Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel)

by Scott Hildreth

  In the time we had spent at the coffee shop I realized I had no idea who I really was or what I enjoyed doing with a man. If someone were to ask me the question, I couldn’t accurately respond. Being in Blake’s presence was simple and required very little on my part. He seemed satisfied with me, my actions, and my responses to his simple questions. Even though I understood any man who was attentive to my needs would probably be perceived as being worthy of reciprocation on my part, Blake was different.

  Or at least I told myself so.

  He seemed mysterious to me. In hindsight, it was quite possible anyone would have seemed to be a mystery; but at the time, I was convinced Blake was someone I needed to figure out, and doing so appeared to consume me. The mysterious element combined with his expressed interest in me and his handsome looks were all I needed to convince myself prying further into his life was what I needed to do with all of my available time. And, as I was living off of Stephen’s money and didn’t have a job, time was something I had plenty of.

  “Maybe like ten minutes,” he responded as he lowered his hand.

  For me to hide my excitement was impossible.

  “Ten minutes is great,” I said excitedly.

  Without warning or excuse, I began walking toward the porch. After stepping onto the first step, I paused and turned toward the driveway. Blake was still sitting on his motorcycle. Once again rubbing his hands together, but much less aggressively this time, he gazed in my direction.

  He seemed confused.

  Based on what I was able to see, and only on what I was able to see, I would have expected Blake to be an aggressive man who possessed a take-charge attitude. He sat nervously on his motorcycle as proof that judging someone based on their looks alone wasn’t an intelligent decision. His appearance made him attractive to me, but his many nervous actions and uncertainty of how to proceed made him even more so.

  “Come on, the clock’s ticking away,” I said playfully.

  He stepped off of the bike and glanced around the yard.

  “Nice place,” he said as he slowly walked up the drive.

  “Thanks, I’m just leasing it,” I responded.

  “Still pretty nice,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said as I stood on the bottom step and waited for him.

  As I reached into my pocket and fished for my keys, he stood on the back side of the porch, as far away from me as he was physically able. After opening the door and stepping inside, I waited as he glanced around at his surroundings and proceeded to slowly walk into the house. After raking his fingers through his hair, he peered into the living room and seemed to survey the furniture.

  “Where do you want me to sit?” he asked.

  I waved my hand toward the living room. “Wherever, it doesn’t matter.”

  His eyes shifted nervously around the room. “Are we going to sit together?”

  “If you want,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure,” he shrugged.

  “I mean, if you want to, I’d like to,” I said.

  “You want something to drink?” I asked.

  “I’m good,” he responded as he stepped in front of the couch.

  I walked past him, sat on the far side of the couch, and patted the cushion beside me. “Sit down, I promise, I won’t bite.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” he said as he sat down a few feet from me.

  “I was just joking. So, what are your policies about your clients? You know, like hanging out with your clients?” I asked.

  As soon as I spoke, I felt like maybe I should have waited to ask the question. As I sat feeling somewhat foolish for blurting it out without much thought, he responded.

  He shook his head. “No policies about that.”

  “So, we’re good?” I asked.

  He nodded his head as he crossed his legs. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  I twisted to the side and turned to face him. “You remember I told you’d I’d only been with one guy in my life?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” he responded as he uncrossed his legs and pressed the palms of his hands onto his thighs.

  “Well, just so you know, I’m nervous,” I said, even though for some reason I wasn’t.

  He turned to face me, crossed his legs again, and folded his arms in front of his chest. I glanced at his tattooed knuckles, held my gaze for a moment, and shifted my eyes upward slightly, trying not to focus directly on his face, but well beyond him.

  I felt a need to make Blake comfortable, as he was obviously uncomfortable, and was expressing it outwardly. I was sure he was no newcomer to being in the presence of women, and I wondered if my lack of experience with men was exactly what might have been making him uncomfortable, or if it was my age. Although I felt immature at times with Stephen, I felt in the short time I had been away from him I had matured considerably, and was now equal to or beyond other women my age in regard to my level of maturity.

  After an extended period of silence, the majority of which I spent gazing at my faux fern and a book case full of books I hadn’t read, I shifted my eyes to Blake and decided my repeated explanations of only being with one man were more than likely the driving force of his nervous behavior.

  In short, I suspected he didn’t know how to proceed with me for fear of causing me to feel uncomfortable.

  “It shows,” he responded.

  I leaned into the arm of the couch and widened my eyes slightly.

  “Does it?” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Your body language.”

  Although I took exception to his statement, I said nothing. After a short pause, I opted to change the subject slightly.

  “You know, I like being around you. Even though I may act nervous, you make me feel comfortable. It’s nice being around someone who doesn’t demand things of me or push me around. I just might get used to this if you’re not careful,” I said.

  He uncrossed his legs and turned to face me. “Oh really? Get used to it, huh?”

  I nodded my head and grinned. He glanced down at the cushion between us.

  He intertwined his fingers and cracked his knuckles. After inhaling a slow breath through his nose, he exhaled and glanced upward.

  “Wait. Push you around, what do you mean?” he asked.

  “My ex, he used to get kind of rough with me sometimes,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, he was just a mean person.”

  “Well, what do you mean? Define rough,” he said.

  I shrugged again and considered what to tell him. After a short moment, I decided there was no harm in telling him the truth.

  “Well, I already told you we got together when I was young,” I paused, exhaled, and adjusted my position on the couch.

  “He uhhm. After a year or so, he’d get mad at me and shove me or slap me, and he…”

  He uncrossed his arms and his eyes went wide.

  “He’d slap you?” he asked.

  I nodded my head.

  He stood from his seat and faced the far wall. After a moment, he turned around and glared down at me.

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  I thought I had already shared my stories of Stephen’s violent behavior with Blake when I was at the tattoo parlor. Based on his reaction, it was apparent I had not. I fixed my eyes on his, pursed my lips, and nodded my head.

  “I don’t like that. Not at all,” he said.

  “I didn’t like it either. That’s why I left,” I responded.

  He lowered himself onto the couch, this time right beside me with his leg almost touching mine. I glanced at his leg, making note of his close proximity, and he immediately began to reposition himself. I placed my hand on his thigh, leaned to the side, and as awkward as it seemed doing so, kissed him lightly on the lips. Although it was apparent by his expression the kiss caught him off guard, I continued. I kissed him again, this time fully on the lips and with a little more aggression.

 
He kissed me in return, and after a few seconds, the awkwardness of it all diminished. Almost immediately, we were making out on the couch like a couple of prepubescent unknowing teens. The excitement of it all was beyond what I would have imagined, and far more than I expected kissing anyone would ever be. Be it the fact I initiated it, or because it was with someone I really enjoyed spending time with, I didn’t know nor did I care. At that moment, kissing Blake was more satisfying than anything I could ever remember experiencing. As we continued, his hands eventually found their resting place, one on my waist, and one on my right bicep.

  When I was young, I was an avid movie watcher, and always chose a romance over any other movie. Love Actually, The Notebook, The Proposal, When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, Dear John, and Say Anything were among my favorites. After countless movies and much anticipation, I expected my first kiss to resemble what the movies depicted. I was surprised to find that, at least for me, kissing wasn’t as enjoyable in person as it was expressed in the movies.

  Until now.

  Kissing Blake was something completely different. With my head spinning and my mind grasping at the new sensation and attempting to identify it, I continued to kiss him, not wanting the newfound pleasure to stop. As my stomach began to swirl in circles from the escalating sexual tension, I reluctantly paused for a much needed breath.

  As out lips parted, I glanced down and into his lap. His excitement was apparent, as his cock had his jeans stretched to a point of ripping through the denim if we continued. It was pretty obvious he was well-endowed, and after my having caught a glimpse of his level of arousal, I decided to let him know my thoughts.

  I was so far beyond being sexually aroused that I really would have had a difficult time explaining to anyone other than myself how I felt. Sometimes, I decided, actions are better than the spoken word. I leaned forward, pressed my lips to his, and reached for the denim tent he was pitching. As soon as my hand encompassed his swollen rod, I squeezed lightly, and he instantly jumped from the couch.

  “I really need to get,” he said as he jumped up.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  . “No, I need to go check the shop. You know, lock the door,” he said as he pressed the heel of his palm against his crotch.

  I gazed down at his feet. “I’m sorry if I…”

  “No,” he said as he shook his head from side-to-side. “I just need to get.”

  “Okay,” I said as I stood from the couch.

  Regardless of his reason, I felt like an idiot.

  “Are you sure…”

  He raised his hand in the air and shook his head.

  “I enjoyed it,” he said.

  He leaned forward, kissed me lightly, and turned toward the door.

  I stood in slight shock as I heard his motorcycle start, and collapsed onto the couch as he rode away. Contrary to what he had said, I felt that my physical advancement was the sole reason for him leaving.

  Frustrated with myself, but in no way regretting the kiss, I sat on the couch and wondered what my next step should be. As I crossed my legs and stared at the plastic fern, the answer came to me.

  I needed to do what I had become almost a master at doing since I left Stephen.

  I needed sexual relief.

  And I needed it promptly.

  BLAKE

  I sat on the couch and stared at the bookcase. Some days were easier to talk than others, and if I measured the days on a scale of one through ten, ten being the most difficult for me to talk, this one would have come in at roughly nine and a half.

  “So, do you feel like you’ve lied to her?” he asked.

  I sat and stared blankly at the books. It was quite possible it was a ten. He sat silently and waited. After an extended period of silence, he cleared his throat.

  “Have you read all of these?” I asked.

  “We’ve discussed the books multiple times, Blake. I have read every one of them, yes. Now, back to my question, ‘do you, or did you feel that you may have lied to her? And, if so, how does that make you feel?’” he asked.

  I stared at the books, and although I had counted them many times in the past, I began to count them again. After another extended period of silence, I reached a total, and counted them again to make certain.

  Two hundred and seventeen. That’s not really that many.

  “How long did it take you?” I asked, still focusing on the books.

  He cleared his throat again. “Most were read over the course of my education. A few before and a few since. Several years.”

  After a few minutes, I turned to face him, glanced at the clock, and made note of the fact that almost twenty minutes had passed.

  “If your concern is time, Mr. West, I’ll assure you I have much more time today than normal. We’ll sit here until my questions are answered. Now, I’ll ask again…”

  “Kind of,” I interrupted.

  “Kind of what?” he asked.

  “Kind of feel like that,” I responded.

  “Kind of feel like what? Describe your feelings,” he said.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Your feelings are shit?” he asked.

  “I feel like shit. That’s what you asked. How do I feel, that’s what you asked. I feel like shit. Write that down,” I said.

  “Well, to take a few steps back, I asked, more specifically, if you felt like you had lied to…” he paused and glanced down at his note pad.

  “Riley,” he said.

  I sat up in my seat and leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees as I glared at him.

  “Take her name off your little fucking pad,” I said.

  “I merely made note of…”

  “Take it off,” I said flatly.

  “My notes stay here. With me. There’s no harm in…”

  “Take her name off your fucking pad,” I demanded.

  He gazed down at the pad and began to scribble. I stood from my seat. As he noticed me stand, he placed the pad on his desk and pushed his seat away from the desk.

  “Sit down, Mr. West,” he said.

  “Take her name off the fucking pad. You have no right to write her name down. We were just talking. You weren’t even fucking writing when we were talking, you wrote the fucker down later. You fucking cheated,” I snapped.

  “If I erase it, scratch it out, or toss the sheet in the trash, I still retain the memory of what you said. The longer you make an issue of it, and of her name, the more permanent it will be etched in my mind. Now, let’s get back to what we were speaking of. But first, sit down,” he said.

  I studied him for a moment, exhaled a shallow breath, and sat down. He had a valid point. No matter what I did or said, he already knew Riley’s name. My best chance at any kind of recovery from his attack would be to change the subject.

  I crossed my legs and focused on the bookcase. After a pause long enough to irritate him I shifted my eyes toward his desk. “Work’s been steadily picking up.”

  He glared at me and picked up his pad. As he began to scribble, my blood pressure began to rise.

  “Okay, yeah. I don’t know. I felt like maybe I should have said something, but it isn’t necessarily the type of shit you run and tell someone you’re trying to get to know. But I sure as fuck didn’t lie to her. I just didn’t tell her. And if you’re going to do any more scribbling on your little pad, you can write ‘Blake didn’t tell her yet’, not ‘Blake isn’t going to tell her’. Got it?”

  “Understood. So, you do expect to see her again?” he asked.

  I nodded my head.

  He began to scribble.

  “Hold the fuck up. You need to set that fucking pad to the side. I’m about sick and tired of you scribbling on that fucker. Can we just talk?” I asked.

  “Would it be safe to say you are feeling slightly guilty for not having told Riley the truth yet? I do understand you have every intention of telling her everything, but you feel guil
ty about not having divulged everything yet, is that correct?” he asked.

  “If you say so,” I responded.

  “I want you to tell me. Tell me how it makes you feel that you’ve decided to wait to tell her everything.”

  “It makes me feel like I’m a pretty smart fucker, that’s how it makes me feel,” I said as I reached for my glass of water.

  “Oh, and how so?” he asked as he reached for the pad.

  I shook my head at the thought of him doing any more scribbling.

  “Because if I would have just blurted out my life history, she might have run away. But because I didn’t tell her, and we talked a few times without her knowing anything, I think she likes me. So, if I tell her now, she might just shrug her fucking shoulders and say so fucking what. That’s why,” I said.

  He picked up his pen, tapped the end of it against lip for a moment, and then began to carefully write on the pad.

  “Blake’s a smart fucker, and he’s making big time progress. That’s what you wrote, right?” I asked.

  “Where’s the fucking music? There’s no music. What’s the fucking deal today? It’s like fuck with Blake day, huh? Turn the music on,” I said as I glanced around the room.

  “The music is a program that is time based. It has shut down for the day,” he responded.

  I glanced around the room and eventually fixed my eyes on him.

  “Turn it back on,” I said flatly.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s out of my control.”

  I sighed a phony sigh of irritation. As I inhaled another deep breath and intended to force another sigh, he cleared his throat. It was his way of attempting to gather my attention; he did it all the time.

  “Now, let’s discuss your meetings,” he said.

  “What’d you write on your little pad?” I asked.

  He cocked one eyebrow. “The meetings, Mr. West. Let’s discuss the meetings.”

  “You know. Sometimes you call me Blake, and sometimes you call me Mr. West. How do you decide which one to use?” I asked.