For A Goode Time Call...

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Cassie—”

  “And the obvious answer is that you’re just not into women at all. And once I realized that, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I missed all the signs the whole time. The fact that you were always going off and hanging out with the other guys. The other gay guys. Clubbing together, shopping, everything. You did everything with those guys.” I growled. “And then there was the fact that you could be backstage with all of us girls, and we’d have to do a quick change, and you wouldn’t even look. Not once, let alone twice. At any of us.”

  “That doesn’t make me an asshole.”

  “No, it doesn’t. You just weren’t interested. It all just started making sense. If you were really a straight guy in that situation, you would have looked, and then turned away. I’ve danced with straight men before, obviously, and they’re professionals. But they’re still aware that they’re straight and it’s not weird, not a thing, just a fact.” I sighed. “But that’s not you.”

  “So?”

  “So, it just hit me all at once, and now I feel like a complete moron for not realizing it sooner.” I let the silence grow. “So that’s it. I just needed that confirmation. Thanks.”

  “It was that bad for you?”

  I laughed. “You really care?”

  “I mean, yeah? Sort of. I guess I thought it was pretty good between us.”

  “Of course you would, you selfish ballsack! You got off, every time. I did everything I could to make sure you always felt good, that you knew I wanted you, that I appreciated you, that I was attracted to you. I did things for you. So yeah, you wouldn’t think it was bad, because I went out of my way to make it good for you.”

  He was stunned silent by that. “I…”

  “There’s nothing to say.” I dragged my hand through my hair. “I was just an idiot, and wasted four years with you. And now I’m fucked up in the head and heart because of you. And you know what? I’m not accepting all the blame for it, Rick. I’m not. I should have seen it sooner, yeah. I should’ve known that sexual things aside, you just weren’t thinking about me, didn’t really care about me. But you were lying. And that’s what fucking kills me. If you’d been honest, I probably would have been okay giving you space to figure things out. Instead, you played a game. You pretended. You lied. You cheated. And that puts the blame squarely on you.” I sighed, bitter. “I just wish that helped me feel better about myself. But it doesn’t, and that’s not your problem. Not that it ever was, clearly.”

  “That’s not fair, I was—”

  I cut him off. “Rick, I don’t give a shit. Just be honest.”

  “Easy for you to say—”

  “I am honest. You want the honest truth? I’m a fucking mess. From the accident, from losing dance, from the way you dumped me, and now from realizing I was dating a fucking selfish piece of shit liar, that I wasted all that time and energy thinking I loved you, thinking you loved me. And I just wonder if I have any fucking clue what love is—you know? Like, I don’t know, and I wonder now if I ever did.” I growled. “But none of that is your problem.” My dryer buzzed. “I have to go. Thank you for answering my question. Best of luck to you.”

  A pause, and Rick stammered a few times. Paused again. Started over. “I am sorry, Cassie. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “You too, Rick.”

  I ended the call with Rick, and waited for Charlie to speak.

  “Wow,” she said, eventually. “That was…” A laugh. “That was awesome.”

  “It sucked.”

  “Yeah, of course. But now you know, you have the closure, and you can move on.” A groan. “I just wish you’d waited, like, a couple more hours. I was going to actually sleep in today.”

  “You haven’t slept in on a Saturday your whole life.”

  “I quit my job. I was going to try something new. Being a slacker sounds fun.”

  I laughed. “You couldn’t be a slacker if you tried. You’d overachieve being a slacker. You’d plan out your day, like, Saturday, sleep in till eleven—check. Eat like shit, check. Watch garbage TV for an hour, check. Half ass a walk on the treadmill in my rich boyfriend’s swanky apartment building’s fancy gym—check.”

  She sighed. “I broke up with Glen because he was sleeping with my boss, and the apartment was ours, not his, and I don’t live there anymore because I quit my job and left Glen and I have no real friends because they’re all Glen’s friends, it turns out. So I’m living in a hotel in a kind of seedy part of Boston, and I’ve been drunk at eleven a.m. more times in the last month than I care to admit.”

  “Wow, Charlie, I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve been busy with your own life-altering crises.”

  “Glen, your super hot, super macho, super successful boyfriend…was sleeping with your boss? Your past middle-age, overweight, and just objectively not attractive boss? The one with a husband of twenty-five years, three kids, and two grandkids?”

  “Yes. That boyfriend, and that boss.”

  “Wow. I…” I was at a loss. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thus my current lifestyle of being a slacker, living off my savings, and day-drinking alone.”

  “Char-char—you’re not that girl. You don’t have pity parties. You don’t slack off. You don’t even night drink, let alone day drink.”

  “Yeah, well. I guess I’m having a moment.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  “Of course.”

  I started taking my clean clothes out of the dryer and folding them, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on top of the front-load dryer. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hell if I know.” An angry, bitter sigh. “Probably keep the pity party going another week or so, and then pull up my big girl panties and start my life over.”

  “Don’t say panties, Charlotte. It’s gross.”

  “Panties, panties, panties.” She laughed, goading me. “Wait, I got a better one—moist panties.”

  I shuddered, faking a gagging sound. “Gross!”

  She laughed. “I could barely say it, it’s so gross.” The humor faded. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  “You talked to Mom, you said?”

  A hesitation. “Yeah.”

  I laughed. “She told you what you should do, and you’re just working up the courage to actually do it.”

  “Her advice was terrible.”

  I cackled. “Mom’s advice is never terrible. We just don’t like it because she wants us to do the hardest thing, and we don’t like it, and we don’t listen, and we regret it, but she never really says I told you so which only makes us feel worse because she could and should say it, but she’s too good a person and won’t. But she’s always right, and we know it, we just don’t like it.”

  “Pretty much,” Charlie sighed.

  “So? What was her advice?”

  “Apparently Poppy is having a hard time with things, too. She wanted me to go spend time with Poppy, like we’d help each other figure out our lives or something.”

  I couldn’t help a laugh. “You and Poppy—I don’t want to say you hate each other, but you fight like cats and dogs over the dumbest shit. She annoys the hell out of you, and you piss her off.”

  “Exactly!”

  I laughed again. “But she’s right.”

  “Excuse me?” Charlie was incredulous.

  “You should do it.”

  “Can I ask why you would betray me like this?”

  “Charlotte, come on. It’s not a betrayal. You and Poppy are both in the middle of shit, right? You have no life anymore, no job, no apartment, no boyfriend. I’m guessing Poppy realized she hates school and wants to just do art full time or something, because she just has no patience for rules or assignments, and doesn’t have the guts to believe in herself enough to really try and be a full-time artist. And Mom is exactly right—this is the best, if not the only time you and she will ever have to s
pend real quality unhurried time together, figuring each other out, and learning to like each other.”

  “Would you do it?”

  I considered. “You know, I would. I mean, shit, I’m living with Mom right now. Tells you where I’m at in life.”

  “Yikes. You’re in Alaska?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How is it?”

  “Beautiful. Backward. Interesting.”

  “Backward. You snob.”

  “Fine. It’s not backward, it’s just different.”

  “You’re just spoiled from living at Julliard and then Paris, and traveling all over the world staying in the best hotels.” She left a long pause. “Who is he?”

  “Who?”

  She snorted. “Cassandra Danielle, I’m your older sister. I know you. There’s a guy, and he’s why you’re having this crisis about Rick.”

  “It was bothering me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Why does there have to be someone?”

  “Because if there wasn’t, you wouldn’t be arguing. You’d tell me there isn’t anyone. You’re dodging. Therefore, what the hell is his name?”

  I sighed. Sisters. So annoying, especially when they know you better than you know yourself. “His name is Ink.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “That is his real name.”

  “Really? That’s kinda cool.”

  “He’s a tattoo artist.”

  “And his name is Ink?” An appropriate amount of disbelief.

  “Serendipitous, right?”

  “To say the least.” A pause. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “He’s Inuit, six-foot-seven, and covered in tattoos from head to toe, never wears a shirt, and he calls me Little Sparrow.”

  A really long, really significant pause. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Little Sparrow?”

  “Apparently I’m delicate, but elegant, or something. I don’t remember how he put it.”

  “Six-seven?”

  “With a beard that hangs to his chest, a ponytail, and did I mention the tattoos on every inch of his skin?”

  “And you like him?”

  “I don’t know!” I yelled. “Yes, I do. I do like him. I can’t figure it out.”

  “You once told me tattoos were trashy, long hair was effeminate, and beards were gross.” She spoke over my protest. “And, I believe, you once said you hated being made to feel any smaller than you already were, so any man more than six inches taller than you was right off the list.”

  “Yes, Charlotte, I did say all that. He is literally everything I always thought I didn’t like in a man.”

  “But?”

  “But he’s the nicest, warmest, most genuine, interesting, and unique person I’ve ever met. He’s absolutely and utterly just himself. His tattoos are absolutely amazing, individual little works of art all connected and interwoven all over him. They’re not trashy—they’re an expression of who he is. And he’s absolutely gargantuan, and I feel so absolutely incredibly tiny around him, I don’t even know how to explain it, but it’s…comforting.”

  “Are you attracted to him? Like, sexually?”

  “I…” I paused, thinking. “Yeah.”

  “You had to think about it, Cass.”

  “I know. But that’s just because I didn’t even realize how much I liked him, or that I was even attracted to him. He’s just so…different. I’ve never in my life met anyone like him. He doesn’t judge, and he’s so wise, and…”

  Charlie was laughing. “Whoa, Cassie, babe. You like him, like him.”

  “Yes. I do. Who he is as a person is so…different, and so much that I’ve had to stop and think about how I feel about him physically. And that’s complicated.”

  “Why is it complicated?”

  “Because I think he’s got some kind of hang-up.”

  “Everyone has hang-ups, Cass.”

  “But he’s so confident, so comfortable in who he is. I can’t figure out what he could be hung up about.”

  “So ask him. Get to know him and figure it out, and get past it with him.”

  “Sounds simple, but you don’t know him. I’m not even sure how to start that conversation. He has this way of making me think about myself and making me face my own shit. But I don’t think anyone ever really makes him face his shit. And that’s why he’s so complicated and internal. Because he’s wise and insightful and seems to be so content in who he is that no one sees that he has his own insecurities.”

  “Like I said, everyone has insecurities. If they don’t, they’re narcissistic and arrogant.”

  “So what’s your hang-up?”

  “Oh my, I’m really complicated, Cass. Daddy issues up the wazoo.” A yawn. “I’m going to go back to sleep. Go talk to your big fella, Cass.”

  “I will.” I yawned, then. “Damn you, you gave me your yawn.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Go see Poppy.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up. You didn’t listen to Mom about Glen, and look how that turned out. Listen to her now, Charlie.”

  “God, you’re as annoying as she is.”

  “I know. It’s just because we love you.”

  “Love you too, Cass. Bye.”

  I tucked the phone back into my purse, and finished folding my clothes.

  Talk to him.

  Figure it out, with him.

  With him.

  Did I want that? I’d only known him a very short time, but he was stuck in my head. Of course, so was Rick, and dance. But Rick was done, now. I knew the truth, and while it hurt, I knew I was good to move on, for real this time. He was messed up, and selfish, and I’d been blind and probably a little desperate for attention. I mean, that was my inheritance from Dad. All of us girls had something, and mine was being desperate for attention. It’s part of my love for dance—I love the state, the attention, the lights. I also just love dance, moving my body, being strong and graceful and powerful and elegant, I love the movement. But I also just love being seen on the stage. But the attention thing goes deeper. I need male attention because Daddy wasn’t there enough. Cliché, much? Shit, I know it is. But it’s true. And I was willing to blindly accept whatever Rick was offering because he was paying attention, sort of.

  Ugh.

  Am I falling into the same trap with Ink? Am I just attracted to him because he paid a little attention to me? Is he going to reveal some killer flaw, too? I mean, he’s just too good to be true, otherwise.

  No, it’s not the same. Yes, he paid attention to me, but it was genuine. I’m still not sure what Rick’s motivations were. Maybe he was just trying to figure out if he really did like girls, boys, or both, and really just didn’t know how to face the confusion. I don’t know, and I do have sympathy for what must have been difficult. I just think, regardless, he should’ve been honest with me, even if it meant breaking up with me. Not telling me what he was really going through, not having the courage to tell me the truth was lying, plain and simple, dammit.

  What about Ink?

  I groaned, bending over the dryer with my head in my hands.

  I almost wished I’d fallen into the water. I’m too fucked up as a person to know how to navigate this. Like, I really, really don’t know how to handle the fact that I’m catching feelings for Ink.

  Ink

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  And it was a problem. A big problem.

  My job requires focus, and the thoughts I was having were…distracting, at best.

  My current client, fortunately, wanted a simple tat—a little butterfly on the nape of her neck. Small, but in vibrant color. A piece I could do almost in my sleep. I stayed focused as best as I could, because she’d come to me expecting a work of art, not something I’d done on autopilot.

  I barely saw the client, though, except as a patch of skin and the way it called to me, spoke to me, told me what to do.

  When I finished
, she looked at the piece in the mirror, gushed about the colors and how realistic it looked, and paid me. I took a photo of it for my gallery book, and said my goodbyes.

  It was a great piece, and I was proud I’d been able to do work of that quality with the crazy-ass thoughts I’d been having the last few days.

  Thoughts of Cassie.

  Thoughts of what she’d been wearing last time I saw her—those tiny skintight shorts. How they’d showcased exactly what her ass looked like, even though it was technically covered. The cut-off midriff shirt. The expanse of her skin, the hint of her breasts.

  Her scent.

  Her eyes.

  The way, in those last few moments, that she’d looked up at me. As if realizing at the same time as me that we had more than just a mental and emotional connection. That I wanted her. I knew that had been obvious. I’d been fuckin’ seconds from kissing her.

  And she’d known it, too.

  Had she been daring me to? Would she have let me? Would she have kissed me back?

  I flipped the sign to closed—it was ten at night and I was done for the day.

  No more clients until noon tomorrow.

  I went home, started some eggs and tried to think about anything but Cassie.

  Anything but her lips. Anything but her eyes—how wild and quicksilver they were, reflecting her mercurial moods in the changing colors.

  Her skin was art. I usually looked at skin as a canvas, tried to picture what would go where. The few girls I’d been with, that’s where my mind went. Oh, I appreciated them for what they looked like, but another deeper part was just appreciating their skin as a canvas for ink.

  Cassie was different. Her skin was flawless. Cream and ivory, perfectly silk, not a blemish. It would almost be a shame to ruin her skin with ink, and that, to me, was a nearly blasphemous thing to say.

  I couldn’t improve on perfection, not with my best work.

  I burned my eggs, thinking about her.

  Need was building inside me. Need to see her, need to talk to her. Need to know if I’d imagined the moment between us, if I’d imagined her wanting me to kiss her.

  Need to touch her skin, to know if it felt as soft and perfect as it looked.