“Go away, I’m trying to finish dinner.”
“I know, I could smell it from the other room.” It smells divine. “What did I do to earn my favorite meal?”
“What makes you think I cooked this for you?” Tara points to the tall stainless steel pot on the stove before eyeing me. “It happens to be my favorite meal, as well. Just as chocolate cake is my favorite dessert.” She lifts her index finger to point to the table.
Holy smoke, tonight is going to be wonderful and I am going to fall into my bed a fat and happy man. I will definitely need to spend extra time at the gym tomorrow.
“Shit people, others are trying to sleep in this place.” We turn to see Matt walking into the kitchen. He goes directly to the refrigerator and pulls out a clear bottle of golden beer.
“Grab me one of those, would ya?” I call out before he slams the door closed. Tonight couldn’t get more perfect. Beer and a great meal will surely only relax me further.
“When do we eat, I’m starving?” Matt directs his question to Tara as he hands me a beer.
“Never, if you come in here with that attitude.” She turns back to the stove and stirs in what looks to be shrimp. That tells me we are minutes away from dinner so I head over to the sink to wash my hands.
“It was just a fucking question, Taralynn.” I hear him sigh in frustration. I don’t know why, but he and Tara have been off for some time now. “Can you please let whatever’s crawled up your ass lately, out?”
I’m not getting into the middle of their shit so I towel off the water on my hands and open my beer. The first sip is always the best. Cold, refreshing and smooth as it flows into my mouth and down my throat.
Her back is to Matt, but her profile is in front of me. Tara’s jaw locks, but she just looks forward without saying a word.
“Go get Mase up, would ya?” I look to Matt. “She is almost done so we will be eating in a few.”
He nods before tipping his glass bottle up and taking a sip, and then walks off in the direction toward the living room.
“Drama going on in bff-land?” I lean against the counter top in front of the sink waiting for her reply.
“Hell if I know,” she breaths. “You’d have to ask him that question,” Tara grabs a mitten from the drawer next to the stove and puts it on, opens the oven and removes what I know is fresh made French bread. It’s no surprise. Tara makes bread about once a week.
We may have it made around here.
“Will you grab the bowls while I slice and butter the bread?” She turns to face me after getting the bread knife out of the knife block.
“Well I’m not going to say no while you’re holding that thing.” I joke as I push off, twisting to my right to get the bowls as requested. Once I have four in my hand I place them on the counter next to the stove. I go ahead and grab four spoons from the silverware drawer, as well, and place them next to the bowls.
Mason and Matt walk into the kitchen. Mason rubs his palm over his short hair and then down his face to wake up.
“How’s your back feeling?” I ask him. He looks in my direction and then heads to the fridge.
“Nothing more than a dull ache. I downed two packs of powdered aspirin when I got home.” He retrieves a beer of his own, twists the cap off and tips it up to his lips.
“Shit, dude that’s over sixteen hundred milligrams.” I laugh out. Damn, the pain isn’t that bad. Fucking pansy ass little bitch. Normally I’d call him on that shit, but I’m not in the mood. I want an easy rest of the night. I want to enjoy a delicious meal and kick back with my friends.
“Exactly, which is why I’m not hurting.”
“Let’s eat, guys.” Tara calls out and I’m first in line. You don’t have to tell me twice.
I scoop out a hearty bowl of seafood goodness and grab a piece of hot bread before walking over to the table. My friends do the same. Tara is the always the last to fix her plate and the last to sit down to eat.
As soon as her ass hits the cushioned seat of the chair, I raise my spoon to my lips anticipating the contents that are about to slide down my throat. Before I taste victory I feel a swift kick in the shin.
“Motherfucker.” I turn to look at Tara staring at me. She rolls her eyes.
“Mase, you’re up for grace this week.” She looks back in my direction while shaking her head and cutting her sapphire eyes.
Don’t women know not to come between a man and his dinner?
I set my spoon down, lace my finger and look down.
“Thank ya, Jesus. Now, let’s dig in.” Mason laughs at his short, but sweet praise. Now don’t go taking that as an insult to the Lord. We are all God loving people. May not show up to church often, but we love and respect the guy.
The first spoonful of my soup is always the best. Sometimes I wonder how I stay in such good shape when I have Tara as a roommate. The bitch can cook and she feeds us well. I’m not calling her a bitch as an insult. It’s just a guy term; you should probably get used to it now, rather than fault me later.
I don’t make it to my second spoon because the ringing of the doorbell interrupts us. Irritation is automatic.
My house is full of life on the weekends, but Sunday through Wednesday’s are off limits to most everyone. This is a known fact. Wednesday’s especially because we have designated it family night, and by family I mean the four individuals that live in this house. Are they my family? No, they aren’t in the traditional way, but we all grew up together. Mason is damn near as close to a brother to me as my own brother, Shane, is.
Tara grits her teeth due to her own irritation. This is actually her rule. She doesn’t ask for much, but when we all moved in, she suggested family dinner night and no interruptions or outsiders. I liked the idea. It wasn’t until a year after that we added a Sunday night dinner as well.
Her chair skids backwards. Tara rises and walks off to answer the front door.
“Hey,” I call out. “Unless the motherfucker is related to one of us, kick the bastard in the dick.” I go back to spooning more Cioppino into my mouth. Next I tear off a piece of bread with my teeth and chew.
Moments later I hear a shirking voice that I had never planned to hear again.
I look up to see the bitch I screwed last Saturday night outside of Level. What the fuck is this shit?
“Hey, you,” she coos. “You’re a hard man to track down.” The blonde with choppy short hair comes to stand in front me. I place my spoon down and stare at her. This shit is stalker fucking crazy. I knew that night I was making a mistake. I saw crazy in her eyes the moment our eyes met, still I decided to shove my dick into her cunt. I should have known this would come back to bite me in the ass. I’ve only made the mistake of fucking crazy one other time. That was high school. I can blame that shit on stupidity and a dick I didn’t know how to control. I got nothing now.
I catch Tara out of the corner of my eye. She is glaring daggers at the back of chick’s head. If I remember correctly, her name is Addison.
Tara has a jealous streak. One of the reasons I’d never bring another girl home. It’s not like I’d want to anyway. Always fuck a bitch at their place, or anyplace that isn’t your own, is my motto. Don’t bring them home, then there’s no reason for them to show up because they don’t know where you live.
“Can I help you?” I finally say. Mason and Matt both lean back into their seat, watching this scene play out. They know me well. They know I don’t want anything to do with a chick after I’ve screwed her. Even the women I fuck know this. I make it perfectly clear so this type of thing never happens.
I push my chair back and turn sideways to await her answer.
“I wanted to see you. We had a great time the other night and you forgot to give me your number, silly.” She smiles. It’s forced, but a hopeful smile.
“I didn’t forget a damn thing.” That’s harsh, I know, but she doesn’t need to misinterpret me this time. “Sweetheart, I fucked you. I fucked you outside of a nightclub at that. Now I don’t fuck an
y pussy I don’t want to fuck, but understand this. I’ve never met a pussy I’d ever want to fuck twice.”
Her mouth drops. She’s silent for a time. Pretty certain I’ve shocked the little thing.
The sound of a door slamming enters one ear and goes out the other. I don’t think too hard on it. I have a female in front of me to deal with and to get out of my house. She has successfully ruined dinner. If I know Tara, she’s going to hold that against me for a few days.
“I...but we...what...” She can’t finish a sentence so I decide to help her out.
“Look, I’m not trying to be mean, honey, but I don’t even remember your name.” That’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that. Why give her hope? There is no hope what so ever here. “It was just sex. I made that perfectly clear. I don’t know where you got other ideas, but for me, sex is just sex.”
“But—”
I don’t give her a chance to plead her case. I mean, this is already starting to get ridiculous. I almost feel sorry for this girl.
“There are no ‘buts’. Now please get out of my house.”
Again her jaw drops. I guess the chick isn’t used to being turned down. She isn’t bad looking. She’s attractive. I wouldn’t have screwed her if she weren’t.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she huffs dramatically before she turns then walks away. Seconds later I hear the door slam.
“Can you believe that bitch?” I look from Mason to Matt and then back to Mason. Matt looks pissed. Mason has his eyebrows scrunched together. “What the fuck are you both staring at? I handled her the only way I could. So what if I was an ass. She is the psycho bitch that showed up here uninvited.”
“Dude.” Mason chimes, but continues to eye me without another word.
“What?” I demand.
Matt pushes his chair back and walks off.
Just like a pussy. Has something to say, but not the balls to say it.
How am I fucking friends with him?
“Well, what the fuck, man?” I ask Mason.
“It’s not how you acted with that chick. It’s what you said.” He sounds like I should know what he is talking about. I don’t. Obviously I don’t, or I wouldn’t be asking him.
“You’re going to need to explain better than that.”
“Tara.” I look around and she isn’t here. I recall the door slamming, but I don’t get why she would leave. She knows I get laid regularly. It’s not a secret. “Your comment about never meeting a girl you’d ever want to fuck twice.”
His words hit like a freight train.
Shit.
“Fuck.” I yell and throw my fist down onto the hard surface of the table.
“Yeah.” He pushes his own chair back.
I stand and reach into my pocket for my cell. “I didn’t mean it about her.”
Mason leaves the room without another word. It’s not needed. I know he suspects the way I feel about her, but he doesn’t understand why I won’t go down that road. I’ll never go down that road with her. Not because I don’t want to, but because I won’t hurt her. She isn’t, nor will she ever be, just another quick fuck.
I locate Tara’s name from my contacts and press the call button. Her number rings, then goes to voice mail. That tells me she doesn’t have it turned off. She just isn’t answering it.
I call her two more times. Still no answer by the third attempt my anger flares. I leave her a message.
“Bring your fucking ass home, now.” My tone is laced with heat. I know it and I don’t care.
I walk off, toward the living room. Dinner is trash now, but I could care less about food at the moment.
“You just can’t help it can you?”
“What?” I bark out at Mason. He’s sitting on the couch flipping through the TV channels. He’s not looking at me.
“You continue to push her into his bed, you know.”
By him, I assume Mason means, Jared.
Prick.
I call her again as I make my way up the stairs. Voice mail is bullshit.
She doesn’t return home. In fact I don’t see her again until Friday when she shows up at the studio.
“Taralynn.”
The first thing that registers in my brain is that I heard my name being called. The second thing is, it’s Shawn’s voice. In all seventeen years that I’ve known him, he has never once called me by my full first name. I think he started calling me “Tara” because when he was a little kid he had a hard time pronouncing L sounds. When he outgrew his minor speech impediment, he kept calling me Tara.
Finally, there’s the tone of his voice, a sound laced with irritation, which brings me to the here and now.
My eyes fly open just as the smell of latex fills my nostrils. Once everything comes into focus, I see what looks to be a pair of black latex gloves bunched into a ball in his fist only inches away from my face. I can also feel him leaning over my back. My cheek is lying flush with Adam’s wooden desk, my arm is stretched out and my hand is still cupping the mouse to the computer.
Apparently, I fell asleep at some point while going over the business financials.
I don’t have classes on Friday’s, but what I do have is a part-time job at Southern Ink, the tattoo studio Shawn works at. I say part-time job because it’s only one day a week, but the reality is, I don’t get paid for the work I put in here. Adam Manning, the owner of the Tattoo studio and Shawn’s boss, sweet talked me into handling payroll for his business about two years ago. The guy has a thick and deep Mississippian accent that’s impossible to say no to.
It all started with me coming in every Friday around noon, tallying up all the artists’ commissions based on their appointments from the previous week and any hourly wages for non-commissioned staff, then hand writing checks that were already signed by Adam. What it has turned into is me still doing all that, plus paying the business’s bills and ordering all the supplies. So in essence, I’m doing Adam’s job so Adam can continue servicing his clients, not to mention prolonging every appointment because the man was gifted with the art of gab.
“Yeah,” I yawn, lifting my head up. Shawn backs away from me, walking around to stand on the other side of the desk.
“What are you doing looking at Adam’s banking info?”
“What?” I cover my mouth as another yawn forces its way out. Damn, I’ve got to stay away from Jared’s, not to mention I need to cut that crap out. Seeing him is only prolonging the inevitable.
“Never mind. Look, I’m finishing up on Cosmo’s arm piece. I’ll be done within 30, I’d like to hit the road then, okay?” Cosmo is a longtime client of Shawn’s. He’s in a biker club out of our hometown of Tupelo. But when I say, biker club, I’m not referring to the Harley MC types, I’m talking about the BMW MC types. Don’t believe me. Look it up, they exist.
“Road. Got-cha.” I stretch my arms over my head.
“Do you think you can have everyone paid by then?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I have them right here. I don’t know what happened. I guess not getting enough sleep the past two nights is catching up with me.” Shit. Why did I say that? By the look of his locking jaw he knows I didn’t sleep at home.
“Just…be fucking ready to leave.” With those words, he pivots and stalks out the door.
I don’t know what his deal is. Shawn Braden screws a different skank every other day. Why he cares who I do, makes zero sense.
I log off the bank website and then close down all programs before turning off the computer. Next I straighten up Adam’s desk making it much more organized than when I arrived. I can’t help myself. Things look prettier when they are clean and properly placed. It may also serve to calm my nerves at times, too.
Trust me when I say, if people took better care of their things our world would be more relaxed and peaceful, I’m sure of it.
I grab the checks I stuffed in envelopes earlier and walk out of the office.
I make it around to everyone, personally handing paychecks to eac
h person. Last I lay Shawn’s down on the side table behind him. His concentration is on Cosmo. Every tattoo of Shawn’s I’ve ever seen is nothing short of beautiful. This one is no less. It’s placed on the inside of Cosmo’s right forearm. It’s the form of a woman. Similar to the tattoo Shawn has on the inside of his left forearm. Both are of pretty women.
“Who’s the pretty lady?” My question is directed at Cosmo. He opens his eyes and looks down at Shawn’s work. Cosmo takes a deep breath of air then follows with sigh as he exhales.
“My wife, sugar.” That’s sweet, but sad too. I know he lost his wife of twenty-five years last year. This piece is obviously honoring her.
“It’s beautiful, Cosmo.”
“Well, sweet cheeks, I can’t take credit for that. That’s all on your boy, here.” No, not my boy, but I don’t say that.
I catch Shawn’s grin, but that’s all. His head is lowered and he’s focused on the design. Unlike Shawn’s similar tattoo, this one is a portrait of a woman. Her chin is resting in the palm of her right hand and she is smiling a big, gorgeous smile. One might think Shawn probably recreated this from a photograph, but I’d be willing to bet Cosmo showed him a few snap shots of his late wife and then Shawn created this image himself. He’s that good.
“I know, he’s an amazing artist, isn’t he?”
Shawn glances up as if surprised I would think that. I’m not looking at him, but I catch his expression from the corner of my eye. I’m still looking at his client, who is relaxed into the black padded chair that reminds me of the type you’d find in a dentist’s office.
“The only person I’ve ever let permanently mark me up,” Cosmo laughs out.
“Don’t fucking move, old man.” Shawn’s voice doesn’t have any heat behind it. He’s always had a soft spot for the guy in front of me. He’s sweet, but I don’t know him all that well. Mason and Shawn never have anything but praise for the man.
“What about you, Taralynn, have you let him mark you yet?” Cosmo knows my name? Strange. Sure, I’ve seen him a handful of times. At cookouts back home mainly, but I didn’t think he knew I was one of Shawn’s roommates, let alone knew my name.
More Than Lies Page 7
