It's only fitting, I think, after spending all day sky-high in the solar system, that the goddess would appear before I fully crash back to the earth.
I say nothing for a moment, continuing to drink, as the bartender approaches for Avery's order.
"Uh, something fruity," she says. "Surprise me, I guess."
Hesitating, the bartender asks for her ID. She pulls out her license, and I peek over at it, like the nosey bastard I am.
Avery Nadine Moore. Twenty-one years old.
She's about as young as I suspected. I'm pushing the end of my twenties, thirty slowly creeping up on me. I feel a hell of a lot older some days as life tries to beat me down. But her? She has all the youth and innocence of someone not yet fucked over by the universe.
Lucky.
"Hey," she says shyly, peeking over at me when the bartender brings her a pink drink, something in a curvy glass that looks like it would come with a fruit wedge and a tiny umbrella in a classier place.
I nod in greeting as I cut my eyes her way, slowly scanning her. Her lips, a soft pink hue that matches the alcohol, wraps around the straw, her cheeks hollowing as she sips, her throat flexing as she swallows. I watch the motion, again and again, imagining her on her knees in front of me. I can feel my cock hardening eagerly, desperate to make that a reality.
"I'm glad you're here," I say. "It's nice to have some company."
"I'm sure you always have plenty of company."
"What makes you think that?"
“I know your kind."
I shift in my stool, turning slightly to face her as I finish off my beer and motion for another. "What kind would that be?"
"Oh, you know," she says. “Typical tattooed bad boy and his many admirers."
Huh. “You have much experience with that… kind?"
“Not personally, but I read."
“You read?"
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re starting to become somewhat of a cliché trope in romance novels, you know."
Surprised laughter escapes me. I should probably be offended by that, but I somehow feel a little lighter than I felt just moments ago. "You shouldn't believe the shit you read, Aphrodite. It’s called fiction for a reason."
"So what should I believe?"
"Only what you know to be true."
She takes another sip of her drink before making a face and pushing it aside. "Okay, then… let's talk about what I know."
I nod for her to go on.
"I know you have a tattoo shop…"
"Work at one," I correct her. "I don't have anything... it's not mine… not even close. I'm just lucky enough to be employed."
"Okay, then… you work at a tattoo shop. I know you're there almost every day, and you have a daughter that I’m guessing few people actually know about. And... that's about it."
"So I'm an artist who works his ass off and tries to keep his private life private… what more do you need to know?"
"How about why?" she asks, gazing at me.
"Why is a dangerous question to ask," I reply. "The 'why' is never as appealing as the 'what'. It kills the fantasy, and all that's left is the reality, and trust me… that's not very pretty."
The reality? Classic case of fucked-up family spawning a degenerate son, then promptly disowning him when he proves he is, in fact, just as fucked-up as the rest of them.
"Well, maybe I don't like pretty." Avery shrugs a shoulder. "Maybe I like it ugly."
I chuckle. "That's good to know."
The bartender slings me a second beer, and I take a sip of it before turning to her again and changing the subject. "So tell me about you."
"I thought you were going to help me figure myself out."
"I'll help you with the why," I say. "But I want to know the what."
"There's not much to say, really. I'm a dancer."
A dancer. Of course. It's no wonder her body is so stunning. “That's cool. I’ve known a few dancers."
“Really?"
“Yeah, sure. Most were just trying to put themselves through college. We do what we have to do, you know? No shame in that.”
“I, uh… what?” She gasps. “You think I… that I’m a stripper? Seriously? Do I look like one to you?"
My eyes scan her again. “You look like you’d make a good one."
She gasps again, playfully shoving me. “I’m a dancer. I dance. With my clothes on."
“Ah,” I say, laughing. “I guess there’s no shame in that, either."
She rolls her eyes, the blush extending from her face down her neck.
“So where do you do this dancing?"
“At Juilliard, mostly,” she says. “I’m in my fourth year."
"Bet that takes up a lot of your time."
"It does," she admits. "I practice every day, sometimes all night, depending on what we're rehearsing for. It doesn't leave much time for a life outside of it, although I try to keep one. It keeps me sane to have something else that's separate, away from all of that… something that's just mine, you know? That I can keep for just me."
"So in other words, you're an artist who works her ass off and tries to keep her private life private."
Avery hesitates, clutching her glass, her drink halfway to her lips as she considers that. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way."
That’s all I really need to know.
She finishes the rest of her drink, setting it down on the counter, as I motion for the bartender again. "Get her another one of these, and put it on my tab."
"You don't have to do that," Avery interjects.
"I know," I reply. "I want to."
Drinks flow, as does conversation, an easiness existing between us that unsettles me at moments, when she looks over at me, eyes half-lidded from a combination of the alcohol and a brewing desire. I can feel it oozing off of her, a familiar sensation I revel in, the feeling of pure, unadulterated lust making the air heady as it mixes with her sweet perfume. She knows what she's doing to me, with the way she gently bites down on her bottom lip as her gaze drifts to my mouth, like thoughts of kissing me consume her.
I’m not a big kisser, generally speaking, but damn if she doesn’t make it tempting.
A few times she leans closer, and I follow her lead, but before our lips meet she pulls back away.
It’s driving me fucking crazy.
I flirt, my voice low and smooth, and she absorbs every word, her body involuntarily reacting as she leans closer, our legs touching, my fingers occasionally trailing along hints of her exposed flushed skin. I’ve done this dance so much I could do it with my eyes closed, and it always ends the same way… naked and satisfied.
Time wears on, hours passing, before the bartender strolls by, slapping his hand against the bar to get our attention. "Last call, guys."
I glance at my watch. It's damn near four in the morning. I look at Avery, seeing the shock in her face as she realizes the time. "Crap! When did it get so late?"
Seeing as how the shop doesn't open until ten, and my first appointment isn't until noon, I have time to sleep off the alcohol. But based on her expression, I can tell she isn't so lucky. "What time do you have to be up?"
She laughs dryly. "I have a meeting at seven."
"You might be sober by then," I say, hesitating when she stands and stumbles over her own feet. "Or not."
I pay the tab, cringing when it takes nearly every penny in my pocket, and follow Avery outside, hesitating on the sidewalk in front of the bar as she stands along the curb.
I open my mouth, words forming in my mind that never make it past my lips. Before I can speak, Avery hails a cab and is gone without so much as even a "goodnight."
I stand there, staring at the taillights of the cab.
Blown off. That's a first.
Boom. Bang. Buzz.
Blah, blah, blah.
My head pounds, magnifying the noises around the shop. I'm tense, my muscles taut as the remnants of a hangover linger in my system. I feel like one of Lexie'
s little wind-up toys, wound as far as it can go but never let loose. It's hard to relax, hard to unwind, without any kind of release. Everything is building up inside of me, needing to be purged, putting me further on edge as the hours slip away.
It's nearing ten o'clock at night, closing time, but the shop is still in utter chaos. I'm finishing my last job for the day, a touch up on a skeletal system I inked onto a guy's arms last summer, adding more detail and extending it to cover the top of his hands. I tried to talk him out of it, having a rule about hand tattoos, but the guy was insistent, despite knowing the risks.
I finish tattooing the last finger and pull the needle back, gently wiping the irritated skin. Surveying my work, I shut off the machine and sigh. "There you go."
I turn off the music, finding temporary relief to my headache without Metallica blaring above me, and head straight out of the room, not waiting on his visual assessment in the mirror. I go straight for the receptionist's desk, slipping in beside Ellie as she talks to a client, scheduling an appointment. I root around in her desk, ignoring the annoyed looks she shoots me, dodging an elbow jab as I steal a cigarette from her pack of Camels.
I'm lighting it before I even make it out the front door. I inhale deeply, the smoke infiltrating my lungs and soothing my nerves. Fuck, I haven't had one in damn near two weeks. Pocketing the lighter, I take another deep drag, savoring the harsh burn in my chest, when someone calls my name.
"Reece?"
I glance down the sidewalk at the sound of the voice, pausing when I see Avery. I exhale slowly, the smoke surrounding me in a cloud as she approaches. "Hey."
"Hey," she says, pausing in front of me, her brow furrowing slightly. "I didn't know you smoked."
There's something in her voice, something I know well. It's the same reaction I get from Lexie. Disgust.
I take another pull, holding the smoke in my lungs, before throwing the cigarette to the ground and tramping it out.
"I don't," I say, releasing the breath as a soft smile touches my lips. "I'm surprised to see you."
"Really?"
"Yeah, with the way you bailed out last night, I wasn't sure you cared to see me again," I reply, digging around in my pockets for a pack of gum. I pop a piece in my mouth to rid myself of the taste, to dull the still-lingering craving, and offer her a piece, but she declines.
"I'm sorry about that," she says. "I didn't mean to leave without saying goodbye, but… well…"
"No need to apologize. I get it."
"Do you?"
I nod. “You don’t owe me anything."
She opens her mouth to respond to that when the door behind us opens, my client strolling out. He interrupts to tip me, thanking me profusely for the job, excitedly showing his hand tattoos to Avery. She laughs as the man struts off, turning to me as I pocket the cash. "Those look amazing."
"For now," I say. Give it a few months, I think, glancing at my own tattooed hands. They'll fade and blur and look like they were done in someone's kitchen with a cheap ink pen and a junkie's syringe. "So is that why you came by? To apologize?"
"Yes," she replies. "And I thought maybe we could pick up where we left off."
"Pick up where we left off," I echo, pausing before asking, "which was where, exactly?"
She laughs, motioning across the street. "The bar, I guess, and then wherever we go from there."
I cock an eyebrow at her. "What time do you have to be up tomorrow?"
"Not until afternoon."
"So no running away from me?"
"Not as long as you're done with me by morning." The moment she says it, her eyes widen slightly. "I didn't mean it that way."
"Huh." I grin playfully. "That's too bad."
I tell Avery I’ll meet her across the street as I go back inside the studio. I quickly clean up my workspace before locking my door and heading back to Ellie's desk. "Thanks for the smoke, El. I owe you one."
She eyes me suspiciously. "You're in a better mood."
"Yeah."
"You must've really needed that cigarette."
I offer only a shrug before heading out, going straight across the street. Avery is already sitting at the bar, a pink drink in front of her, with a can of Genesee to her left.
I slide onto the stool beside her, immediately picking up the beer. "You put this on my tab?"
"Yep."
"Yours too?"
"Yep," she says, taking a sip of her drink. "Picking up right where we left off, remember?"
I smile. "Good."
It comes easy for us once more, as we laugh and chat, flirting and drinking the night away. Our bodies are drawn together like magnets, slowly moving closer to one another as time wears on.
It's earlier tonight, not even two in the morning, when I can barely take it anymore. Avery sips on a drink—her third, forth, maybe even fifth. I watch her, reaching over and brushing my knuckles against her flushed cheek. I see her shiver from the touch. "You wanna get out of here?"
She nods, the corner of her lips tugging into a smile, as she continues to drink, quickly finishing what's left in her glass. I pick up my beer, chugging the rest of it, and stand up. I offer Avery my hand and she takes it without hesitation, linking her fingers with my strong, calloused ones. I stare down at them for a second as her thumb gently strokes my skin.
Is she doing that on purpose?
It's distracting.
"So, where are we going?" she asks when I lead her out into the cool night.
Her words slur. Definitely a lightweight. She's drunk.
I pause, turning to her. "Where do you wanna go?"
"Anywhere," she says, no hesitation.
I debate for a second. "Do you live on campus?"
Please say no.
"Yes."
Damn.
Her place is definitely out of the question.
My eyes dart across the street to the darkened tattoo shop, everyone gone for the night. We could certainly have privacy there, but it feels wrong. Mixing business with pleasure is a big ass no-no. I don't take girls to my place, though. Never that. I always go home with them, so I can slip out in the middle of the night and avoid the next morning awkwardness. Less messy.
I don’t do messy.
Not anymore.
Fuck.
Hotel? No, that's just straight up demeaning, and not to mention expensive, unless I take her somewhere that charges by the hour. Jesus, I'm an asshole, but not that big of an asshole. Right?
"Well?" Avery says when I hesitate, sliding closer as she gazes up at me, practically wrapping herself around my arm. She's still stroking my skin with her thumb. "Where are we going?"
Fuck it.
"My place," I say, motioning down the street. "It's just a few blocks."
I hail a cab, much too impatient—much too drunk—to make the walk this time of night. Besides, if I put it off any longer, I’m liable to change my mind before we even get there. We make it to my building in a matter of minutes. Avery follows me inside and up the steps, to the second floor, fidgeting as I unlock the apartment door and motion for her to go inside. The moment I step in behind her, she practically throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her lips to mine.
I hesitate, startled by the feel of her kiss, before kicking the door shut behind me and kissing her back.
I don't bother turning on lights. Grasping her hips, I lead her through the darkened apartment and straight back to my bedroom, the last door on the right. We paw at clothes, fumbling with buttons and tugging on stubborn zippers, lips moving feverishly. She stumbles, barely able to stay on her own two feet as I lead her to my bed. She collapses into it, giggling, as I pull her shirt off and toss it aside. It's dark—too damn dark for me to see much of anything—but my lips explore her chest, caressing her soft skin.
"That feels so good," she moans, the words barely audible as she runs her hands through my hair. The drowsy tone of her voice slows my movements as I press barely-there kisses along her c
ollarbones and up her neck. She loosens her hold on me and hums with contentment in my ear, the sound going straight to my cock.
Down boy.
Groaning, I pull back after a moment, knowing I have to stop. She's too damn drunk for this. She'll be passed out soon, and I know for a fact I'm not that much of an asshole. It takes a sick fuck to take advantage of a woman in this situation.
I gaze down at her, faintly making out her face in the darkness, watching as her eyes drift closed. I can only laugh at my shitty luck. We definitely picked up where we left off last night: unable to do anything.
Carefully, I move away and slip out of the bed.
She's fast asleep before I even make it out of the bedroom. I head across the hall to the bathroom and flick on the light, shielding my eyes from the bright glow. Shutting the door, I lean against it and let out an exasperated sigh.
I can't do it again.
I'm wound too tight.
I'm going to explode.
Reaching into my boxers, I palm my hard cock. It throbs, desperate for friction… desperate for the kind of attention it has been denied yet again. Closing my eyes, I start stroking myself. It isn't soft; I certainly don't savor it. I stroke rough, and fast, more about relief than pleasure, needing to release some steam or I'll be a miserable, short-tempered bastard come morning.
Even more so than usual.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I growl, banging my head against the door as I feel my orgasm building, pleasurable pain ripping through me. I clench my jaw to hold back the noises vibrating my chest. I come in my palm, shoulders sagging as some of the tension recedes from my body.
After cleaning up, I head back to my bedroom, hearing Avery loudly snoring as she snuggles up with my only pillow.
I don't know what to do.
There's a girl in my bed and she's fast asleep. She's sleeping.
Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to do?
Sighing, I carefully cover her half-naked body with a flimsy blanket and climb in beside her to try to get some sleep.
"Shit, shit, shit…"
My eyes pop open at the sound of the panicked voice. I blink a few times, disoriented, and roll over in bed, seeking out the source. The moment my gaze finds Avery, memories of last night come back to me, and I let out a sleepy chuckle.
The Mad Tatter Page 4
