Anna Martin's Opposites Attract Box Set: Tattoos & Teacups - Something Wild - Rainbow Sprinkles

by Anna Martin

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

  A pair of red peppers.

  “I still don’t believe you,” she said. I had to admire her persistence, but then again, when it came to gossip, Marley was practically an expert at wheedling it out of me.

  “Don’t, then,” I said, forcing nonchalance into the words as a bag of potatoes signalled the end of the vegetable aisle.

  “What’s he like?” she demanded in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, and I couldn’t help but smile. Her method could use work, but there could be little doubt about how much Marley cared.

  “Young,” I said with a touch of guilt.

  “I know that,” she said with a sigh. “Tell me something else.”

  “He’s intelligent,” I said. “More than I gave him credit for. And he has this amazing sense of self, like he’s entirely comfortable in his own skin and he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval. I like that about him.”

  “How big is his cock?”

  “Marlene,” I said. “I’m scandalised. I have no idea. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fairly big,” I admitted. “I’ve not had a decent grope yet though so officially the jury’s still out.”

  A small blue-haired lady was squinting at me with a murderous expression in the bakery aisle, so I made a swift change of direction, loaf of bread in hand, and headed for the deli. It seemed logical.

  Over the phone line, I heard Marley sigh with happiness. “I love having a gay best friend,” she said. “And you’re finally living up to the high standards I set for you.”

  “I’m so pleased you’ve finally managed to squeeze me into a stereotype,” I said sarcastically.

  “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist,” she said airily. “When can I meet him?”

  “When he’s something more than a nice guy who I’ve seen a couple of times? I haven’t met any of his friends yet, Marley. We’re taking it slow.”

  “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  “Because… because I actually like him, okay? I don’t want this to be another one-date-wonder situation.”

  She was silent for a beat too long, then sighed dreamily. “You’re such a romantic. When are you seeing him again?”

  “Friday night,” I admitted. “I said I’d cook so I’m trying to get some groceries in.”

  “And wine,” she added. “Don’t forget the wine.”

  “Lots of wine.”

  “Yes. Then if the entire date goes to shit you can just get drunk, get naked, and masturbate.”

  “A regular Friday night in!” I said chirpily.

  “Make sure he’s good to you, Robert,” she said, her tone suddenly changing to serious. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t,” I said. I appreciated the gesture, but really, she was worrying about nothing. “I’ll fill you in on the gossip when I actually have some.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Tell the girls I said hi.”

  “Will do. See you soon.”

  I hung up and carefully tucked my phone back into my pocket, then squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I didn’t yet share a fraction of Marley’s confidence, but I could pretend. That would have to do, for now.

  By the time Thursday rolled around, I’d managed to work myself up into something akin to blind, breath-stealing panic.

  The flat—and the cat—were given an unprecedented spring clean—even though it was September—as a way to distract myself from my own thoughts. My flat was… modest. It was never supposed to be my home; I’d bought it out of necessity. Being close to the university meant my commute was blessedly short, and it was the perfect size for a single man such as myself. The realtor had described the kitchen as quaint, cosy, bijoux—utter bullshit, of course. The place was tiny. Just enough room to back up against the refrigerator and receive oral sex. To fight the memories of two nights before, I forced myself to stay in the bijoux room and tidy, rearranging my cupboards and cleaning out my salad drawer. Defrosting the freezer. New grocery list. Cat food. Milk, bread, tea. Condoms.

  Shit!

  The vacuum cleaner did a job on the carpets and another on the sofa, digging out stray cat hairs and banishing them to the swirling vortex of Dyson-made doom. Fear made me poetic. I rearranged my bookshelf. (Twice.) Considered the Dewey decimal system and discarded it in favour of good old-fashioned alphabetical. By author and genre. Therefore, Anthropology by Darren Abraham started my collection. I gave up when my brain told me to keep Kipling together but my new system demanded that poetry, novels, and short stories be separated.

  Moved to the bedroom. Changed the sheets. Decided that I needed new sheets, ones without floral patterns that I’d inherited from my mother. Opened my wardrobe. Sank to the floor, clutching my chest as the spasms of a panic attack gripped me.

  I thumbed speed dial on my phone and prayed that my mother wouldn’t answer.

  “McKinnon residence,” Jilly answered, her voice light and chirpy.

  “Jill,” I said. “I need to go shopping.”

  Chapter 3

  “So, what are we looking for?” Jilly asked, her arm threaded through mine as we navigated the mall, stopping frequently to peer into windows at tiny-waisted, large-breasted mannequins with milky, unseeing eyes. They reminded me of something out of Doctor Who from my childhood and, due to that connotation, freaked me out.

  “I need some new linens,” I said in my most airy, offhand manner. “And some new clothes.”

  “You’re seeing someone,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement as she spun me around. I blushed. “You are! Tell me about him.”

  “I’m telling you nothing,” I said. “We’ve only been on one date. I’ll tell you more if it goes any further.”

  She pouted but acquiesced. “Clothes shopping? For you? Well, it happens so rarely we should make the most of it.”

  “I buy new clothes,” I protested, stung.

  “Yeah, a new corduroy jacket to replace your last corduroy jacket. You’re such a cliché.”

  “I need jeans,” I said, ignoring her. “And shirts. And maybe a new jumper.”

  By the time we sat down for lunch, burgers sitting like kings on unfolded wax paper and shiny golden fries split between us, I had spent nearly three hundred dollars. On clothes. We hadn’t gotten to the linens yet. I was desperately not thinking about the money lest it cause another panic attack.

  “Please tell me?” my sister begged. Her eyes widened, and her lower lip was thrust out in a parody of childish begging. Which had always worked on me.

  “He’s nice,” I said, giving in. “He makes me feel… I don’t know. Younger. And so much older than him at the same time.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “So much older than him.”

  I sighed heavily. “Somewhat.”

  “Ooh,” she said, grinning. “A younger man. You old dog, Robert.”

  “He calls me Rob,” I admitted, swirling a fry in tomato ketchup.

  “And he still has his balls?”

  I snorted with laughter. “Apparently so. I haven’t gotten a good look at them yet, I’ll admit.”

  “Yet?”

  “Yet. I’ve said too much. Don’t tell Mum, for God’s sake.”

  “I won’t.”

  She wouldn’t. We were far from close, Jilly and I, but we had the shared experience of being uprooted from our home at a young age and being forced to relocate to a new, scary environment. She had adapted much better than I had. Being younger had its advantages, as did her naturally extroverted nature.

  I paid for lunch, treating her since she’d helped—there was no denying that—with the shopping.

  The only thing left was for me to actually call him so all the effort was worthwhile.

  In lieu of making a call, I diverted my attentions via a barber shop.

  “Trim?” I was offered.

  I wrinkled my no
se. “A little bit shorter than normal?” I posed it as a question, leaving room for mocking if my suggestion was stupid.

  “Sure,” Alfred said. Alfred was closing in on seventy-five, at least, and refused to retire until his son returned from his tour in Iraq. Only then, Alfred claimed, could he close up shop. And who was I to challenge his superstitions?

  The satin-smooth cape was tucked around my neck, and as the first curls of my hair dropped to the floor, my phone buzzed in my pocket, causing me to nearly leap out of the chair in shock.

  “Gracious, boy, what on earth was that?”

  “Just my phone,” I said, sitting back down, blushing furiously. “Sorry, Alfred.”

  I pulled it out from under the voluminous cape and opened the text message.

  Hey.

  From Chris. Just one word.

  Hey.

  I sent a message back. Waited.

  What are you doing?

  Getting my hair cut.

  Alfred asked, “Who are you sending messages to like a teenager?”

  “A friend,” I said, ducking my head.

  “Oh, come on, boy, I’ve known you too long for you to be embarrassed. Tell me about her.”

  Her. Her her her her her. Female. Actually, no.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said honestly. Sort of honestly. There was nothing to tell about a “her.”

  “I know when not to push,” he said, remaining aloof.

  He didn’t push, to his credit, and I tipped him well for keeping his nose out.

  My phone beeped again in the car.

  Are we still on for tonight?

  My heart hitched in my throat.

  Yes, I am if you are?

  I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the Send button for long moments while I contemplated the possible ramifications of my actions, closed my eyes, and pressed down.

  There was no way I could drive until I heard back from him. The metaphorical mist of rejection hung heavy in the car, swirling around the air freshener and clogging up the rear view mirror. In an attempt at distracting myself, I pulled down the visor and checked out my hair in the little mirror, turning my head from side to side to get a better look. It was okay. Shorter at the sides than I’d worn it in a long time but still longer on the top, folding back nicely from my forehead and held there with viscous gel that gave it a dull shine.

  The phone beeped.

  Sure. What time should I come over?

  I took several deep, cleansing breaths.

  Is 7 okay for you?

  Yup. See you then.

  With that decided, I swung by the supermarket on my way back to the flat to pick up the last of the groceries I’d need. Then spent a further twenty minutes roaming the aisles, trying to decide what on Earth to cook. I wasn’t a particularly bad cook, but I wasn’t Gordon Ramsey and never would be. I could make lasagne… nice, tasty, inoffensive lasagne. And ciabatta bread—not garlic. Just in case.

  Popcorn, that rare Saturday-morning-pictures treat from my childhood, now readily available “pop in the bag” style, was added to my basket. Though I would mourn the loss of the sweetened kind we preferred in Scotland, I had nevertheless adapted to the buttered version here in the States. It would be ready, freshly popped in a bowl, for either pre- or post-dinner consumption.

  The rhythmic task of preparing the food calmed me somewhat; it was a focus for my scattered nerves, which were being soothed by my favourite album by my favourite band, my cat’s namesake. Flea wound his way around my legs, crying for attention as I simmered the sauce. I scooped him up and gave him a tickle under the chin, then gave him a few treats that were all he’d really wanted in the first place.

  When the doorbell rang, I was freshly showered, the food smelled delicious, and the new shirt I’d bought with Jilly did, I’ll admit, look good. Better. Better than the last time he’d seen me.

  I opened the door with a smile.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said, leaning in to kiss me quickly. To my absolute disgust, my stomach fluttered at the gesture. “This is for you.”

  He was holding out a bottle of wine, a nice bottle by the looks of it, an Italian merlot that would be lovely with the lasagne.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Thanks. Come in. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  I watched, all attempts at surreptitiousness failing miserably as he stripped out of his leather motorcycle jacket and boots, hanging the former on the coat hook and setting the latter down next to the door. Neatly. I was in love.

  “I made lasagne, I hope that’s okay,” I said, instead of confessing my feelings.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Smells better.”

  There was a glint in his eye that I recognised from the first night we’d met, something dark and humorous, dangerous, maybe, intensely… intense. Like a private joke he was unwilling to share. I cocked an eyebrow at him, questioning. He was still smiling as he took a step toward me again, bracing his palms flat on my chest as he leaned up and in for another, slower, sweeter kiss.

  I let my fingertips feather through his hair; the lightness of it surprised me, as if the pale strands were somehow less substantial due to their lack of colour.

  “What was that for?” I asked as we broke apart.

  Chris shrugged. “Because I wanted to.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  The dining table—such as it was; it only sat two people—had been set already, and I’d stuck a candle in an old bottle and let it burn down low. A little corny, maybe, but nice. I directed Chris to a corkscrew and wineglasses as I served up and placed a large bowl of salad on the table between us.

  Fortune or fate had us sitting at the same time.

  He raised his glass, the smirk back on his face, and I clinked mine against it.

  “To….” I let my voice trail off, letting him finish the toast.

  “To dashingly handsome Scotsmen and their sublime taste in men?” he suggested.

  I laughed. “And to rather beautiful percussionists who know how to flatter.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  For all of my concern that the spark between us might have fizzled out, I needn’t have worried. He was still charming and funny and sweet—not that it was likely that he’d forgotten how to be, in the past few days, but it was reassuring nonetheless. The conversation flowed like the wine from the bottle, and the wine itself eased the conversation along nicely. It was only when the candle started to flicker, having burned down to nearly the end of the wick, that I noticed the time. We’d long since cleared away the plates and sat down again, hands cupping the bowls of our wineglasses to bring the rich liquid to body temperature.

  Our bodies were angled together over the table; the edge dug into my stomach, but I wasn’t going to lean back. When he moved, I mirrored his actions. When I tilted my head to the side, he followed suit.

  “Tell me about Scotland,” he said.

  I smiled sadly. “I haven’t been back in a long time.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s a long way away. I don’t really keep in touch with my family over there anymore, not past the annual exchange of Christmas cards, anyway.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Some days,” I said, sipping the wine. “I miss… the driving rain.” I laughed. “You’ve never seen rain until you’ve seen Highland rain. And the sense of history. Everything is so old.”

  “I’d love to go there one day.”

  “A lot of Americans do,” I said. “It’s very picturesque. All, you know, cobbled streets and medieval churches. Hundreds and hundreds of years of history and development and change. It’s easy to get lost. I heard once that Edinburgh defies all laws of geography and physics, inasmuch as when you go somewhere, you go uphill. And when you take the same route home, you go uphill again. It’s true.”

  Chris smiled and reached over for my hand. I let him take it. He stroked my wrist with his thumb for a moment, and t
hen I flipped his hand over to reveal the bright skull tattoo.

  “Tell me about this?” I asked.

  “It’s a Day of the Dead skull,” he said. “It’s a Mexican Catholic tradition, honouring those who have passed. This one was for my best friend; he died in a car accident when we were seventeen.”