by Racquel Reck
Climbing the stairs to my loft, the sound of water running filters down the small staircase. Ben’s brushing his teeth. I smile and enter. My loft is huge with big floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything is open, the kitchen and dining room lead into the large living room slash bedroom. Ben’s bed is in the far corner and mine is in the opposite with curtains around it. The only room in here is the bathroom, which Gary put in. It was supposed to be an apology for cheating on me, and a gift since he found out I was pregnant with Ben. I should have run then.
My kitchen is off to the left and I head there first. The money and the report have to go in the safe. I open up the cabinet under my sink and stuff them in there.
The water cuts off and Ben comes barreling out of the bathroom in his black-and-white skull PJs.
"What story are you going to read to me tonight?" I always have him read the stories. It’s better practice and for a minute there his grades were lacking in that department.
Ben walks over to his bookshelf and pulls out Where the Wild Things Are. Good choice and it’s a fast read. I tuck him in and we say his prayers. Then I climb in bed and snuggle him as he reads the story of a wild little boy named Max. I lean down and kiss the top of his black, curly head. Mm…watermelon. I love the smell of his kid shampoo. When he closes the book he looks up at me with innocent blue eyes. I’m a sucker for blue eyes.
"Mom, why doesn’t Dad write to me? He doesn’t love me, does he?"
My heart stops. My eyes burn and start to water. I hold the tears in not wanting Ben to see me cry. He needs to know that I'm strong, even if I'm not. It sounds like an innocent enough question, but how can I answer that without upsetting him? Lie. "Your father loves you very much."
"No, he doesn’t." It’s a harsh comment, and the reality of it sucks. "He never writes to me, and if he loved me he wouldn’t have went away."
I hug him to me and kiss his head, only to hide the tears that threaten to come, secretly cursing his father and myself for putting him in this position. Should’ve never hooked up with that evil bastard. But then I wouldn’t have Ben, and I can’t imagine my life without him.
"He went away because he loves you so much." Filling his head with these lies hurts, but he’s not old enough to understand. "He has to get things in order so he can give you the best life possible."
"Davon said that his dad knows mine, and that Dad gives him tatts in prison. But only bad people go to prison, Mom. What did he do?"
That’s one question I have no clue how to answer. I never told Ben where his father is, only that he was away. Now I want to throttle Davon. "How about you read me another story?"
“Why won’t you tell me? I’m eight—I can handle it. Did he kill someone?”
“No.” Only almost killed me. That’s not why he’s in prison, though. I never told the cops who my attacker was—claimed I didn’t remember. If Gary got off from the drug charge, I didn’t want him hiring someone to knock me off for going to the cops and saying he beat me. “He did some things that were a little illegal.” And that’s all I’m saying.
Ben eyes me for a minute like he’s going to ask more.
I shake my head. “That’s all you’re getting out of me, and it’s way past your bedtime.”
He yawns and snuggles further down into me. I grab the tale of Little Red Riding Hood off his nightstand and hand it to him. He begins to read me the story. But my mind wanders back to the time when Ben was three weeks old. I was exhausted, and asked Gary if he would feed him for me so I could get some sleep.
If you didn’t want a kid, you shoulda kept your legs closed. Gary’s words burned deep, leaving a scar on my soul. My head keeps telling me that it wouldn’t have happened without him, that his harsh comment holds no meaning. That I wasn’t some slut he knocked up. Dammit. Silent tears.
When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t bring myself to get an abortion. Gary was pissed. He slept with Paula a few nights later. And I kept believing the lies, him promising he would change. Once he was convicted, I was put under close scrutiny by the courts. I had social workers all over my case and I had to prove I was fit to keep my son. Never again. I will never take Gary back and let him destroy our lives as he’s such an expert at doing.
Ben's snoring. Carefully extracting myself, I leave the bed and gently take the book from his loose hold. I brush aside a stray black curl and kiss the top of his head. My little Duders. His father might not love him, but I can't imagine my life without him. Everything I'm doing now is for him. Moving him to a better neighborhood is at the top of my priority list. I sigh, then head to the bathroom to fix some of the mascara that’s streaked down my face. I need to invest in waterproof.
After touching up my makeup, I head to my front door. Taking a deep breath, I cut the lights. The only glow is the dim light from Ben’s night-light. I step out into the hall and lock up my loft. A wild commotion comes from downstairs. It sounds like we have some business and my somber mood brightens a little. They won’t wake Ben because I soundproofed the floor with padding when he was a baby. Living with Gary and his crazy biker parties, I made that a first priority when I brought Ben home from the hospital.
The commotion grows louder the further I go down the small staircase. Tryst’s gravel voice is the loudest of all. He doesn’t sound angry, and I think this is the first time in a long while I’ve heard his booming laugh.
"Tryst, what the–" I stop dead in my tracks. My heart races and my stomach flips. Piercing ice-blue eyes bore into mine. Morgan.
Morgan
Shay. Up close she’s even more gorgeous than I remember. Her plump lips are perfect for her pixie-like face. The sea green of her eyes is indescribably beautiful, pulling me into their depths like a riptide. Damn, this hallway’s too small. I can’t move. I didn’t mean to cut her off, but I really have to take a piss.
Say something, jackass. Why have I suddenly become shy? I may have stage fright often enough, but in front of the opposite sex I usually can find my voice box and not look like a nitwit. My high wore off an hour before we came here, and because of the damn bet I can’t spark up. I try to remember all the Mary Jane–infused smooth lines I’ve successfully delivered to women in the past, but I’m coming up blank.
My eyes work as if someone else is guiding them. They drift over the outfit she’s wearing that accommodates her tight, well-toned body. The black silk tank that glitters in the light and pronounces her perfect breasts. My eyes wander down to her perfectly shaped hourglass hips. She’s wearing tight black skinny jeans and black high heels that make her legs go on forever. Damn, she’s sexy as hell.
My urge to pee is gone because my dick wants to do something entirely different.
"Yo." Her sharp voice brings my eyes back up to her face. "That’s right, buddy. When you meet someone, the eyes are a good place to start. Not the boobs."
Shit! My cheeks start to heat. Ah, fuck, I’m blushing. She turned me back into that geeky fourteen-year-old boy who used to receive wedgies and swirlies on a daily basis, the computer nerd all the good-looking girls shied away from.
"Bathroom?” I squeak then cough to cover it. "Where is it?"
She leans against the wall, and her eyes study me for a second. "You’re not going to shoot up, are you?"
What?
She shoves off the wall and points her finger in my face. "Because if you are, I’ll have you arrested."
Where the hell is all this coming from? Looking down at myself, I wonder why she thinks I’m some kind of junkie. I’m slightly offended, but at the same time confused by her blunt assumption. "I don’t use hard drugs."
"Good to know." She pats my shoulder.
A slight zap races down my arm and flips my heart.
She gasps. Her beautiful eyes go wide. Too quickly, she removes her hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are rosy and I can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or if she genuinely likes me.
She points down the short hall to a door. "Ne
xt to the stairs. If it’s a number two, we’re out of TP. You’ll just have to hold it, or find somewhere else to let your bomb loose."
As I feel my cheeks heat again. I quickly turn and head down the hall. The urge to look back at her tries to whip my head around, but the knowledge that my mortification is probably a bright neon sign on my face keeps me in check.
I enter the small half bathroom and lean up against the door. That chick is crazy blunt. Like she doesn’t care about what people think of her. The only other woman I know who is like that is Lina, and even she isn’t that direct. I don’t know if I’m pissed or turned on. That’s a damn first for me.
My hand goes to my fly as I walk over to relieve myself.
Why does she think I’m a drug addict? I’m not skinny by any means, and I sure as hell don’t have tracks on my arm. I might listen to Guns N Roses’ “Mr. Brownstone,” but I’ve never danced that dance with the devil. I never will.
Long-dead memories of my dad resurrect in my brain, flashes of the night I found him naked and cold, dead on the toilet with a loose band around his arm and a used needle on the floor. My little brother Logan screaming and me trying to hold him back so I could close the bathroom door. It was too soon to lose him. I was only ten and Logan five.
I remember screaming for my mother, but she was passed out on the couch, the fifth of vodka almost completely empty in her hand. She was no help to me, and calming Logan while trying to call nine-one-one was a very difficult task.
Forcing the memory that bites like acid into my soul out of my head is not easy. Going through lyrics in my mind does nothing to erase the vision.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"You lose your dick in there, man?"
It’s Bryan. How long have I been in here stuck in the nightmares of my past? "Be out in a sec." My bladder just doesn’t want to quit. I force it to, give my dick a shake and put it away.
"Hurry up, dude. I gotta go."
I quickly wash my hands and run them over my face. Shit. Maybe that’s why she thinks I’m a druggie. My eyes are blood shot and I have dark circles under them like I haven’t slept in years. I stayed up way too late last night and woke up way too early this morning.
"Dude. If you don’t–"
"I said give me a minute!" I flinch at my shout, hoping Shay didn’t hear me. My trip into the memories I’ve laid to rest has me irritable. Given the time I’ve been in here, she probably does think I’m a low-life druggie or that I took the biggest dump of my life.
The knocking turns into pounding. Fuckin’ A. Can’t a guy take a leak in peace? I fling the door open so hard it smacks against the wall. "What?"
A pair of beautiful sea green eyes looks up at me with confusion.
Fuck!
Six
Shay
Morgan’s blue eyes shoot icicles to my heart. I freeze. Earlier I couldn’t keep my mouth from running. When I get nervous, it just says whatever’s on my mind. I didn’t mean to accuse him of being a junkie. It’s just... well, I’ve had too many customers in the past shoot up in my bathroom. I’ve never allowed it, but Gary always did.
The way his eyes looked, all dark and bloodshot—I’ve seen the same in Gary’s after a three-night bender. I resist the urge to see if he’s left any paraphernalia in the waste bin next to the toilet, and try to keep accusation out of my eyes. The thing is, he’s been in here the whole time I was outside smoking a cigarette.
His friend Bryan leans against the stairs and mean-mugs him.
Is Morgan a druggie, and that’s why his friend looks like that? Morgan told me he’s never used hard drugs, but junkies have lied to me countless times before.
Morgan runs a hand through his spiky black hair. "Sorry, I thought you were Bryan."
Stepping aside, he passes me and parts the beads, retreating into the shop. Bryan ducks behind me into the bathroom, and slams the door before I can even ask if Morgan lied about using drugs.
The bikers that come in here know and respect my wishes because they understand I have a kid living upstairs. I might have to set this group straight. Bryan didn’t look like he was high, but some people are good at hiding it.
The bathroom door opens and Bryan walks into the hall, brows arched over brown eyes. He runs a hand over his blue Mohawk and scratches his neck.
Yeah, I waited for him. If Morgan lied I’m sure his friend will know the truth. Would he tell me if he’s a junkie, too? He doesn’t know about the convo Morgan and I had. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
He grins. "Sure, but if it’s about my size, ask my girlfriend, Lina. I don’t think she likes me to share that info."
I shake my head and bite back a laugh. "You’ve been friends with Morgan a while?"
"Yeah. Why?" His brown eyes sparkle and it looks like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. "You like him?"
Like him? I don’t even know him. Sure, he's sexy as hell, but— "Is he on something?"
"What do you mean?"
Seriously? "Speed? Coke? Smack? Ecstasy? Shrooms? Do I really have to name them all?"
“Why? You dealing?” He laughs. When he sees that I don’t think it’s funny, he sighs. "Just messin’ with you. No, I can honestly say Morgan is drug free. Why’d you think that?"
"His eyes–"
"He had a rough night. A record producer came out to see our show, and we didn’t do so great." He makes his way down the hall and I follow him.
"That sucks. But I thought you guys were great." More like Morgan was great. The way he commanded the stage replays in my mind like it’s been doing all day. When I remember the part where it felt like he was staring straight at me, my stomach flutters again.
"Thanks." Bryan pushes through the beaded curtain out into my shop.
My heart is somewhere in my throat, and after the run-in I had with Morgan, I’m a little apprehensive about joining everyone. That’s nuts. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. Who cares what he thinks? So what, I’m a blunt person. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have to be here. I part the beads and try to act cool.
"What the hell were you two doing back there?" Bebe laughs and waggles her brows, then goes back to tattooing the blond guy in her chair.
The redhead under Tryst’s gun shoots me a glare. Must be Bryan’s girlfriend, Lina.
Bryan moves to her side and whispers in her ear. She looks at me and laughs.
What the hell is so funny? I look around the room and see Morgan lounging in Gary’s unused chair. He’s eying me. Ignore him.
"Who needs a tatt?" I glance at Bryan.
He shakes his head. "Waiting on Tryst. Think I should get it done by the same guy who's doing my girlfriend."
Morgan’s misplaced laughter has me turning my head. He shakes his then reaches for the hem of his shirt. Every inch of his smooth, tan muscles bunch. His biceps, pecs and abs all move fluidly, sending torpedoes of lightening from my head to my toes. I stare and probably look like a crazy person hopped up on too many meds.
"Hey, space cadet?" Bebe pulls me from my stupor and nods toward Morgan. "Are you going to do him or what?"
Do him? Hell yeah, I want to do him. But not the way Bebe’s implying. That’s a very dangerous thought. The man has “another Gary” written all over him. He’s the bad boy type I fell for long ago. Him sitting in Gary’s chair slams the truth home. Ben. I have to think about him. That means no more Mr. Wrongs.
Morgan smiles and his lip ring shines. "So, you gonna work on me?"
God, that lip ring.
The image of taking his mouth then slowly kissing my way down his body clouds my thoughts. Having complete power over him while he sits in my chair has my core clenching and wishing that we were the only ones in the shop. It's odd—I haven't had sexual thoughts about a man since Gary, over three years ago. Why am I having them now? But damn, the man screams “sex god.”
Okay girl, chill. It isn’t going to happen. Not going to happen for so many reasons. He may not be a junkie, but the man is setting off warning
bells in my head. Getting too worked up over him could be dangerous. I shake the images of my fantasy out of my head and cross the room to my chair. "Follow me."
"There’s a gun and ink over here."
Tryst and Bebe both stop working. Tryst’s looking at me with an arched brow, and Bebe looks like she’s waiting for me to slip a needle. No one uses Gary’s chair or his equipment. It’s the unwritten rule of the shop.
I clear my throat. "I’m more comfortable with my own gun."
Morgan’s eyes search mine from across the room, probably looking for clues to my sanity. God knows I’ve only acted like a wacko since I’ve met him. I haven’t met him. Not formally.
He sighs, then grabs his shirt and strolls over to my chair. He plops down, and the enchanting scent of Egyptian musk hits me. It's like the smell of the sandalwood incense I burn, only darker, spicier, and maybe a little herbal. Spellbound, my body wants to crawl into his arms so it surrounds me. That's ludicrous. I shake my head to clear the cloud of his provocative aroma and try not to breathe in too deep.
He hands me a picture of a flaming rock crushing into a skull—his band’s logo. I recognize it from the flyer earlier.
"I want it on my right pec."
His chest rises and falls with each breath, and I hold mine. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him. Besides a few sporadic tatts along his abs, both pecs are ink free. Lightly running my hand over the spot where his tattoo will be, tiny zaps of electricity tingle my palm. He laughs and his chest vibrates. I snatch my hand away as though he just bit me.
"That tickled." His voice is as dark as his eyes and my stomach flips.
My cheeks heat. "Sorry. Just checking the spot where I'm gonna put the tatt." It's a lie. I didn't need to. My hand worked as if something else was moving it. Spellbound indeed. "Why the right?"
His blue gaze has me stumbling onto my stool. "I’m saving the left for something special."
#####
Fifteen minutes later, I have his band’s logo on tracing paper. My gun is ready to go with a tight round, size three needle. It’s great for outlining. Heart pounding, I run my hand over his smooth pec to check for hair. God, they feel amazing. The warm, hard feel of his skin sends heat blasting to my core. I want to explore more of his well-toned body. His breath rises and falls and he coughs. Oh, yeah! Right. No need to shave him.
