Or so I hoped.
“The food was fantastic,” I said as I leaned away from the table.
“Thank you,” Riley’s mother said. “I can’t take complete credit, Riley helped out.”
“Well, to whoever was in involved, it was fabulous,” I said.
They looked at each other and shared a moment of infectious pride. Riley’s mother wasn’t at all what I expected her to be. I envisioned a slightly overweight housewife wearing an apron covered in flour and handprints, having her hair pinned in neat little sections - always one step away from finishing it. Through the house she would run, trying desperately to have the meal prepared in time, later apologizing for her appearance as we ate.
From twenty feet away, she could pass for Riley. Sitting side by side, they could easily pass for sisters who were ten years apart in age. She shared Riley’s lips, eyes, facial structure, and body. And, although I wasn’t sexually attracted to Riley’s mother, noticing she also shared Riley’s little round ass was painfully obvious.
“So, what made you decide to become a tattoo artist?” her mother asked.
I stared down at my forearm and recalled my first tattoo. The piece was on my chest; something I intended to hide from everyone but felt I desperately needed to make my life complete. A traditional tattoo - a dagger through a skull - represented bravery to me. Receiving the tattoo was a huge step, something I wanted to do for a long time but had always found a reason not to get. One day when the time was right I went into a tattoo parlor, tossed the money on the counter, and let the artist proceed at will.
The remaining tattoos were like everything else in my life, the result of an addict feeding his addictions. I didn’t regret any of them, as I felt the combination of all of my artwork in some way, shape, or form depicted who I was - or at least who I was at the time I received them.
In all honesty, the tattoos changed me. Receiving each one allowed me to release something from within myself I had spent a lifetime either subconsciously protecting, or attempting to rid myself of.
But.
It was the artist that made each and every one of them possible.
I shifted my eyes from my forearm to Riley’s mother and did my best to explain myself. “Tattooing in the United States started in the 1800’s, and the first tattoo parlor opened in New York City in 1870. A German immigrant who had spent his time in the states tattooing Civil War soldiers finally decided to open a shop offering his service to anyone willing to spend the money to get a tattoo. In 1891, a man invented the electric tattoo machine, and tattooing really took off.”
I opened my arms wide and leaned toward the table. “Tattoos have become a way for people to represent bravery, receive perceived protection, or in remembrance of an event or person. For many, myself included, they’re an outlet - but they are always permanent, and they’re only as good as the man who applies them; the artist. I had always been a great artist and took tremendous pride in my work, so I decided to offer the service of changing the lives of people one tattoo at a time. I believe the quality of my work is second to no one. The sad thing is most people won’t even realize it until a decade or two has passed, and their brother’s, sister’s, or friend’s tattoos are awful looking while theirs are still as good as day one. So, I don’t know, I think I started because I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives.”
I leaned back in my chair and waited for the arguments to start.
“That’s an admirable reason. I’ve always wanted one, but was afraid it would hurt too much. Does it hurt?” she asked.
“It does. Anyone who says it doesn’t is lying. It’s the price you pay in addition to the price you pay. A tattoo is a huge commitment, and the pain is part of the commitment, I suppose,” I said.
“I’ll wait until I’m ready,” she said.
Riley turned toward her mother and widened her eyes slightly. “I didn’t know you wanted a tattoo.”
“I’ve always wanted one. Well, not always, but for a long time,” she responded.
“Of what?” Riley asked.
“That’s just it,” he mother said. “I don’t know.”
“So, you’ve never been married, and you don’t have any children?” she asked.
I pursed my lips and shook my head from side-to-side. “No ma’am. No ex-wives, no kids.”
“And no family. I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I’ve got Riley, she’s family enough,” I said.
I turned toward Riley and smiled. She smiled in return. She looked even more beautiful than normal, I guessed as the result of being filled with the pride from having me meet her mother. Regardless of the reason, she was beautiful beyond compare.
In the past, I had likened a beautiful woman to a beautiful tattoo; something that took care and imagination to develop, yet required constant maintenance to prolong the elegance.
Riley was an exception. She was beautiful without preparation or maintenance.
“I’m going to get the sweets,” Riley said as she stood from her seat.
I pushed myself from the table and stood. “Let me help.”
“No, I’ll get it. You can sit and talk,” she said as she turned away.
Riley disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with her mother. For whatever reason, being alone with her caused me to be slightly uncomfortable. I had no reason, and although I wasn’t sure, I suspected being around Riley’s mother caused me to understand I didn’t have a mother, at least not one that was alive.
She leaned forward and studied my for a short time, making me even more nervous. After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, she sighed lightly.
“So, your name is Blake, you don’t have kids, you’ve never been married, and you’re nice to my daughter, at least from what she says. You have manners, you’re well spoken, and you have your own business. In my mind, Riley hit a home run. Have you always lived here?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” I responded.
“If I may ask, what’s your last name?” she asked.
“West,” I said.
“Blake West?” she asked.
I nodded my head. “Yes ma’am.”
She shifted her eyes to the side and sat quietly as she appeared to become lost in thought. As I sat nervously waiting for her to continue, she didn’t. After a moment, Riley came into the room carrying a platter with coffee and slices of cake.
“Tiramisu, your favorite,” she said as she held the platter in front of me.
I reached for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. “My favorite?”
“No,” she said. “Hers.”
“Riley, I’m sorry,” her mother said as she stood. “Blake, my apologies. I’m going to have to go to my room. I’m afraid my stomach has gone sick, like bad sick.”
“Mom, are you okay?” Riley asked.
He mother shook her head. She appeared totally different than she had all night. Instead of the cheerful woman who we had shared dinner with, her face appeared vacant and lost.
“I’m sorry Riley. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick,” she said as she raised her hand to her mouth.
“Blake,” she said as she turned to face me. “It was a pleasure.”
I stood from my seat and nodded my head. “Thank you ma’am. Likewise.”
“I’m sorry, mom,” Riley said.
Her mother nodded, forced herself to smile, turned and walked away. In a few steps she disappeared down the hallway which led into the living area of the house.
“That’s sad. I was having fun. What happened?” Riley asked.
“I was too. I don’t know. We were talking and she seemed to fade away or something. Does she do that?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she asked as she lowered the platter to the table.
As she sat down, I continued. “I don’t know. She told me she thought you hit a home run in finding me then she asked me my last name. I answered her and she
looked like she was trying to think of something else to ask, and she just faded off. Like her eyes got glazed over and glassy and she didn’t say anything else. Then you walked in.”
“Huh. No, she doesn’t do anything like that. Maybe it was the chicken or something. I thought it was cooked all the way through. Do you feel okay?” she asked.
I raised my cup of coffee. “I’m good.”
She tilted her head toward the cup. “Black, just like you like it.”
“Thanks,” I said as I took a sip of the much needed coffee.
“Wow. Well, that sucks,” she said as she tilted her head toward the hallway.
“Yeah, bad deal,” I said as I sipped the coffee.
We sat and ate the three pieces of cake, sharing the third piece. The differences in doing what we were doing, and what I was accustomed to doing were drastic. Sitting in the shop eating a sandwich left over from lunch at ten o’clock at night was my typical dinner a month before I met Riley, and now I was eating tiramisu with a fork and drinking coffee from an ornate porcelain cup.
I glanced at her and grinned, truly grateful for her allowing me into her life.
“Let me clean this up and we’ll go back to my room,” she said as she stood from her seat.
“Your room? You don’t live here,” I said.
She scrunched her nose and stared. “I used to. When I left my room didn’t disappear.”
“Oh,” I said as I stood.
Together we carried the dishes to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned the countertops and the dining room table. After everything was back to the away it was long before our arrival, she held her hand to the side and turned to face me.
I encompassed her hand in mine as I followed her out of the kitchen and along the same hallway her mother had disappeared down. The last door on the left was open, revealing a perfectly preserved bedroom from when I expected Riley left immediately following high school.
“It’s bright,” I said as I peered through the door.
She tugged against my arm. “Come on.”
After she pulled my arm straight, I shuffled behind her and into the room. The bed was covered in a pale yellow comforter and decorated with no less than a dozen pillows - all a different shade of yellow or blue. Two of the walls were painted light grey, and the other two were painted a complimentary blue-grey.
Although it certainly wouldn’t have been my choice of colors, it looked like she had hired someone to decorate it. For a normal person to choose the colors of all of the accessories in the room and have them match as well as the did would have been impossible.
“Did your mom hire someone to do this?” I asked as I gazed around the room.
“Do what?” she asked.
“Decorate this room.”
“No,” she said. “I did it myself. Like it?”
I nodded my head and turned to face her. “It looks really good.”
She swept her arm across the bed, clearing it of almost all of the pillows in one swipe. After tossing a few loose pillows into the pile, two were left on the bed.
“Sit,” she said as she walked toward the dresser.
Soft jazz began to fill the room.
“I used to listen to that CD every night when I went to sleep. It was like my lullaby,” she said.
“Soothing,” I said.
She sat on the edge of the bed and patted the comforter with her hand. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Uhhm. I’m really glad you came over. My mother likes you. I knew she would, but it’s nice to see her happy,” she said as she rested her hand on my thigh.
“I’m glad I came, too,” I said as I glanced down at her hand.
Although Riley and I had been seeing each other for almost a month, we had yet to make any progress from a sexual standpoint. When the time came, and as long as I was ready, I figured I would allow myself to proceed sexually with her. Her actions, words, and constant innuendoes were enough for me to understand she was more than ready, but it was me I was worried about.
And for good reason.
“Blake,” she said as she squeezed my thigh in her hand lightly.
I continued to glance around the room as I responded. “Yeah?”
“I uhhm…I want to…I want to. I want to give you head,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“I want to make you happy,” she said.
She had caught me completely off guard. “I am happy,” I said, providing a rather feeble statement to assure her I was.
“I want to do this,” she said as she leaned toward me and kissed me lightly.
I felt my cock rising in my pants as my mind floated away to thoughts of her lips wrapping around the shaft of my rod. As I attempted to clear my mind of the thought, she began to fumble with my belt and zipper.
No differently than men who get coerced into robbing a bank, committing murder, or buying a new car they had only hoped to test drive, I sat and stared as she pulled my pants to mid-thigh. My boxers soon followed, and as much as I believed I wanted her to stop, I provided absolutely no effort to make her do so. Within a matter of sixty seconds, she had my cock in her hand and gazed down at it admiringly.
“Your cock is pretty,” she said.
I swallowed and had every intention of saying something.
But nothing came.
I watched in slight shock and utter amazement as she licked the tip, dragged her tongue along the shaft, and eventually softly began to suck the swollen head in her mouth.
As I continued to stare no differently than the deer immediately prior to catching the front bumper of a truck on the highway, she slowly worked her mouth up and down the shaft of my swollen dick.
A combination of who she was, how I felt about her, and witnessing what she was doing aroused me to a level I had yet to know. Her sheer beauty alone was enough to put me over the edge and leave me with very little, if any, stamina.
Realizing she chose to do what she was doing with no suggestion or comment on my part was enough in itself to convince me she truly cared for me and wanted to share herself with me in a more intimate sense than a simple friendly relationship of kissing, holding hands, and talking. As odd as it seemed to accept, her sucking my cock was the deciding factor in me falling over the edge of the cliff into the abyss known as love that lingered below.
As I felt my heartbeat increase and my blood pressure begin to rise, I reached for her head. Despite my halfhearted attempts to pull her mouth free of the fleshy shaft she was determined to impale herself on, she continued without breaking her rhythm. I proceeded to watch in a combination of amazement and admiration as she worked her mouth and hand simultaneously along the length of my throbbing rod.
With her eyes locked on mine and her mouth full of cock, she pressed her lips lower and lower, eventually coughing warm slobber onto my tight scrotum. Lost in a state of sexual awe, my toes curled, my head tilted back, and in a matter of seconds, I erupted into her warm wet mouth.
And the world didn’t end.
What in many respects seemed like a lifetime, even knowing it was more than likely a matter of a few short minutes, had ended peacefully and without any harm. I lowered myself to the bed, rested on my back, and gazed upward. Her head soon came to rest on my stomach, and after studying the brush strokes in the paint on the ceiling for a considerable time, I rolled my head to the side and allowed myself the pleasure of seeing her.
She blinked her eyes and grinned.
“Did you enjoy it,” she asked.
I grinned. The grin soon developed into a full-fledged smile. “Do you need to ask?”
“No, but it’s nice to hear,” she said.
“It felt wonderful,” I responded.
“Good. I like that you liked it,” she said.
I shook my head, still smiling from ear to ear. “No, I loved it.”
She nestled her head into my stomach. I relaxed on my back wit
h one hand resting on her shoulder and the other on her neck. Cradling her head against me was comforting, and within a short period of time I fell asleep.
***
I shook Riley’s shoulder. She turned to the side, opened her eyes slightly, and grinned.
“I need to get home,” I said. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Just stay,” she said, her raspy voice proof of the fact she was exhausted.
“I don’t think your mother would approve, and it’d make me uncomfortable if I did. Some other time, okay?” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
I leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips, wishing I could stay, but fully realizing it was in our best interest if I didn’t.
“I’ll lock the door,” I said as I turned away.
She opened her eyes slightly and grinned again. “Okay.”
And although I realized I would never understand why our hearts and minds do what they do when they choose to do it, I walked through the door and to my motorcycle fully realizing that somehow, while I slept with her at my side, I had somehow fallen in love with Riley Campbell.
RILEY
I opened the door slightly and peeked into my mother’s room. On the floor was a small cardboard box, and surrounding it were numerous pieces of paper which from where I was standing seemed to be old faded newspaper articles. I shifted my eyes to her bed. She appeared to be asleep.
I pushed the door open a little more.
“Mother?” I said softly.
Curious of what it was she had spread around the floor, and being careful not to wake her, I walked into the room softly, hoping to at least get an idea of what it was she had been doing.
It didn’t take long.
One article positioned beside the box immediately caught my attention based solely on the word “murder” being in the headline. I glanced at her, made note of her snoring, and reached for the article. As I raised it high enough that the small black print was legible, I fought to keep quiet.
Recent Murder Tied to Previous Murders
An east Wichita couple murdered during broad daylight last month has been officially linked by the Police Commissioner to a series of previously unsolved murders based on the modus operandi.
Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel) Page 11
