Heavy: A Contemporary Romance

by Mells, J. C.

  “Blue jeans,” she said, looking me slowly up and down, “and a white shirt. Are you James Dean, so fresh to death and sick as ca-cancer?” She intentionally stuttered over the word ‘cancer’ like Lana del Rey does in the song she was quoting from – the one she’d just been singing.

  I looked down at the white T-shirt and jeans I was wearing before looking back up at her. “I’ll fit you better than your favorite sweater?” I smiled at her as I quoted back the only lyrics from that song I could think of on the fly.

  She laughed, did a twirl on the spot, and fell back onto the sofa, miraculously without spilling a drop of her drink.

  She raised the snifter to her mouth and took a long and leisurely sip of the brown liquid inside it, all the while her eyes locked on mine.

  “So tell me, James Dean,” she finally said, as she turned to pull the small chain hanging just in sight below the lampshade on the side-table next to her. She was immediately bathed in a warm glow. “Did Lake send you in here for me?”

  “Sorry, don’t know a Lake.” My words were apologetic, but I brazenly matched the way she was looking at me and allowed my eyes to run the length of her body, from her glossy black painted toe nails all the way back up to her face. The way her husky voice had uttered the words for me, so suggestively, had me a little turned inside out.

  Her hair was definitely a deep reddish-brown now that I could see it better and her eyes were almost indescribable. The darkest shade of blue I’d ever seen, bordering on purple under the lamplight. With the light on, I noticed the slight smudge of dark under them – like she hadn’t slept in days. Her face was a little on the thin side, unnaturally so – but even this could not detract from those eyes. They were extraordinary and she was exquisite.

  “Too bad,” she said silkily, still looking at me like I was a tall drink of water on a hot summer’s day.

  Was she one of Max’s groupies? Maybe another girlfriend? Damn, she was young. Too young for him. But, then again, he was a famous rock star. Maybe she was his daughter? God, I hoped she was his daughter. He had one, didn’t he? Damn, why didn’t I pay more attention to my shop colleagues when they were celebrity gossiping?

  “I suppose you’re looking for Max then?” She sounded a little disappointed. Her voice was low and had a little natural rasp to it. I’d been thinking it earlier, but now I could confirm it: it was officially the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.

  “I’m here to do a tattoo for him,” I replied, holding up the key card Max had given. “He let me in,” I added as I set my bag down on the coffee table despite being unable to drag my eyes away from hers.

  “You’re the tattoo guy,” she smiled and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Thatcher something, right?”

  My heart did a little flip in my chest. My God, she was gorgeous. “Thatch. Thatch Reston.”

  “Hmm,” she said, looking me up and down again. “You must really love your work, Thatch. That’s some hard-on you’re sporting at the moment.”

  I laughed at her boldness. “That’s less about my work and more about watching a beautiful girl dancing around in her underwear.”

  She laughed, too. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know you were there. I’m usually much more controlled in front of company.”

  “You don’t need to be ‘controlled’ for my benefit. It’s obvious I enjoyed the show.”

  She took another sip of her drink, cradling her glass with two hands. “You’re a lot younger than I expected,” she finally said.

  “It’s the name. I get that a lot.”

  “Yeah, it does seem more suited to a Supreme Court Justice or the name of a headmaster for an all-boys elite boarding school or something.”

  “If that’s what my dad was going for, he sure must be disappointed now.”

  “Not that I’m one to talk,” she smiled back. “I’m Cali... and I’m sorry to say it’s actually short for California.”

  “That’s not so bad,” I replied with a smirk. “You could’ve ended up with Idaho.” Her name sounded sort of familiar, in terms of something connected to Max, I thought, but I couldn’t quite place it yet.

  California rolled her beautiful eyes at me. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “I saw the opening and took it – sorry. Do you have hippie parents or something?”

  “No… worse,” she sighed. “Actors.”

  California…something. It was on the tip of my tongue now that she’d admitted to actor parents.

  “Well, that explains everything. I don’t have such an excuse. I think my dad is just into old-fashioned names. He had to survive high school with the name Bellamy.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” She smiled again. “Why don’t you sit down, Thatch? I don’t bite. At least, I’ll try to control myself anyway. However long Max told you he’d be, add another forty-five minutes to an hour. You might as well make yourself…more comfortable…while you wait.” This last suggestion was delivered with a deliberate and exaggerated glance to my crotch area.

  Her looking in the area was not going to solve the problem any.

  “I’ll just start setting out my gear, if you don’t mind. I’ll try not to get in your way.” For some strange reason, I wasn’t as irritated as I should’ve been by the revelation that Max was going to be late.

  “Go right ahead. You won’t be in my way. It’s Silent Sundays on TCM. Tonight, it’s Murnau’s Sunrise. Have you seen it?”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen much in the way of silent film, to be honest,” I answered as I started setting up my works.

  “It’s something I’ve gotten into recently over the last couple of months. If you turn the sound down and play your own music… it’s awesome. I forgot my headphones in my room though,” she added wistfully. “I had to improvise.”

  Okay, so she had her own room and wasn’t sharing this one with Max.

  Why did I care? It wasn’t as if I was going to see her again after tonight. Snap out of it, moron.

  “So, how long are you in Vegas for, California?” Damn, I had to go there, didn’t I?

  “Just here for the weekend. We leave tomorrow.”

  Good. Now that I’d managed to drag my eyes away from hers, I’d noticed the bag of white powder on the table in front of where she was sitting. Cocaine, no doubt. Drug users: such a big turn-off for me.

  At least, that’s what my brain was telling me. My body was obviously of a different opinion. There was no denying the fact I was sexually attracted to this girl. Was that my thing? Only attracted to users?

  California definitely looked under the influence of something more than the alcohol she was drinking. More buzzed than wasted though. I certainly knew what wasted looked like. But, come on… the daughter of showbiz parents and currently in the hotel room – the private hotel room – of a rock star. There was no way she wasn’t bad news.

  Cali

  I watched him laying out his tools of the trade on the coffee table. With his attention otherwise engaged for the first time since he’d entered the room, I finally felt like I could breathe again.

  For the most part, I think I was doing a great job of concealing my reaction to him on the outside. When it comes to the masking of feelings, I’m an expert. If only I could stop my eyes from looking at him like he’s a Chippendale’s dancer here to give me a private lap dance.

  Not that I would say no to a private lap dance from him, if he offered.

  Knock it off, California! The guy is here for Max, for fuck’s sake.

  As he bent over the low table, I had the perfect view of the smooth muscles of his back as the soft cotton of his white T-shirt stretched across them. Slim but muscled; he had an athletic body – like he spent a lot of time in a gym. Not bulky, but deliciously toned. He was wearing faded blue jeans that hung low on his hips, one of the knees so worn it was nothing more than a patch of white thread hinting at the knee concealed behind it.

  For some reason, the threadbare knee just made him seem hotter… perhaps b
ecause his scruffy jeans represented something other than what I was accustomed to.

  This self-confident and brazen act that I’d slipped into so effortlessly was something I usually reserved for the guys Lake sent to me. It was our ‘thing.’ My stepsister had a penchant for forwarding the friend of whomever it was she was intending to hook up with to get them out of her way. Pimping out California Huntington, daughter of Oscar-winning actor Brock Huntington was, I think, one of the main reasons Lake kept me around. That, and the fact having me with her attracted more attention her way. She’d been pretty pissed that I didn’t want to go Vegas club-hopping with her tonight. So much so that she’d not gone herself, and was partying here in the penthouse with her dad’s band members instead.

  A part of me was glad that Thatch hadn’t been sent here by Lake for me to ‘entertain.’

  Another part of me, a part that didn’t show its head too often – if ever – wanted to jump his bones and lick him from head to toe.

  The Lortab I’d taken earlier had kicked in a while ago, and I was on my second cognac. A few quick bumps from Max’s stash on the table to balance it all out, and I was feeling pretty much perfect for a change. The things I had to do to stop myself from calling room service and ordering everything on the menu. Thatch had come in at the exact right moment. An hour later and you’d have to scrape me off the floor if I had remained in this room on my own.

  I couldn’t help but stare at him.

  His hair was chocolate brown and messy. Perhaps a shade on the long side for polite society – but then again, I was certainly not polite society. It was the perfect length for me, apparently. Lake had a thing for business types – agents, producers, lawyers – anyone tied to the music industry, but not a musician like her father. By default, their friends that got sent my way fell into this category, too. None of them really did anything for me.

  Not like this guy.

  The visible skin of his well-toned arms was devoid of tattoos – unusual for a tattoo artist. I could, however, see some ink peeping out of the back of his T-shirt, right at the base of his neck. Now, I really wanted to see underneath that shirt.

  “Are you originally from Vegas, Thatch?” Shoot me now. Could I be any more boring? I guessed that’s what happened when you tried to make conversation and weren’t in your usual shit-faced state.

  He gave a little laugh. “No one is actually from Vegas. I moved here from New York three years ago.”

  “Is it rude of me to ask you how old you are?” I continued. “You seem really young to be a renowned tattoo artist. Max talks about you like you’re a pro with years of experience under your belt.”

  “I think we went beyond ‘rude’ about five minutes ago, didn’t we?” He arched an eyebrow at me and then gave a crooked, sexy smirk. He stood up from his crouched position next to the coffee table, as if daring me to look at his crotch area again. It took a lot of effort on my part, but I managed to restrain myself.

  “I’m twenty-two. I had a couple of semesters of art school before I moved here to finish college and work with my dad. Switching from a paintbrush to a tattoo gun was a natural transition for me,” he added as he sat down on the couch, one seat away from me.

  It wasn’t close enough.

  “What made you move out here from New York?”

  His warm brown eyes darkened and I immediately regretted asking the question. This gorgeous man in front of me had secrets of his own – ones he didn’t want to share. I knew the feeling.

  “You don’t have to tell me. Sorry, if I got too personal,” I added hastily.

  “That’s okay. I came out here to live with my dad. He’s the original Reston of Reston Tattoos. How do you know Max?” Thatch asked, changing the subject.

  “I’ve known Max just about my whole life,” I smiled at him. “My stepmother was his first wife and he’s friends with my dad.”

  “I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve heard of you before. Your dad’s pretty famous, right?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Sorry,” he added sheepishly, “I’m not really one for the gossip rags.”

  Thank God for that. A year ago, Lake’s shoplifting exploits and my… thing... were headline news for months.

  “My father is a work-obsessed actor and absentee-father extraordinaire. I think I’ve spent more time with Max Rivers than I have with my own dad,” I laughed. I wasn’t complaining; it was just a fact.

  Okay, maybe I was complaining a little bit. But why was I telling this to a complete stranger?

  “I’m sure you have better things to do,” I added hurriedly, “than listen to a spoiled rich girl talk about her screwed up childhood.”

  “Well…” He smiled, glancing at the door. “It looks like I don’t have anything else to do, as it turns out.”

  I laughed again. It had been a while since I laughed this much.

  “I think my life story is probably a little too heavy to share with someone who only came here to work on a tattoo. How did you meet Max?” I deliberately avoided mentioning my father’s name. Knowing I was Brock Huntington’s daughter was information that tended to change people’s perspective toward me, especially with guys Thatch’s age looking to make a name for themselves. It’s why Lake only sent entertainment execs to fuck me. Breaching confidentiality would ensure they never worked in the business again. It’s the one thing my father was actually good for: having an extensive team of high-powered lawyers at his disposal.

  “He stumbled into the shop after a concert back in February,” Thatch said, in answer to my question. “I just happened to be filling in for one of the other artists – it was a complete fluke that I was there at that time. Max was pretty wasted and I almost refused to do the tattoo at all.”

  He paused to give a deep chuckle. It was probably the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.

  “He had a girl with him,” Thatch continued. “It was obvious they’d only just met that night, yet Max was determined to get her name tattooed on him.”

  “That sounds just like Max,” I giggled.

  “So I forced some coffee into them and sort of talked him out of it. I put her in a cab home, but there was no getting rid of Max until he got a tattoo.”

  “I’ve seen the work you did on him. It’s truly exquisite.”

  The piece was a haunting, dark, Gothic, forest scene and the detail in it was truly astounding.

  “Thanks. In the tattoo world we have something we refer to as a ‘Yo-man,’ who is someone who comes into the shop and goes, ‘Yo man, what can I get for twenty bucks?’ Max was a ‘Yo-man’ of sorts. Only he asked, ‘What can I get for ten grand?’ I gave him what I hoped could be considered a ten grand tattoo. It took me three months and eight sessions and, thanks to his fans and social media, changed my life.”

  “Yeah, I remember Twitter blowing up when he first revealed it in that MTV interview.”

  “Hey,” Thatch joked, “I was just happy he remembered my name and where he got it.”

  We both laughed at this and then neither one of us said anything for a long minute. I couldn’t stop looking at him though, and I think he was having the same problem, too.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Thatch?” I finally asked, my eyes still locked with his.

  “Some water would be nice. I’m suddenly feeling really thirsty for some reason.”

  I knew the feeling. My mouth had gone bone-dry as soon as I’d laid eyes on him.

  I threw off the blanket I’d pulled over my legs once I sat down, and headed over to the mini-bar. I could feel his gaze still on me, now that my back was turned, and I inwardly cursed. Why did I have to be wearing this particular shirt? It was so comfortable but, according to Lake, it made me look huge. Why hadn’t I done a couple of lines of Max’s coke instead of those quick bumps? Stupid girl, California. If I’d just indulged with Lake as she’d begged, I wouldn’t be carrying all this excess water weight right now.

  Thatch

  Even with t
he baggy T-shirt, what she wore showed off her sexy curves to perfection. I definitely shouldn’t have been looking at her like that, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I was here to work and not ogle at this socialite like a horny teen looking to score.

  Okay, so I was a twenty-two-year-old, hot-blooded male who hadn’t been laid in over a month. My closest friend and work colleague, Rufus, constantly hounded me to come ‘chase pussy’ with him on practically a nightly basis. He said I was too young to be so serious and work-obsessed. Easy for him to say – he hadn’t been through what I had. He also didn’t have the responsibilities I did either.

  California handed me one of the two bottles of water she was carrying before she sat back down on the couch.

  Was it my imagination or was she now sitting a little nearer to me than she’d been before?

  What wasn’t imagined was the way she was reacting to, and returning, my gaze. It so wasn’t like me to be this bold – at least not in a professional, work-related setting. And toward a party-girl that was so out of my league… it wasn’t funny. What was wrong with me? I’d been here before and should know better.

  “Tell me about Reston Tattoos,” California asked as soon as she was settled back in her seat.

  “There’s not a lot to tell, really,” I shrugged.

  “Is it just you and your father? Is it a big or small place? You must have plenty of stories to tell about people you’ve worked on, no? What’s the craziest tattoo you’ve ever done? Or better yet, what’s the craziest place you’ve been asked to do a tattoo?”

  “What is it with you and all the questions?” I laughed.

  “Sorry. Too much?” she answered apologetically. “I’ve sort of been out of it for the last couple of months. Actually, I’ve sort of been out of it for the last year or so, if truth be told. I don’t think I’ve had a real conversation with anyone in ages.”

  Who was this girl?

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s a heavy question, Thatch Reston,” she gave a dry laugh, obviously trying to brush over the question.

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue… like I’ve read the name California before.”