cell beeps again and I swipe it from the bed, angrily stabbing at the screen until the message opens.

  Smoke: Calm the fuck down you psycho little leprechaun. I’ll use the van ;)

  I hate that fucker.

  Sitting up, I shrug out of my clothes and crawl under the comforter absolutely exhausted, feeling sleep pull me under immediately.

  The silky soft strands of her hair fluttering across my chest wakes me. The almost luminescent quality of her creamy skin glows and I watch as her tiny hand slides up my chest in her sleep.

  My heart beats excitedly just from the innocent glide of her skin against mine and almost instinctually I pull her lush naked body closer. The need to hold her, to prove to my sleep addled brain that she’s here; that she’s mine, is almost overwhelming.

  The moment she snuggles closer to me, tucking her head into the hollow of my shoulder, my muscles relax. My heart rate slows, and I inhale a deep breath of the scent that is so uniquely her. My eyes wander down the lines of her body. She’s made solely of luscious womanly curves and I slide my hand along her side, dipping into her waist, then over her hip, to the creamy globes of her glorious ass.

  My cock is as hard as steel, but I ignore it, concentrating fully on the goddess in my arms. Like a sleepy kitten, she stretches against me, arching her back and pushing herself even closer into me, as her body slowly wakens. Her fingers tighten, her nails lightly scoring my skin, before relaxing again.

  I hold my breath, reluctant for this moment to end, but still eager for the instant her beautiful eyes lock with mine. Soft, warm lips drop a kiss to my chest, then her head slowly lifts, the waterfall of flame red hair fluttering and dancing in the early morning light, to reveal her freckled cheeks and mesmerizing eyes. My Rosebud. My heart.

  I jolt awake, my heart booming and my breath coming in erratic gasps. My cock is rock hard, pre-cum leaking from the tip. My dream, so real, is playing out behind my eyes and for a moment I consider laying back down and begging for sleep to reclaim me again.

  Instead, I leap out of my bed and run to the canvas waiting to be painted on. With frantic, shaking fingers, I squeeze oils onto a palette and grab a brush, desperate to get the image down before it fades or disappears completely, like so many other dreams do.

  Guilt prickles at the back of my mind, but I stamp it down and ignore the way my conscience is trying to tell me that Rosebud is my friend and nothing more. The picture in my head is too perfect, too erotic not to paint and so I do. Each brushstroke makes my heart race and even an hour later when I lower my brush and step back to take in my work, the excited nervous thudding of my heart hasn’t faded.

  I pant, physically exhausted from the exertion of painting, but when my eyes rake excitedly over the lines and colors of the painting, my entire being settles and calms. For years, all I’ve painted have been abstract glimpses of Taylor: her face, her body, her hair. Never the full image, as though my memory had forgotten what she looked like as a whole person and only fragments of memories had filtered through into my work.

  But this painting is different. Rosebud’s beautiful face looks back at me, her hair almost glowing as it flows across her naked skin. Just like in my dream, she’s above me, a sleepy contentment etched across her features.

  My eyes are riveted to the image in front of me. I shouldn’t have painted it. I shouldn’t be imagining her naked. I shouldn’t be dreaming about her in my bed. But the idea of not capturing the way she looked, the way it felt to wake up with her wrapped around me, makes me shudder and my heart drop. This moment, this fantasy, is mine, and even though it might be wrong, as I stare at the picture, I know I’d do it all over again.

  Unlike my other canvases that are out on display, I lift the still wet image and move it out of plain sight. I’m not ashamed of it, but the thought of someone else seeing her, of someone else looking at her lush naked form, fills me with entirely irrational anger. This picture is for my eyes only, my dream, my Rosebud.

  I check my cell, it’s not even 7am, but I’m awake and I know that sleep will elude me if I crawl beneath my sheets again. Instead, I pad to the bathroom and scrub the streaks of paint from my body. After drying myself off, I dress quickly, pacing the length of my apartment to stop myself from going to look at the painting.

  Fidgety with excess energy, I leave my apartment and head down to the basement to tend to my plants. Usually the low hum of the lights and hydroponic equipment calms me, the monotonous drone so familiar it blocks out anything other than the peace of rows upon rows of marijuana plants. But today my mind refuses to turn off and after only thirty minutes and a perfunctory glance at each different strain, I give up and head back upstairs.

  I fill the coffee pot and leave it to brew while I turn on the shop’s lights and lift the blinds we close across the windows at the end of each day. Bright sunlight floods the space and my mind starts to calm. I want to believe it’s because the dream and the mania it seems to have brought with it have started to fade, but honestly, I think it’s more because I know she’ll be here in a few hours and I’ll get to see her and spend time with her.

  Silently reprimanding myself, I try to shake away those thoughts. Rosebud is a friend and only a friend. Yes, I enjoy her company; yes, she’s beautiful, serene, and fun, but she’s only a friend. The coffee pot is full when I return to the small kitchen at the back of the shop, and I pour myself a cup, then return to my private tattoo studio. The other artists all share an open space at the front of the shop, but I like the privacy of my own room, and hell, this is my shop so I can do as I please.

  I lower myself into a chair and prop my feet up onto the leather bed that fills half the room. My mind wanders to Rosebud again and even as I try to divert my thoughts from her, I wonder why I’m doing it. Why ha
ve I chosen to friend-zone her so adamantly? She’s beautiful and no matter how much I try to convince myself I’m not attracted to her; my subconscious thoughts obviously have different ideas.

  A vision of Rosebud and then Taylor flashes into my mind and I sigh resigned. Taylor’s the reason Rosebud can only ever be a friend. Suddenly angry, I slam my coffee mug down onto my table, hot liquid sloshing over the sides with the force. “Fucking Taylor,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  For years she strung me along, knowing full well who I was and how ignorant I was to our actual relationship. We could have been siblings, but instead she allowed me to fall for her, even though she knew nothing could ever happen between us. I tortured myself for a decade over the fact that I fell in love with my sister. I pushed away every woman, every relationship, because I thought I was still hung up on her, that if I couldn’t have her, I didn’t want anyone else.

  I’m a stubborn fucking idiot. It only took one glance at Taylor for me to realize that I don’t feel anything for her, not even a dull sense of sibling familiarity. She’s no-one to me; just my past come back to haunt me. I’ve made myself miserable for years, all because I was too stupid to deal with my shit.

  All the anger I’ve spent years trying to block out flows to the surface, and with a sudden burst of rage I stand up and fling my seat across the room. The chair bounces off the wall, making a hole in the drywall, before crashing to the floor in a heap.

  For years all I’ve seen is Taylor’s face, reminding me of what I can’t have and preventing me from moving on. But all it took was one glance at Rosebud to shatter the glass prison I’d surrounded myself with. Just one glimpse of her flame-colored hair and suddenly the world changed from sepia to Technicolor.

  Sighing, I cross the room and pick up the chair I just threw. It’s so fucking typical that the woman who smashed down the self-imposed prison I’d locked myself in, would be the best friend of the woman who helped create my prison in the first place.

  How ironic is it that now instead of being tortured by a blonde, I’m being haunted by a redhead? Both untouchable and neither of them destined to be mine.

  My client arrives a few moments later and I manage to distract myself in work, only checking the clock every fifteen minutes, counting down the time until she gets here. When the clock hits 9:45am I’m practically vibrating with excitement. My thoughts are a jumble of desire and wariness, but despite them all, the need to see her and be near her overwhelms everything.

  At 9:50am I spray down the huge piece I just finished on my client’s chest and wipe away all of the excess ink and blood. “I think I’m about done,” I say, pushing back my chair and stretching out my back. My client is a huge man called Clint. He’s in his sixties and not at all the type of guy you’d expect to find in a tattoo shop. His buzz cut is as fresh as it was on the day he left the army, and his boots are still spit-polished to a shine so high you can see your reflection in them. Clint pushes himself up off the chair and crosses the room to the mirror I have set up for my clients to admire their new ink.

  I watch as he takes in every detail of the beautiful piece I designed as a tribute to his son, who died a year ago in Afghanistan. Clint’s eyes fill with tears, which spill, rolling down his cheek as he studies the image of a soldier kneeling beneath the wings of an angel. He takes in every detail before his grief overwhelms him and he covers his face with his hand and sobs.

  Wanting to give him a moment, I step from the room, silently pulling the door closed behind me. Some clients want to share the burden of their grief and others want to suffer their loss alone. Over the years I’ve come to recognize each person, and Clint wouldn’t want me to witness his loss of control, and I wouldn’t want to strip this proud man of any dignity.

  Stripping off my latex gloves, I drop them into a bin and make my way to the front of the shop, stretching my arms above my head as I walk. The moment I enter the room, I see her and our eyes lock. Rosebud smiles and suddenly my body feels lighter and I smile back at her, crossing the room quickly and pulling her into my body for a hug.

  She jolts, surprised by my touch. Then she relaxes into me, wrapping her arms around my back and embracing me. “Hi, friend,” I say into the top of her head.

  “Hi, friend,” she says with a giggle as we separate, and she looks up at me, eyes sparkling with amusement.

  I hear a derisive snort and look to my left to find Smoke smirking at me, his eyebrows raised in a what-the-fuck-are-you-doing expression. “Hey, friend,” he says mockingly, his arms spread wide, moving in to hug me.

  “Fuck off,” I say, placing my palm on his forehead and pushing him back with a laugh.

  “What? No hug for me?”

  “No thanks, pretty boy, I’m all hugged out,” I say, slinging my arm across Rosebud’s shoulder and leading her away from the front of the shop and toward my room at the back.

  “What, that’s it? No thank you or anything?” Smoke shouts.

  “Thank you, Smoke, now fuck off,” I retort, not turning to look at him.

  “Bye, Smoke,” Rosebud calls, twisting to look over her shoulder at him and lifting her arm to wave.

  “Bye, sweetheart, I’ll see you soon,” he calls back.

  I lift my free arm into the air and flash him the bird. His cackling laugh booms through the air as I guide Rosebud through the door and into my studio.

  Clint is still stood in front of the mirror, but even though his eyes are red, his tears are gone and his back is straight. He turns to face us as soon as we enter the room.

  “Hey Clint, this is my friend Rosie,” I say lifting my arm from Rosebud’s shoulders. “You ready for me to wrap that up?” I ask, grabbing my Saran wrap and tape from the rolling table to the side of the room.

  “Good morning, young lady. If you’re considering getting a tattoo, I can highly recommend this one,” he says pointing to me. “He’s a true artist.”

  Clint crosses the room until he reaches me then he holds out his hand for me to shake. When I take it, he grips my shoulder with his other hand. “Thank you. Wayne would have loved it.”

  I nod solemnly. “I’m honored to have done it for you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Clint nods, releases me and clears his throat.

  “Would you mind if I took a closer look?” Rosebud asks.

  “Of course not,” Clint replies, turning to face her as I busy myself pulling off long strips of tape and hanging them from the edge of the table.

  “Your son was a soldier?” She asks, her voice sweet and low as she takes in the artwork on Clint’s chest.

  “Yes, ma’am. He died protecting his country. His unit were all killed by an IED last year in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, looking up at him, her face full of earnest sympathy.

  “Thank you. He was a soldier, just like I was. He knew the risks, but he wanted to do his duty anyway. I miss him; a father shouldn’t outlive his children.”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine, but this tattoo is a beautiful way to honor his memory.”

  “He’ll always be with me; here right over my heart,” Clint says, his voice catching.

  Rosebud nods, reaching up and squeezing Clint’s arm for a moment.

  Clint clears his throat and turns to me. I nod, seeing the emotion building in him and his need to leave before it overtakes him again. “If you’re ready I’ll get you wrapped up,” I say brightly.

  Moments later Clint’s chest is covered in Saran wrap and taped into place. He waves goodbye to us as he leaves my room and heads to the front desk to settle up.

  “It was a beautiful tattoo,” Rosebud says, as I strip down all of the plastic coverings from my table and the chair and spray antiseptic cleaner over everything getting ready for my next client.

  “Thanks, I love to do work like that. Pieces that actually mean something.”

  “Is it okay for me to be in here, if you have clients coming in?”

  “Yeah, it’s a regular
in next. I’ve done all his work. He won’t care that you’re here; in fact he’ll probably flirt outrageously with you.”

  “I could have just met you for lunch,” Rosebud says as she walks the perimeter of the room, taking in all the pictures, paintings, and photographs on the walls. “Did you do all of these?”

  “Yeah, this is all my work.”

  “They’re all so beautiful. These paintings are so lifelike, it’s like I could reach out and touch the trees and the flowers,” she says as she gazes up at a Japanese piece a client had commissioned.

  “I enjoy the Japanese stuff,” I say with a shrug. Crossing the room, I stand behind her, not quite close enough to touch. “I like your hair today,” I say as the red, orange, and copper strands swish from side to side as she walks.

  Glancing over her shoulder at me, her eyes widen slightly at my closeness. Her fingers comb through the length, pulling it all over one shoulder and twisting it into a rope before releasing it and shaking her head to spread it across her shoulders again. “You have a real thing for my hair, huh?”

  Embarrassed at being called out on my newest obsession I look away. “Err, yeah, sorry, it’s just such an unusual color. The artist in me is a little fascinated.”

  She tilts her head to the side assessing me, and I fight the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

  “Just friends, just friends, just friends,” I silently chant, trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

  A knock on my door startles me, pulling my attention from Rosebud. I’m grateful for the distraction. Garrett is standing in the doorway, a wide grin on his face.

  “Park, you skinny bastard; it’s great to see you,” Garrett says, in his booming, always cheerful voice.

  “Hey, dude, come on in. This is my friend Rosie. She’s going to be hanging with us if that’s cool with you?”

  Garrett’s smile gets even wider and he strides across the room, scooping Rosebud’s hand into the air and magnanimously kissing the back of it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosie.”

  “You too,” she replies, a shy smile on her face.