Was it a note to me? Something she wanted to get out of her system without actually letting me read it?
Was it dirty?
It was probably dirty. Something sexual, for sure.
“Rem?” I heard Rome’s voice behind me, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Huh?” I said, spinning around in the office chair. “What?”
He was standing in the doorway to the office of Badd Kitty Saloon, a clipboard in his hands. I’m guessing this was a list of supplies we needed to order. I could see from where I was that most of the items were either circled, or crossed through. He was obviously following Bast’s suggestions.
“The hell are you doing in here, Rem? Doodling?” His eyes went past me to the paper in front of me that contained a summary of our finances. Between the three of us, I was best at numbers and I was here to get a handle on where we were financially.
On the paper was a jumbled mess of figures—subtractions, additions, and tallies from where I’d started going through our expenditures and subtracting them from the total amount we’d gotten from the bank. That took up roughly the top quarter of the sheet.
Beneath that was…well, it wouldn’t be fair to call it a doodle, honestly. It was more of a sketch. It was a counter with a jumble of supplies on it, and in the foreground was a tattoo chair with the outline of a body on it—front and center. The true subject of the sketch was a woman. All you could see was her naked back as she bent over the tattoo chair, the back of her head, a black braid draped over her shoulder. On her back was a rendering of nature’s wonder—the salmon, the wolf tracks, the fjord…
The strong, delicate, sinuous curve of her back and the luscious round spread of her buttocks on the stool, these were all lovingly detailed in my sketch. It was, very clearly, Juneau.
And it was, in all honesty, a pretty nice sketch. There was a lot of emotion in it, and a lot of detail.
I’d started drawing her almost unconsciously.
Rome was suddenly beside me, staring down at the sketch. “The fuck, dude? You did this?”
I shrugged; my brothers knew I sketched as a hobby, but I was very private about it, and very defensive and possessive of my sketchbooks, so I wasn’t sure either of them realized I was as talented as I was. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess.” Rome’s voice was baffled. “You guess.”
I flipped the paper over to hide the sketch. “Yeah, I guess. What do you want?”
He reached down and snagged the paper, dancing out of reach as I swiped a punch at him. “Dude, you did this?”
“No, fucker, it drew itself. Yes, I did it. So the fuck what?”
“It’s amazing, bro! She’s sexy as fuck!” He squinted at it. “Wait, is that…” He glanced at me, and then at the paper again. “It is! That’s Juneau!”
I snatched at the paper, but he kept it out of my reach. “Give it back, ass-licker, or I’ll kick your fucking teeth in.”
Rome just cackled, jogging out into the bar, shouting for Ramsey. “DUDE! RAMSEY! C’MERE!”
“Behind the bar,” Ram called. “What are you two hooligans up to now?”
Rome vaulted the bar to get away from me, shoving the sketch into Ram’s hands. “Look what our brother drew.”
“That’s Juneau.” He glanced at me, frowning. “She’s got tattoos? No way. She didn’t seem like the type.”
Knowing how defensive she’d gotten about them, I didn’t want to get into that with my brothers. “It’s just a stupid drawing. Give it back.”
This was standard Ram and Rome strategy, and I’d been dealing with it since I was a kid: they’d take something of mine and play keep away, and no matter how big and strong and fast I got, I could never win against the two of them. Not short of doing actual harm, at least, and they were my brothers after all.
Today, though, I wasn’t playing around. I slugged Ram in the gut, snatched the paper while he was gasping, vaulted the bar and donkey kicked Rome across the room as I landed, and then stood, swiveling to flash them both the bird.
“Fuck you both. I hate it when you two fucking assholes do that.”
“Dude. Unnecessary roughness,” Ram gasped.
“He’s touchy about Juneau,” Rome said, clutching and rubbing his chest where I’d kicked him with my heavy steel-toed boots. “Probably because she won’t touch him.”
“Awww. Are you getting shut down?” Ram teased. “Poor Remy.”
“Call me Remy again and see what happens, asshole,” I snarled; I hated that nickname with a violent passion.
“He’s cockblocking himself, probably,” Rome added, and then wiggled his eyebrows at me. “You know, she came home last night acting awful weird.”
“We’re not talking about Juneau,” I said, heading for the office. “I’m almost done going through our finances. Basically, if we don’t open soon, we’re gonna be fucked.”
Rome ran his hand over his spiked hair. “Yeah, I figured that much. But Bast and I are in the final stages of negotiating this deal. That’ll save our asses.”
“Do we really want them all tied up in our shit, though?” Ram asked.
I shot him a look. “You really don’t understand the state of our finances, then, Ram. We’re down to beans and rice, basically. We blew three-quarters of our entire loan buying and renovating this place, and then we blew most of the rest on shit we don’t need while not getting enough of the shit we do need. We need Bast and his brothers to bail us out.”
Ram laughed sheepishly. “Wow. We really dicked this up, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, we kind of did,” Rome agreed, not seeming upset by it at all. “But I got Kitty out of it, so I’m cool.”
“Well whoop-dee-doo for you,” Ram said, dryly. “If only that meant shit in a bucket for Rem or me.”
Rome lifted his eyebrows, shrugged, and headed for the storeroom. “Well, I mean…Izzy isn’t so hard on the eyes. And neither is Juneau. Play your cards right, boys, and things could get pretty awesome for all of us around here.”
“Not so hard on the eyes? Have you seen her cleavage, or her hip-to-waist ratio?” Ram asked, incredulous. “Kim Kardashian who? Izzy’s where it’s at, man.”
I shook my head at my brother. “So have you hooked up with her, then?”
He abruptly clammed up. “We need a few more bottles of Patrón. According to Bax, the cruise ship yuppies love their high-end tequila.”
I laughed. “That’s what I thought. So don’t give me shit about Juneau, and I won’t give you shit about Izzy. Capiche?”
Ram cackled and whipped a cardboard coaster at me. “Capiche? What are you, a mafia hitman?” He waved me away with a shooing motion. “Get out of here. There’s nothing to give me shit about, anyway. We messed around at the hospital, and that’s it. Nothing to talk about.”
“Messed around? Where, in the janitor’s closet?”
He turned away and adjusted the display of bottles. “Something like that. Don’t worry about it. It was a one-and-done sort of thing, and not even worth talking about.”
“If you’re not willing to talk about it, it is something worth talking about.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me. “So. Tell me how you know Juneau has tattoos on her back.”
I ground my molars together. “Point taken.” I folded the sketch and shoved it into my back pocket. “You know, if you ever want to, like, talk this shit out, let me know. Rome has his whole thing with Kitty going, and good for him, but it seems like you and me have our own weird situations.”
He stared at me. “Talk about it? What are we, women? Go crunch some numbers, dork.”
I flipped him off and returned to the office, forcing myself to focus on the tasks at hand. After the numbers were in, I wrote our remaining budget on the dry erase board and underlined it, intending to subtract each week’s total expenditure—and then, when we opened, what we made each day and how it broke down. Then, I went to work organizing the office—filing receipts, setting still-to-be-paid invoices in t
he appropriate box, etc.
While doing all of this, I was fighting my own brain.
Fighting my all-too-vivid memory of seeing Juneau putting her shirt on in the tattoo parlor. I found my pencil moving across a blank sheet of printer paper, sketching the image in my mind. I caught her in mid-movement—one arm angled backward toward a sleeve, and the other down at her side, already in the other sleeve.
Her breasts were the focus, and I stopped every few seconds to close my eyes, recalling the memory of them. Big enough that I’d need two hands for each one—full, round, tear-drop shaped…perfect. Areolae almost as big as my palms, with thick, protruding, hard nipples. A little dark blemish on the left breast, on the inside, low down, near her sternum. In the sketch, she was twisted in the act of putting the shirt on, and I captured the way one breast hung lower than the other, swaying with her movement, the other breast lifted up and draped sideways against her chest.
Her… anatomy sketched, I closed my eyes again and called up what I’d seen of the tattoos: dots, circles, lines, triangles during the brief instant I’d been granted that glimpse at heaven. It was hard to remember the specifics I’d seen; a totem-type orca, I think, a wolf, more bands of the repeated shapes in an upside down V from under her breasts to each hip bone—or, so I guessed.
“Jesus fuck, dude!” Rome’s voice from behind me, startling me so badly I jumped, and then abruptly threw my elbow back, catching him in the gut. “Ooof—dude, chill. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop, man.”
I flipped the paper over. “Quit sneaking up on me, Rome,” I said, spinning in the chair to face him.
He rubbed his belly—he had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and two glasses. “I was bringing us a shot to make up for teasing you. I remember how I was with Kitty, and I’m sorry.” He poured a finger for each of us, and we clinked, tossed them back, and he poured more. “Honestly, the only reason we’re even together is because she’s patient and understands my caveman ass.”
He nodded at the sketch on the desk. “You’re seriously talented, Rem.”
I lifted a shoulder. “It’s a hobby.”
He eyed the paper again. “So…is that what she really looks like?”
“For the most part…yeah.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I would not in a million years have thought she was the type to be covered in tats.”
“Makes two of us,” I said, chuckling. “She’s weird about them, though.”
“Kitty mentioned recently that she and Juneau are a lot alike in some ways—they’re both more naturally reserved and conservative. Like, modest and shit.” He shrugged. “So if you managed to see her like that—” he gestured at the paper— “I can see why she might be weird about it.”
“It’s…more than that, but I get your point.” I glanced at him. “Is Kitty still that way?”
Rome shrugged as we both sipped the whiskey. “Not as much. She’s loosening up. I actually kind of like that she doesn’t put it all out there, though, you know? Like, that shit is mine.” He gave a slow grin. “Gotta say though, she was never exactly shy, once things got going.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bro, you have no idea. They do say good girls are the ones who like to get the dirtiest.”
I folded the sketch in quarters, shoved it into my back pocket with the other one, and tossed back the last of my whiskey. “Come on. Let’s lock up for the day. My brain is fried.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, daydreaming about them big ol’ titties will do that to a guy.”
“Shut up. I was working.”
“Yeah…on your hard-on.”
“Rome, for the love of—” I snapped.
“Chill, chill—I’m fuckin’ with you, bro.” He halted, frowning at me. “Was I as testy about everything as you’re being?”
“Before you figured out your shit with Kitty?” I said. “Yeah. You were.”
He stopped, nodded, making a face. “Oh. Well. You’d better figure this shit out quick, then, because it’s getting seriously old, bro.”
We finished up a few more odds and ends, locked up, and headed for the three-bedroom apartment we rented a few blocks from the bar.
Alone in my room, I unfolded the sketches I’d done, laying them out side by side.
The one of her facing me, the look in her eyes that I’d captured—fierce, defiant, angry—was almost too good. Meaning, too much of a turn-on. It evoked one brief moment—less than fifteen seconds—that I’d never forget.
I lay on my bed and let my mind wander. Thinking of Juneau, of the moment that shirt moved aside to reveal those incredible breasts. You’d think I was a horny teenager, getting all hard from a few seconds’ glance at a pair of tits, like I’d never seen them before.
But there was just something about her. Something exotic, alluring, and intoxicating.
My wallet was still in my pocket—drew it out, found the square of paper, and toyed with it, scraping with a thumbnail at the edge where she’d tucked the paper into itself. Telling myself not to open it, not to read it.
Playing games is one thing, actually opening her private shit was another.
I’m an asshole—but am I that much of a dick?
I threw the square of paper across my room with a frustrated grunt.
Now I was horny and irritated.
Great.
I pulled up a porn site on my phone in an attempt to distract myself and alleviate the situation, but the moment I closed my eyes and wrapped a fist around my engorged cock, all I could see was her. Those eyes, so defiant, so fierce, so conflicted. Her skin, dark and smooth and soft and so beautifully illustrated. Those breasts, pendulous and heavy, lifting and swaying with her ragged breathing…
My fist moved, gliding as I thought of her, just standing there, staring at me. In my runaway imagination, the moment lasted a lot longer. She just stood there, staring at me—letting me look at her. No shirt in her hands, just bare, confident—but slightly hesitant. Not ashamed of her nudity, but unsure of me. Maybe she’d wrap an arm under them, try to cover them—I’d stop her with a word, tell her never to cover up such beauty. Such perfection.
Fist flying faster, I wondered where else she had tattoos. If they covered her hips, her thighs. That skirt was held up by one lonely little zipper—I’d just have to give one good tug and it would float down around her feet…she’d be wearing white lacy underwear. Not a thong, nothing so daring as that. The kind of underwear that are cut high up around her hips, showing off the sexy wedge where her thighs met. She’d have tattoos on her thighs, I decided. High up. All the way around. She’d trace the bands of ink with her fingers, teasing me, drawing those thick, strong thighs apart, showing me the design as it worked its way around the tender inner part of her thigh. Maybe she’d tug aside that bit of lace covering her, and show herself to me.
Touch herself.
Those plump lips I wanted so badly to bite down on, to kiss, to lick…they’d part, and a breath would escape, and her eyes would be on me as she whimpered and writhed.
Fuck…
My cock ached, throbbed. I yanked my shirt off, tossed it aside, and gave in to the fantasy. I’d thought about her plenty since meeting her, and my imagination had run amok quite a bit in wayward moments, but I’d never done this. Never jacked it while thinking of Juneau.
Those eyes, they’d watch me so raptly, so curiously, so eagerly, if I were to do this in front of her. She’d watch my hand sliding up and down my thick, hard cock.
She’d want it. Want to help.
I’d let her.
Her hands were small, but strong looking. Soft. Warm. Her fingers would wrap around me, sliding down and gliding up, and her eyes would watch as I gasped, and her tongue would dance along her lips as she hungered for me, for my release. When I couldn’t hold back anymore, she’d accept my cum in her cupped hands. Or maybe on her belly, all over those beautiful tattoos.
/> Or releasing across those plump, heavy, luscious breasts, swaying as she came beneath me.
I exploded, imagining Juneau underneath me, head craned backward, eyes clenched shut, breasts shaking and trembling and bouncing as she came, calling my name…
I was a mess, then—it was all over my stomach and chest. I snatched a handful of Kleenex and cleaned up, feeling relieved but still dirty, and more desperate than ever to see Juneau again.
If all I ever got of her was the one look I’d go crazy. Thanks to my rampant, dirty imagination I needed more of her. I needed to know if the reality was as incredibly sexy and fierce and shy and intoxicating as my imagination made her out to be.
I had to have Juneau Isaac.
It was no longer a mere desire.
It was need—a pure, raw, unadulterated, insatiable need.
8
Juneau
Mom sat under her collapsible awning, her wares spread out on the folding table, which was sitting on a colorful rug she’d woven herself. Her little hut was set up on the wharf near where most of the cruise ships docked, to take advantage of the streams of tourists disembarking and reboarding. She was one of a very few vendors licensed to operate on the wharf itself, mainly because she’d been doing it for so long. Her mother, my grandmother, had sold similar pieces of handmade art on these docks decades ago, and my mother had continued the tradition.
She had a small carving knife in one hand, and a tiny block of wood in the other, and she was slowly, methodically whittling away at the block, revealing, stroke by stroke, the shape of a hedgehog. I saw her plan for the little piece of art: it was small enough to sit in the palm of her hand, and she was carving the face, legs, and body out of wood. The actual spikes, however, were created out of tiny pieces of jade and lapis lazuli, which she’d already shaped for her purposes. A piece of wood she’d procured from the forest, a few dollars worth of stones, and several hours of work would probably yield her a hundred dollars, all told.
I had expected, from a young age, to carry on the tradition myself—I loved the art, the focus, the creativity. Whittling animals from wood, shaping pieces of stone, creating necklaces and earrings and bracelets and figurines. From the time I was able to walk on my own, I spent my every waking moment with Mom huddled under this awning on the wharf, playing with a carving, helping her, charming customers and passersby, running off to find a snack with the handful of dollars and change Mom would give me.
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