by Alexa Land
I slid off the counter and looked up at him as I ran my hand down his arm. “We could do that,” I said, “or you could take me upstairs and fuck me.” I was nervous, which surprised me. I’d propositioned countless guys over the years, and they were almost always perfectly willing to take me to bed, no questions asked. Somehow though, I just knew things would be more complicated than that with Duke.
He said, “It’s tempting, but I can’t do that, Quinn.”
Even though I’d predicted it, I still felt embarrassed, and I turned away as I murmured, “That’s fine. It was just a thought.”
His voice was gentle when he said, “Hey. Look at me.”
“Like I said, it’s fine. No big deal.”
I started to leave the kitchen, but he stopped me with a quiet, “Please don’t run away. Let me explain.”
I hesitated before turning to face him. He stood right in front of me, and I broke eye contact again. When he knelt down and sat on his heels, I glanced at him and asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to seem less intimidating, since I’m as big as a house. You’re obviously uncomfortable around me right now, and I don’t want to make it worse by towering over you.”
“Is it a cop thing? Did they teach you to do that when you’re dealing with skittish children?”
“It’s a human being thing.”
His expression was earnest as he looked up at me, and he was still wearing his glasses, which I found surprisingly sexy. It felt awkward to have him kneeling before me though, so I sat down cross-legged on the kitchen floor and tugged his arm, and he sat down facing me. I still had to look up at him when we were both seated, but it was less pronounced.
He told me, “Like I said before, to me there’s nothing casual about sex. I know that must seem hopelessly old-fashioned, and in case you’re wondering, it doesn’t have anything to do with my religion. It’s just who I am.”
I said, “You don’t have to explain.”
“But I want to.”
After a moment, I asked, “Are you saving yourself for marriage?”
“Not necessarily.” He held my gaze and said, “It’s about feeling safe enough with another person to totally let my guard down. It’s also about trust, love, and commitment. That doesn’t have to mean marriage, but those things do take time.”
“Am I right in assuming you’re a virgin?”
He nodded. “I’ve never even come close to finding what I just mentioned.”
I thought about that, and then I murmured, “None of this should be surprising. There are all kinds of people in the world, right? I guess I’ve only ever known the one kind, though: slutty like me.”
“You’re not slutty. You just think of sex differently than I do.”
“I need some clarification,” I said, “and I’m going to be totally blunt here. Are we just talking about waiting to have anal sex? Do you do other things, or would you, and if so, when? Oral, for example? Or like, jerking each other off? Or—”
A quick, embarrassed burst of laughter slipped from him. “Um, I don’t know. It’s not like I have a chart that says, second date, French kissing, fifth date, below-the-belt contact, and so on. All I know is, I’m not ready to have sex with you today, and I won’t be ready on our first date, either.”
“Got it. Well, I can handle the wait if you can. It basically just means my right hand and I are going to become BFFs in the days ahead.”
He admitted, “Yup. Right there with you.”
I grinned at that, and then I asked, “So, what should we do to pass the time?”
“We could keep talking.”
“No problem there. I have a lot to say. Probably too much.”
Duke shook his head and said, “Never too much. I want to hear anything and everything you’re willing to tell me. And you know what? I feel bad for those other guys who were only looking for sex and never took the time to talk to you. They really missed out.”
“That’s a nice thing to say.”
“It’s the truth. There’s nobody like you, Quinn. Not only are you interesting, but you make me feel like I am, too. I know I’m not, but you make me feel that way.”
“Here’s something you should know about me,” I said. “I have a pretty short attention span. If I don’t find something interesting, it’s impossible for me to concentrate on it. So, the fact that I’m able to give you my undivided attention for long stretches of time is actual, scientific proof that I find you interesting.”
“Scientific, huh?”
“That’s right. I can prepare some charts and diagrams clearly illustrating your position as the most fascinating person I know, if that helps.”
He grinned and said, “Give me your feet instead.” I stretched out my legs, and Duke slid back a little and put them on his lap.
“Is this your version of first base? Start at the feet, then work your way up my legs inch-by-inch over a number of weeks?” He raised an eyebrow, and I smiled and said, “Sorry. I had to tease a bit, but I really am on board with the taking it slow thing. What are you doing down there, though?” He pulled off my shoes and socks, then carefully removed my ankle brace, which was so tight that it left deep, red indentions in my skin. As he began to massage my foot, I moaned with pleasure and flopped back onto the kitchen floor. “That feels so good. How did you know I needed this?”
“Because I spent all day with you and saw how much time you spent on your feet. You would have needed this even if that brace hadn’t been cutting into you.”
“Most people wouldn’t have thought about that.”
“But I’m not most people.”
“Nope,” I murmured. “You’re a thousand times better.”
Chapter Six
Yoshiro Miyazaki matched his tattoo studio. Or, more precisely, it matched him. Both were sophisticated-looking, decked out mostly in black, and had a distinctly modern vibe.
The airy, high-ceilinged space contained eight workstations, four of which held tattoo artists and their clients. That was where the sleek, minimalistic look sort of fell apart. Each artist had personalized their space with various mementos, posters, and collections. I was not a fan of the one crammed full of clown figurines. Fortunately, that one wasn’t Yoshi’s workstation. If it was, I probably would have turned and walked out.
Yoshi greeted me with a smile and a handshake and led me to the tidiest and most sparsely decorated of the eight workspaces. As I perched on the black leather lounger, he said, “I see you brought a friend,” and gestured at the two-foot-tall stuffed animal I was clutching.
It was a larger version of the Totoro I kept at my parents’ house, and I said, “I thought it’d be good to bring a visual aid for my tattoo. You said you’ve seen the film, right?”
“I have.”
“Okay, good.” I showed him a picture on my phone of Totoro wearing a leaf as a hat and said, “Please draw him like this, in full color, as if he just stepped out of the movie.” I peeled off my T-shirt, and we discussed size and placement. After that, he handed me a clipboard with a short form to fill out and sign.
I studied Yoshi while he prepared the inks and tattoo gun. He was probably in his early thirties, with strong cheekbones, dark, expressive eyes, and a flawless haircut, short on the sides, a bit longer on the top. It looked like it fell into place each morning with little more than a rake of his fingers. His only visible tattoo was a beautifully rendered cityscape that sleeved his left arm from wrist to elbow. I wondered if he had more.
According to the rumors I’d heard, he dated a famous singer. I totally believed it. Not only was Yoshi strikingly handsome, he also exuded confidence. It was easy to imagine him poolside at some ritzy Hollywood party with a rock star on his arm.
He was all business at the moment, knitting his brows as he pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and lined up everything precisely on the black lacquer table beside him. But I knew he had a playful side, too. He was friends with one of Nana Dombruso’s grandsons, a cute
but nerdy guy named Mike, and I’d seen Yoshi at a pool party that summer acting like a total goofball with Mike’s three young sons. I’d liked him right away.
Once all his supplies and tools were ready to go, he prepped my skin, and then he said, “I’m going to freehand your tattoo, if you’re comfortable with that.” I told him I was, and he said, “Great. So, let’s get started. The ribcage is a sensitive area, so whenever you need a break, just let me know, okay?”
“I will.” I held my breath.
The tattoo gun started up with a low buzzing sound. When Yoshi touched the needle to my skin, it hurt. I knew it would. But the fear reaction that spiked in me was unexpected and totally out of proportion to the amount of pain I felt. As my heartbeat sped up, I pressed my eyes shut and tried to rationalize my way around it.
There was no reason to panic. I took a deep breath, then another. It didn’t help. When I leapt from the chair without warning, Yoshi pulled back quickly and swore under his breath. But then he asked, “Are you alright, Quinn?”
I grabbed the stuffed animal, which had been sitting on the floor beside me, and nodded, even though my heart was pounding in my ears. “I just need some air.”
Yoshi called, “Take your time,” as I forced myself to walk instead of sprinting to the door.
As soon as I was outside, I started running. After a minute, I stopped and looked around. Where the hell was I going? And what had just happened back there?
When I got my bearings, I realized I was close to the Castro. Okay, good. I crossed Market Street and went into the first dive bar I came to. The whole thing was maybe fifteen feet long and eight feet wide, just big enough to hold the bar itself and three little round tables, which were crammed in the back corner. The wall to my right was covered floor-to-ceiling with colorful flyers, which were doubled by the mirrored wall behind the bar.
The place was empty, except for the bartender and a guy of about seventy. I sat down at the bar and put Totoro on the stool beside me, and the barkeep turned to me with a raised eyebrow. He looked exactly like Mr. Clean, right down to the gold earring. I told him, “I need a drink.”
“What you need is an I.D. and a shirt, princess. I might let the shirt slide though, just because we’re light on eye candy at the moment.”
The drunk senior citizen at the end of the bar, who had a big, bushy mustache and an obvious toupee, yelled, “I’m all the eye candy you can handle, Gary!”
The bartender rolled his eyes, and as I pulled out my wallet and riffled through its disorganized contents, he quipped, “Your junior high student I.D. doesn’t count, princess. Neither does your Happy Meal punch card or your fidget spinner of the month membership card.” When I finally gave him my driver’s license and my best exasperated glare, he exclaimed, “Well shit fire and hold the matches, princess is legal!” He returned the license to me and said, “What’ll it be?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said as I tried to reassemble my wallet, “as long as it’s big and loaded with alcohol.”
The guy at the end of the bar jumped up and exclaimed, “I’m right here, baby!”
The bartender yelled, “Sit your drunk ass down, Clyde!”
Normally, all of that would have entertained the hell out of me, but I was too out of sorts to fully appreciate it. Pretty soon, a big glass of whatever was placed in front of me. I slammed it down, tossed a couple twenties on the bar, and said, “Keep whatever that was coming.”
“You sure? That Long Island iced tea had five shots of alcohol in it.”
“I’ll take two this next round.”
*****
About an hour later, I sent Duke a text, which said: I’m drunk off my ass, and I don’t remember what I did with my shirt. I glanced at the sore spot on my ribcage and sent a second message: My new tattoo looks like a tiny dick.
He texted back a minute later with: Where are you?
I turned to the bartender and asked, “Where am I, Gary?” He rattled off a street address, and I typed it in, hit send, and tossed my phone on the bar. “I need another drink.”
“Maybe you wanna switch to soda pop, princess,” he said. “I don’t know how a kid your size is even forming sentences after four Long Islands.”
“I’m not a kid or a princess. I’m Quinn, and this is Totoro.” I patted my stuffed animal. “I just texted my roommate. He’s hot. We’re going on a date. He won’t fuck me though, because he’s a good boy.” I blinked and slurred, “What were we talking about?”
“I don’t know, honey, but I’m cutting you off. Do you want some coffee?”
“Only if it has booze in it.”
“How about milk and sugar instead?”
“Okay.” I put my head on the bar. “This is really comfortable. Can I lie down for a minute?”
“Sure honey, go ahead. Not like you’re chasing away the rest of the customers.”
“Thanks, Gary.” I crawled onto the bar and curled up. Then I glanced at him over my shoulder and asked, “Do you have a sandwich I could borrow?”
“Sorry honey, I don’t. I think I’ve got a candy bar around here somewhere, you want that?” I nodded and he said, “Let me find it for you.”
“You’re really nice.” I looked around and asked, “What happened to Clyde?”
“He went home. Here honey, here’s your candy bar.”
I grasped the chocolate with both hands and closed my eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me this afternoon. I’m a go-go boy at Thrust, it’s just a couple blocks from here,” I told him. “You should come visit me. We don’t have sandwiches either, but I always keep some candy bars in my locker. I’ll give you one.”
Gary said, “You’re alright, kid. Except for the part where you’re drunk off your ass at four in the afternoon. But hey, nobody’s perfect.” A moment later, he exclaimed, “I checked that kid’s I.D., officer. He’s twenty-four. You can check it yourself.”
A familiar voice said, “It’s okay, I’m his roommate.”
“Oh,” Gary said, “the good boy.”
“The what?”
“Nothing, officer.”
I raised my lids a quarter-inch and my gaze traveled up the dark blue uniform in front of me. And up, and up, and up. Finally, I reached Duke’s face. I sat up and smiled at him as I exclaimed, “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“I decided to check on you, after you texted and told me you were drunk. I thought you were getting a tattoo this afternoon.”
“I did. Look.” I stuck my candy bar in the pocket of my jeans and framed the black squiggle on my ribcage with both hands. “It’s a tiny dick.”
“Why did you get a tattoo of a tiny dick?”
“I didn’t mean to. It was supposed to be Totoro, but I freaked out like, sixty seconds into the tattoo and jumped up when Yoshi wasn’t expecting it. Shit. He probably thought I was going to come back. I need to text him.”
“What do you mean by freaked out?”
“I don’t know. The needle hurt, which I knew it would, but it wasn’t even all that bad. Next thing I knew, I was out of the chair and heading for the door.”
Duke held out his hand to help me off the bar. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“But you’re working. You had that big-ass double shift today.”
“I can radio in and tell them I’m taking my dinner break a bit early.”
“You’re so nice.” I jumped off the bar, grabbed my stuffed animal, and looked at my phone. Then I said, “Yoshi sent me a couple messages. Shit, so did Max! I totally forgot he was coming to the studio.”
I sent them both a quick, awkward apology while Duke asked the bartender, “Did he pay for his drinks?”
The man gestured at some bills on the bar and said, “Yup. There’s his change.”
I called, “Keep it. You’re awesome, Gary!”
“Come back any time, honey!”
I waved to him as I meandered out the door. There was a black and white police cruiser double-parked i
n front of the bar. “This is awesome,” I said as I climbed into the backseat. “It’s just like being arrested! Can we turn on the siren?” I noticed Duke’s partner behind the wheel, watching me over his shoulder with an amused expression, and I exclaimed, “Hi Finn!”
“Hey, Quinn.”
“It’s a good thing I’m going out with your partner and not you,” I said, “because our names sound really stupid together. Finn and Quinn. Quinn and Finn. We could never have one of those celebrity couple nicknames, like Brangelina. We’d just be Finn. Or Quinn. See? It totally doesn’t work. Wait, what are Duke and I then? Dinn? That sucks ass. I guess that leaves Quke, as in cucumber, but with the spelling all fucked up. Hey, did you ever wonder why cucumbers have a cute pet name? You don’t see other vegetables with that. They’re all just carrot. Or squash. Then again, I suppose squash is a cute name all on its own.”
I rambled on like that until we pulled up at the curb in front of the house a few minutes later. Duke had to let me out of the backseat, because the doors didn’t open from the inside. I paused in front of him on the sidewalk and slurred, “You’re sexy as hell in that uniform. Wanna make out?”
“Not now, Quinn.”
“You’re annoyed with me, aren’t you? I’ll have to remember not to text you next time I get drunk. Will you remind me?”
Instead of answering, he said, “Come on, let’s get you inside so you can sleep it off.”
“I can take it from here. You should go back to work so you don’t have to use up your dinner break on me.”
He walked me into the house anyway. I flopped down on the couch and grumbled, “Damn it, this thing is harder than the floor. Why, Duke? Why must you have such a joyless couch?”
That didn’t get an answer either. Instead, he asked, “Is this where you want to be, or should I help you get upstairs?”
“You don’t need to help me. I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
