by Hope Irving
“Is Tig your real name?”
I’m so flabbergasted by this ridiculous question that I stop my TLC but don’t remove my hand from her hair. “Seriously? My name’s the one thing you’re curious about now?”
“Well, it sounds like a Tinder handle… Let’s say, borderline predator, so it doesn’t play in your favor.”
“Listen, sweetheart, my Tinder handle is InkAddict. You’re welcome to check it out. If you must know, Tig’s a nickname that my best friend gave me when we were kids, and it stuck…” Why am I confessing this? Alie’s presence in my new home is messing with my mind. Still, I don’t miss the sharp intake of Greer’s breath and hurry to say, “And no, I’m not telling you my real first name…” I pause to let her know that the subject isn’t up for discussion. “Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, our every move has been monitored, so you know where I live. Alie’s safe, but if you’re downstairs, the name on the buzzer is T. de Luca. If not, I wish you a good night, Greer.” And with that, I hang up.
I silence the phone and put it on the coffee table while leaning down to kiss her forehead. Rehashing this strange conversation in my head, I stroll to the kitchen, fill a tall glass with water, and head to the bathroom for some aspirin before coming back to the living room. My attention is drawn to Alie’s phone as I set the medicine next to the glass, then shamelessly slink into my room holding aforementioned phone.
Once I’m lying on top of the comforter, I decide that prying takes priority over undressing or turning Alie’s phone off. And I browse through her numerous pictures, getting glimpses of the life of a girl I know, or thought I knew.
It’s been a while since I’ve checked her social media or YouTube videos. What I see now is her real life, though.
There’s a lot of inspirational quotes that are a crock of bullshit if you ask me. There’s a lot of pictures of her with another girl about her age—her BFF?—smiling, laughing, partying. There’s a lot of paintings from famous painters, as well as the one I painted that got us talking. But three pictures strike me the most.
The first one is of a framed photograph, and it’s obviously her family. Her parents are all dressed up, standing on each side of five smiling little girls that are posed in front of a luxuriously decorated Christmas tree. It makes me think of a Ralph Lauren ad. Wealth. Power. Happiness. All of these and more exude from this photo. The corner of my mouth quirks up as I zoom in to see her better; she’s easy to recognize, despite her longer hair and younger self. She’s as blonde as her dad, and her older sisters are all brunettes like their mom. She was as adorable then as she is sexy now.
The second one resembles the first. A couple of years later in the same living room. A few timid smiles from the girls who come across as worried and on edge. A lot less happiness around the Christmas tree. The woman isn’t in this picture, and I can’t help but wonder if Alie’s parents are divorced.
The third one is a selfie of her beside a bulky guy dressed in scrubs. He’s holding her by one frail shoulder, and she’s wearing a hospital gown. He looks friendly and reliable. She looks terrible and empty. They look oddly happy together. Her attempt at a smile and his forced one make my heart tighten. Her hair is even shorter than it is now, and dark circles are visible under her sunken brown eyes that dully express nothing for once. I check the date and notice that it was taken last November, around the time that we started interacting. I swallow the lump that forms in my throat.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. This was a bad idea; I shouldn’t have snooped through her phone. I sneak into the living room to return her phone. Shrugging, I inwardly blame her cousin for fraying my nerves which, in turn, led to me poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. It has to be her fault, right? I’m not that kind of a guy, am I?
While brushing my teeth, I keep having flashbacks of the last picture I saw. And then I remember the first words that she wrote to me: “I fear.”
What the hell happened to Alie? What the hell turned the smiling little girl into such a sad and bold woman? What the hell has Alie buried so deep that she fears and refuses to reveal?
Death?
I hear movement behind me while putting bread in the toaster and poaching eggs to accompany the avocado and baby spinach that have already been plated. I bet the beauty that crashed on my couch last night is awakening from her slumber. That thought alone makes my body hum with pleasure. Wondering what she remembers about last night. Wondering what she feels, waking up here. Wondering what she’s going to say first. I tilt my head and take a quick peek.
Sitting with her left leg bent under the other, Alie’s stretching her arms up in the air. The cover is discarded on the floor.
“’Morning… Smells amazing!” She flashes me the brightest smile and my foolish heart races. I guess that means she isn’t as freaked out as I feared. “Actually, it smells like the perfect Sunday brunch!”
I offer a thankful smile in return for her compliment. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” I wink. “It’s a good thing it’s a Sunday and one I don’t have to work at that!” Then I apologize, getting back to the task at hand so I don’t ruin the eggs. An awkward silence follows as I recall her opinion on apologies.
Damn you, John Wayne and your stupid quotes!
Thankfully, she doesn’t comment on it and lets me explain that whenever Drake, one of the other tattoo artists, isn’t available, I do walk-ins on Sunday mornings and that sometimes these spots are reserved by pro bono customers.
I observe her to gauge her reaction. Some people can’t fathom why those who my late wife called survivors—victims of violence, inflicted self-harm or devastating scars or cancer—would turn to tattoos as a part of their healing process.
Her cheeks redden and she fidgets uncomfortably. Not the reaction I was anticipating, and I regret mentioning it.
Annoyed, I return my focus to breakfast and hear her deep voice behind me say, “I had no idea you did pro bono work.” Her sexy voice gets me every time, especially when I’m not distracted by her gorgeous face. I sigh at the realization that she’s sitting in my living room as we speak. She’s slept in my living room. She’s waiting for food in my living room. My body floods with warmth, and I shiver with a smile on my face. I don’t mind if she sees it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stutters, “I think it’s great that your… art… helps to make people… live… happier in their own skin, no matter how marred it is.”
Pride. Relief. Joy. I acknowledge that I don’t tend to broadcast it because I don’t want people to think I’m doing it to promote my business; I believe in word-of-mouth. The air grows heavy as we discuss what some endure in life, and I unsubtly switch to a lighter topic to stop from ruining the moment.
I grab the whole wheat bread from the toaster and arrange some avocado on each slice. “Complimenting my cooking skills is your way of telling me you’re hungry, right?” I joke with my back to her, raising my voice so that she’ll hear me over the racket I’m making.
A moment later, she appears at my side. “You bet! I guess we can both agree that I had way too much to drink. The house cocktail was a traitor, but it’s the sake that definitely sent me overboard.” Again, I glance her way as she shrugs.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine, thanks to you. Aspirin did the trick when I woke up some time during the night. Same with the water.” She nods, as if to herself. “Need a hand?”
“Nah, not for this.” I realize the innuendo as soon as it leaves my mouth, but I can’t take it back. Feigning innocence, I make a point of keeping my attention locked on the perfectly cooked eggs that slide onto the toast without resistance. “But thanks. And…voilà!” I deposit the full plates on the place mats situated on the small but comfortable dining area on the right side of the kitchen island. “Actually, if you could grab the mugs from that upper cabinet, that would be great.” I stop, covering my mouth with my hand as I belatedly grasp that I fixed coffee without bothering to ask what she wanted. “I went ahead and started breakfast
so it would be ready by the time you woke up, and I didn’t even—”
She waves her hand to shush me. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s no croissant, but I’m not much of a croissant or donut eater, for that matter. I’m new to the neighborhood and don’t even know where they sell those around here.”
“Me neither. Like I said, it’s perfect. Trust me, I don’t sugarcoat.” Her small black-manicured hand covers mine. “It’s like you read my mind for the breakfast menu; I have to watch what I eat.”
My quizzical eyes search hers. She can’t seriously be worried about her appearance. Although her body is well-defined, she could certainly stand to put on a few pounds; I’m used to curvier women. Strangely, her ample chest seems out of proportion from the rest of her lean frame… not that I’m complaining. And the moment she insinuates that it’s related to a health issue, I scold myself for not remembering her selfie at the hospital sooner.
Dumbass!
I’m amazed that she’s so open about it. “Anyway, I really appreciate it, you know. The couch. The aspirin. The breakfast.”
“De nada.” I chuckle. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be able to say this in French. “It was the least I could do.”
She timidly inquires about what happened, or didn’t… I didn’t dare to remove her clothes last night, apart from her sweater since I figured that she might get too warm. The fleeting thought of the missed opportunity caused by her alcohol consumption has my dick hardening within seconds and I concentrate on finding music to complement the lazy morning mood.
Mindlessly, I browse through my playlists until I find the instrumental soundtracks that I often listen to with Chloe. We devour our breakfast and the conversation flows easily. Out of the blue, she rushes to get her phone and her fingers fly across the screen so quickly that I can’t keep up. Such a mundane gesture, such a huge difference. Her ability to type at record speed makes me gawk at her as I think back about how young she looks, and how old she must be.
“Oh, you spoke with Greer!” she exclaims, her eyebrow spiking up while she cleans up her plate.
“What?” I ask, tearing my eyes from my food and shooting her an odd look. I stop chewing because she has my full attention now. Registering that she must have been texting her cousin, I explain the situation and apologize for invading her privacy, sort of. We laugh in unison when she scolds me for my John Wayne issue, oblivious to the fact that I used her phone despite not knowing her that well. Needless to say, I keep my mouth shut about scrolling through her pictures.
“You’re full of surprises, you know.” She leans down and pecks my cheek.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I don’t know, you’re…” She rubs two fingers on her chin, thoughtful. “Sweet?”
“Ouch!”
Chapter Eighteen
Worth It
Tig
“What?” My French addiction asks, not so innocently. “You’re…” Her bottom teeth nip at the center of her upper lip. “Considerate. I meant it in the nicest way possible.”
“Right… Didn’t you call me sweet once?” I rack my brain. “Of course, you did… on New Year’s Eve. I gave you a pass that time, but you should know that no guy wants to be called sweet, baby.”
She shivers and counters, raising her index finger. “Hold that thought, please. This will sound rude, but I need to use the bathroom.” She laughs at her admission, since that’s how she ended up here in the first place. “Plus, I need to go to the store. I’m not trying to ditch you, but I have to brush my teeth.”
My chest vibrates with laughter. “Relax, princess. I’m pretty sure that I have an extra toothbrush lying around. Would that make you stay, or do you have to run anyway?” I’m bouncing from one foot to the other, hesitant about my next move.
“See? So considerate!” A soft giggle escapes her full mouth that I long to conquer yet again, and her angelic face breaks into a knowing smile. “Lead the way.” She bolts out of her seat and stares at me expectantly.
Alie trails behind me, the way she did when she woke up earlier, and I feel the weight of her eyes on my ass while I’m on my knees searching the bottom drawer for said toothbrush. As much as I enjoy being the focus of her attention, I can’t hold this position with the semi that I’m sporting. I pretend to hunt for a cleaning product to pass the time until I’m presentable enough to stand up. I’m being ridiculous, and I know it.
A few seconds later, I declare, “I’ll leave you to it,” like an idiot. As if she needs a chaperone to pee! I wonder what the hell is wrong with me as I shyly exit the room.
This girl’s seriously messing with my head, unless my hormones are in the driver’s seat. I haven’t hooked up with anyone in a couple of weeks, which isn’t like me. Moving took up a lot of my time, but the real reason behind it is that I’m heeding my favorite piercer’s advice that also extended to my gym habits. Claire warned that if I didn’t stop certain physical activities, I might not heal properly.
Her hand grips the doorknob of my freshly painted en suite bathroom. My intense gaze doesn’t leave hers as she retreats, inch by inch, her arm extending to slowly close the door. And I’m immediately distracted by her stripper tits and how they strain the fabric of her tee-shirt. Her satisfied expression tells me that she’s fully aware of what she’s doing as well as what’s going on inside of my filthy head.
Then I’m left alone—outside of my own bathroom—with my indecent thoughts. Now that our connection is broken, I don’t know what to do with myself until I remember that I left my phone in the kitchen. I go to grab it, each step taking me back and forth between my irrepressible need to put our obvious chemistry to the test and my nagging reservations about my feelings for her.
Are you even legal?
Groaning to myself, I trudge back to my room while shooting a text to Lucas and Marco, who’ve both been wondering if I was going to meet them later. Apparently, my new location rattled them more than it did me. I know that my absence from the gym is what’s really troubling them. They can pry all they want; I won’t admit the reason for my abstinence… but it’s about time that I put an end to it.
Immersed in my typing, I don’t hear her emerge from the bathroom. I tear my eyes from my phone and take her in. Her cheeks are rosy. Her head is cocked to the side. Her stance is self-assured. Right then, the air thickens, and I know that she’ll be my undoing as she lazily stretches her arms high above her head. My eyes skim over her fit frame and settle on her upper body. Her rack is more spectacular than ever, and I blame it on her long-sleeve tee-shirt that she tucked into her jeans, pulling the fabric taut against her skin.
She’s so fucking hot and seems strangely oblivious to it. My mind is going a mile a minute, and my dick stirs to life for good this time, pressing against my zipper to break free. I growl at the painful sensation along with my frustration over my revealing jeans that broadcast my state.
Unabashedly, I lick my lips at the sight of her, a cocky smile plastered on my stupid face. Anticipating how my tongue, fingers, and— hopefully—cock will feel getting lost in her breasts, I force my eyes upwards. Otherwise, I won’t be able to control myself much longer.
I clear my throat and say, “I was texting and didn’t see you.”
You fucking liar! She’s all you see…
Acknowledging where my eyes wandered, she meets my heated stare and purses her lips. I anxiously pray for her strained shirt to pop out of her jeans, but her belt keeps the damn thing in place.
Out of the blue, she blurts, “I’m twenty-one, you know.” I must look stunned because she adds, “I look younger, and I—”
I release a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding, rub my chin between my fingers, and whisper to myself, “Twelve years apart…”
She bats her lashes dramatically, then chuckles. “Don’t stress about it, Tig. I don’t have daddy issues.”
The distance between us overwhelms me with a disturbing sense of loss; I gently shake my
head to dispel the thought, without success. I let out a shaky breath and toss my phone on the bed with my next step. Although I want to deny it, I can’t stand being away from her. My entire body is rebelling against it.
Within two more strides, I’m invading her personal space again, my gaze boring into hers while my imagination runs wild. “I’m sorr—” I start and abruptly stop, catching my mistake. Her back is inches from the wall, next to a large window that’s flooding the room with light and making me blink. It’s not my imagination that I want going wild, it’s her beneath me. “You know what? Fuck John Wayne.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Fuck John Wayne!’ No more apologies,” I warn.
With that, my hip slams her against the wall, grinding my body against hers in the process. Shit! I’m ready to burst before we’ve even gotten started. I need to conquer her. I need to have her. I need to fuck her. My hungry mouth waters but somehow turns parched. My hopeful heart begins to drum in my constricted chest. My throbbing cock ignores my silent plea to behave.
Next thing I know, my hand develops a mind of its own and cups her firm ass. I revel at the sight of her tilting her neck backwards and breaking out in goosebumps. I’m guessing that they’ve spread everywhere, but her damned shirt blocks the view.
A devious smile flashes on her face and her pupils dilate with a desperate hunger. I’m not sure where it comes from. I’m not sure whether I’m sending the same intense signals. I’m not sure that I understand our rapidly growing attraction… but it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Opening her mouth to add something, I beat her to it and fuse my mouth over hers. My pulse accelerates as the tip of my tongue caresses her supple lips; there’s a lingering taste of my minty toothpaste on them which makes me smile. I’ve missed kissing her and make my intentions clear, taking advantage of her parted lips with my greedy tongue.
