It's a fucking thrill, knowing the place is mine.
But it doesn't fill me as deeply as it used to.
The bartender shoots me a sweet smile. A you free after my shift smile.
But I know better than to shit where I eat.
She runs her fingers through her long black hair. "Usual?"
I nod. Move to the electronic jukebox. Trade a dollar for a grunge song. Even Flow. Pearl Jam is an obvious choice, but it's not like this thing has any b-sides.
Eddie Vedder's mumbling vocals pour from the speakers. I'm still not sure what he's saying. Only that his pain is spilling into his performance.
He's laying his heart bare, for anyone to see.
It's hard to imagine doing the same.
Earnest expression isn't my forte.
It suits this place and its utilitarian vibe. Concrete floor. Silver furniture. Plain white walls. Dim lighting.
Couples and friends crowd into the booths in the corner.
Singles line the bar. Stare at drinks or phones.
It's quiet tonight. Not empty—there are plenty of people here—but quiet. The grunge jam drowns out every hint of conversation.
That bartender sets a Jack and Coke on the bar. Squeezes her arms against her chest, pushing her tits together. "Long day?"
"Same old, same old." I fish my card from my wallet and hand it over.
"Keep it open?"
"Yeah." The words are a reflex. It's part of my routine. A few drinks. A flirting partner. An offer to go back to her place.
I nod a thanks. Scan the bar.
There's a cute woman on the other side of some tech bro. She's staring at her phone. Tapping a text to her friend.
She takes a long sip. Sighs.
Looks around.
Her eyes catch mine.
Her red lips curl into a smile.
It's an invitation. Usually, that's all I need to get my blood flowing south.
But tonight…
Nothing is happening.
My body is apathetic.
She's hot—red hair, big tits, long legs. I can recognize it, objectively.
But that's it.
I approach her anyway.
Her long fingers curl around her pink cocktail. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide with surprise. They get fuzzy as she stares.
I slide onto the stool next to hers. "I'm buying your next drink."
"You are?"
"Yeah."
"You're telling, not asking."
Yeah. It works like a charm. I lean in closer. Until I can smell her shampoo. Strawberries. Like Chloe's.
Dammit.
The feisty brunette isn't sticking in my brain.
It isn't happening.
I smile at the redhead. "Can I level with you?"
She laughs. "Sure."
"It's not for you."
"It's not."
"It's for me." I down half my Jack and Coke. "But I need you to play along. I'm not man enough to admit I want a pink cocktail for myself."
Her smile spreads over her lips. "It takes a lot of guts, admitting that."
"Thanks. I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders."
"I'm Allison." She extends her hand.
"Dean." I shake with a firm grip. Watch her pupils dilate as she gives me a long once-over.
She sizes me up.
Deciding if I'm worth fucking.
Deciding I am.
Her hand goes to her hair. She twirls a strand around her finger. Arches her back, thrusting her chest toward me. Practically screams yes, I would like to come on your cock. "It's a house special."
"Do tell."
"Earl Greyhound."
"Sounds like a lousy bus service."
Her laugh makes her tits shake. "It's Early Grey vodka and grapefruit juice."
"Creative." It sounds amazing, actually. Mixing bergamot with grapefruit is genius.
I hail the bartender. "Two more of these."
The bartender smiles. "On your tab, I assume?"
"Of course." I turn back to Allison. "Since you were kind enough to hear my confession."
"You hang at a bar long enough, you hear a lot of men's confessions."
"Why is that?"
"I guess they feel like they have to be tough. That whole macho boys don't cry thing. Until they start drinking and the walls come down."
"You sound annoyed."
"I'm not a therapist."
"Shit, there goes my plans for the night."
She brushes a lock behind her ear. "There's a couch in the back if you want to lie down."
"That's my backup plan."
Her cheeks flush.
Her pupils dilate.
She's thinking about dragging me to that couch.
About fucking me.
This is a done deal.
It should excite me, but it doesn't.
When I close my eyes, I see Chloe's pink lips. Her tight tank top. Her fierce glare.
That makes me warm everywhere.
The shitty pop music and the dim lighting and the cheap vodka—
Fuck, this is so done. I already know exactly how this night is gonna go. And I can't find any enthusiasm for it.
Two rounds of flavored vodka and grapefruit juice later, and Allison is pawing at my arm.
Hinting that her place is nearby.
She's hot. She's eager. She's sweet.
But I'm still apathetic.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I turn my Bluetooth speakers on. Pull out my phone to stream my favorite Sonic Youth album.
The powder blue couch is inviting—I'm fucking wiped—but it's nothing compared to the text on my cell.
Apparently, I'm your shadow tomorrow.
Chloe.
Something inside me stirs. It's not like with the girl at the bar. It's deeper. Achier.
She's an itch I'm desperate to scratch.
I tap a reply.
Dean: Who is this?
Chloe: Cute.
Dean: Is that Chloe with one e or two?
Chloe: Chloee isn't a name.
Dean: You sure?
Chloe: I think I'd know, Dick Face.
Dean: You remembered. Means the world to me.
Chloe: I figured.
Dean: You finally get why I consider that a compliment?
Chloe: I've seen better.
My chest warms.
Her hate fuels me. It feels good.
There must be something wrong with me, but I don't care.
I do a lot of shit to challenge myself—learn new styles, lift heavier weights, run farther distances—but none of it pushes me the way she does.
None of it makes me feel this alive.
Dean: Do tell.
Chloe: A lady doesn't kiss and tell.
Dean: What's that have to do with you?
Chloe: I don't want to bruise your ego.
Dean: It doesn't bruise that easily.
Chloe: I'm sure.
Dean: You just called your boss a dick face.
Chloe: You take it as a compliment.
Dean: True.
Chloe: Because you're operating under some delusion that it means your dick is beautiful.
Dean: If you're arguing otherwise…
Chloe: We're going in circles.
Dean: Are we supposed to be talking about something besides my dick?
Chloe: Yes.
Dean: Then how am I supposed to tell you about my Prince Albert.
Chloe: You do not have a pierced cock.
Dean: If that's some way of baiting me to send a pic, you should know it's working.
Chloe: Not interested.
Dean: Most of my ten p.m. texts head in this direction.
Chloe: Do you really think there's a snowball's chance in hell that I'm booty calling you?
Dean: You enjoyed it last time.
Chloe: You already warned me round two will be a disappointment.
Yeah, I did.
It wasn't that I did
n't like Chloe—I did.
But I wasn't gonna let anybody into my heart.
And now…
Well that hasn't changed.
Dean: I've revised that.
Chloe: Have you?
Dean: Got a whole new way to blow your mind.
Chloe: Is this about the Prince Albert again?
Dean: I thought you didn't want to talk about my dick.
Chloe: Cute. Are you suggesting you blew my mind the first time?
Dean: Sunshine, I'm not suggesting shit. I know what it feels like when a woman comes on my cock.
The chat goes quiet.
When I close my eyes, I see her. In some tiny apartment, on a cheap black couch, staring at her cell, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving.
Fuck, I want to be in that space with her.
I want her pressed against the wall.
Against the round kitchen table.
Under my white sheets.
Chloe: Does Ryan know?
Dean: Know what?
Chloe: My middle name. What do you think?
Dean: He signed your new hire paperwork. I assume he knows your name is Chloe Grace Lee.
Chloe: Cute.
Dean: Thanks.
Chloe: Are you going to answer me?
Dean: Where's the fun in that?
Chloe: I'll take that as a no.
Dean: Take it how you want.
Chloe: It was a long time ago. I barely remember.
Bullshit.
It was her first time.
She remembers every second.
I know I do.
The nervous look in her dark eyes.
That long, black hair in my hands.
The way my name rolled off her lips.
It was the only time in three fucking years that she said it without disdain.
And, fuck, there is something wrong with me.
Because I'm not sure which I like better.
The ugh, Dean, you're the bane of my existence.
Or the fuck, Dean, you're the only thing I need.
Chapter Five
Chloe
There are a few facts of life in Los Angeles.
Seventy and sunny is a daily thing.
Strip malls are everywhere.
And traffic is a bitch.
The freeway is clogged. And nothing—not the blue skies, or the beige hills, or the grunge music flowing from my speakers—makes it bearable.
What is it about being stuck in a car that makes everything awful? I spend most nights sitting around, thinking, listening to music. But when I have to do it in my car, I start crawling out of my skin.
I find a spot. Jump out. Stretch on the sidewalk. I hate staying still. I did it for too long. I spent way too long thinking I'd never be able to move like this again.
Traffic is inevitable with the distance I'm driving, but I can temper it. Find a nearby gym. Leave early enough to zip along the freeway. Make up the time with bodyweight exercises and miles on the treadmill.
Strong body, strong mind.
Strong mind, strong body.
It's a cycle. And it works. At least, that's what I tell myself. My body and I aren't quite there yet. I haven't forgiven it for what happened. Or learned to trust it.
I stretch my legs on the five-block walk to the studio. This is a nice part of Venice Beach. Clean streets, fancy cars, palm trees lining the sidewalks.
They blow in the breeze, blue sky and ocean view behind them. Like a post card. Hello, from Paradise. Your nemesis is waiting.
He is.
He's sitting behind the counter, shaggy hair hanging in front of his blue eyes, attention on his sketchbook.
His expression is focused. Intense.
Some other Dean. One who takes shit seriously. Who finds pleasure in work and productivity and accomplishment.
Who doesn't live to taunt me.
He looks the same—white t-shirt hugging his shoulders, skinny jeans hugging his hips, gorgeous blue eyes on fire with something.
But everything else is different.
Maybe that's okay.
Maybe it's possible to forgive and forget. My life is bigger and broader than it was in high school. My concerns go way beyond a guy who didn't call.
A guy who didn't call…
I wish that was my biggest problem.
I roll my shoulders.
Lean my head to one side. Then the other.
I need this job. That means I need to play nice. It's possible. Really.
I go to pull the door open, but it's locked.
Dean looks up from his drawing. His focus fades as his eyes meet mine. His lips curl into a wicked smile.
The I'm fucking with you Dean.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Bite my lip. Play with my tank top.
He's not going to make my stomach flutter. He's not going to make me nervous. He's not going to make me feel anything. Period.
Dean moves to the door with steady footsteps. He stares into my eyes as he pulls it open. "After you."
I step inside. The bell rings as the door falls shut behind me. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." He turns. Places his body behind mine. It's a respectable, work appropriate distance—at least when your work involves touching people—but it's enough to make my stomach flutter.
My gaze shifts to the ceiling. Except for the string lights lining the room, it's plain, white. But they cast a soft pink glow over the top of the room. A pink halo.
"I should get started." I'm taking over half of Leighton's job. It's a lot of administrative work.
"After this." He motions to the office/back room.
I follow him past the counter, around the corner, into the cozy space.
It's a tiny room—smaller than my bedroom—lined with supplies on wire racks and a cheap Ikea desk. This room isn't like the rest of the shop. It's sparse. Empty. Soulless.
There's no love in this room.
Just function.
It's weird. The four guys who own the shop are artists—tattoos are art—and it shows in the main area. Hell, it shows in their clothes, their smiles, their skin.
But here?
It's basically a corporate cubical.
"You looking at something, sunshine?" Dean asks.
"No." My gaze shifts to the desk. Computer. Printer. Two office chairs.
He steps in front of the computer. The insanely old computer. "Come here."
I do.
He fumbles with the printer. "You have your portfolio?"
"Not on me."
He taps the strap of my backpack. His finger slips. Brushes my shoulder. "You have anything?"
My stomach flutters.
My nipples tighten.
My heart rises in my throat. My nipples haven't done that in a long time. They're usually…
But he…
I swallow hard. I'm not reacting to him. Really.
"Chloe?" he asks.
"I have my sketchbook."
"Show me a tattoo mock-up."
"Of course." I bite my lip, but it does nothing to clear my mind. Dean is touching me. But he's being serious.
It's weird.
Which Dean is this—the goofball or the artist?
No. I'm delusional. There's one Dean and he lives to make my life difficult.
Even so. He's my boss. My teacher.
I need his help.
I set my backpack on the desk. Dig through it for my sketchbook.
But what the hell do I show him? I scan page after page of figure drawings, doodles, mock-ups. None are right. None are good enough. Or me enough.
There.
I settle on the design I drew for Gia. A pinup style Han Solo. He's lying on the Millennium Falcon, his legs splayed open, his shirt cut to his belly button.
Dean chuckles as he looks it over. "Different."
"It's a riff—"
"On a classic pinup."
"Yeah."
"A parody. Han here looks hot as hell. But
he also looks ridiculous with his back arched and his legs in the air. Making a pinup a male character underlines how ridiculous the whole concept is."
Yeah. That's actually exactly it.
His eyes find mine. "Yes?"
"Nothing."
"Your mouth is hanging open."
"It is not."
"You think I'm an idiot?"
"I didn't say that."
"You can." His fingers brush mine as they curl around my sketchbook. He raises a brow you mind? "It won't hurt my feelings."
"What would?"
"If I thought you meant it."
I motion go ahead.
He takes the book. Turns.
His ass brushes my thigh as he bends to lay the book on top of the scanner.
He smells good. Like soap and shampoo and Dean.
That's the same shampoo. It takes me right back to the dark bedroom. To fumbling hands and locked lips and low groans.
Get a grip, Chloe. You're working together. That's it.
The machine whirs on. Spits out a printout of my drawing. "You can close your mouth. I'm not gonna whip it out, no matter how much you beg for a taste."
I bite my tongue. Fight my desire to slap him. That's the Dean I know. God, he's so annoying. "In your dreams."
"No. My dreams of you are much dirtier than that."
"You haven't."
He shrugs maybe I have, maybe I haven't. He rolls up his sleeve, exposing his ink-free shoulder. "You ever do this?"
"This? Pretty sure you were there."
His laugh lights up his bright eyes. It lights up his entire expression. He becomes that charming, effervescent version of himself.
He's so…
Handsome.
And annoying.
How can one person be so endlessly frustrating?
He taps the printout. "It's a special adhesive paper."
"A temporary tattoo."
"Yeah."
I've seen these. They're examples. So people can trial run tattoos. Sometimes artists use them like tracing paper. Go freehand. The image is mirrored, because it's meant to be pulled off the paper and onto someone's skin.
"Cut it out." He picks up scissors and hands them to me.
I snip the edges from the paper.
"Paste it on me." He motions come here.
No. I can't move closer. I'm too close already. "Water?"
He motions to the cooler in the corner.
I move over. Fill a cup. The cotton swabs are on the wire rack behind me.
"Rubbing alcohol first," he says.
There. It's on the top shelf. I press to my tiptoes to grab it. Bring everything back to the desk. Leave it in a neat row.
Hating You, Loving You Page 4
