Lengths (3 page)

“Glad to know my art elective is good for something practical.” The shy sweetness vanishes and she goes all iron-spined again. “So, you’re sure you don’t need me?”

“Much as I love and adore everything you do, I promise I can close the shop up on my own. Fun. You. Now.” When she hesitates and wrings her little hands, he pulls the gun away and says, “Look. I’m all done. Now Deo can be a gentleman and walk you to your car, and you don’t need to worry about the shop falling down around my ears. Okay?”

I hop off the table and inspect the black lines, almost too graceful and neat, but just jagged enough to be bad-ass. And meaningful.

“Thanks, man.” I try a simple shake, but Rocko walks me through a whole complicated hand gesture thing that leaves me trying to hide my smile at his corniness. He’s a good egg. A fucking dope, but a good egg. “You gonna snap a shot for your portfolio?”

“Good idea.” Rocko looks around, confusion all over his face.

The soft footfall of Whit’s steps contrasts with her jangly laugh. “I got this, Rocko. Stop before you hurt yourself.” She comes back with a camera and says, “Say ‘cheese.’”

She’s got a mouth that makes me think dirty thoughts, all pouty, deep pink lips that can’t completely manage to look stern or serious no matter what expression she has on her face. Right now she’s trying to look all business, but that mouth and those sexy dark eyes and her perfect curves are all conspiring to drive me fucking insane.

To the point where I’m standing to get a picture done of my new ink, but I don’t bother to show my new ink. I scramble to turn in the right direction when she raises a dark eyebrow.

She sighs, trying to look irritated, but her mouth curls up in a soft smile. She reaches a hand out and lays it on my hip, her fingers warm on my skin. She slides her hand along my back and shoulder, and follows the line through, propping my arm up, letting the tips of her fingers skim the inside of my wrist and along my palm. Swallowing, blinking, breathing, all suddenly become very difficult.

She snaps a few pictures, says, “Let me do the bandage for you,” and I’m positive this girl will wind up in my bed tonight.

I slide back onto the table and watch her collect the little pot of Udder Butter, the gauze, and tape. I can do this all myself, but I’m not about to point that out. “Thanks for the tat inspiration.” I look at her from under my upheld arm, her hair all glossy, and when I lean closer and take a breath in, she smells like something citrus and something clean, crushed leaves or spring or something I can’t quite put my finger on. “I feel like I kind of stole a piece of your soul.”

Her eyes flick up at me, and I can see the panic she’s wrestling to control. Her voice slices out cold and mean. “It’s just a tattoo. I sketch designs constantly. It helps pass the time.”

“Alright.” Her fingers dip into the ointment and she spreads it over my torn-up skin gently, even though her features have gone ice-hard. “I guess it’s a part of me now whether you like it or not.” It’s a joke. It’s clearly a joke, said in my joking voice, but she doesn’t brush it off or roll her eyes or chuckle along. She blinks back tears and works like mad to get her shaking hands under control enough to twist the lid back on the Udder Butter.

“It’s not a joke.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re flashing with some kind of pain that goes right down to her fucking marrow. It’s raw and pissed-as-hell. She slaps the gauze on with more force than is strictly necessary, and I wince around her roughness as she rips the tape in rushed, angry jerks.

I want to make it better, tell her I know the pain of no one understanding a fucking thing, tell her that jokes or drinks or fucking fun bury it for the moment, but that only makes it hurt more when it rips through and rears its ugly ass head again when you least expect it.

“Hey!” I call. She’s stomping away, throwing things back in their rightful drawers. “Hey, Whit?” I slide off the table and curl a hand around her shoulder. “I was being a dick, alright?” For a second she goes stiff, then relaxes under my touch. She turns her head and looks over her shoulder at me, just slightly.

“I think what I was trying to say but being an asshole about is ‘thank you.’ So, hear me out for a minute, alright? I’ve been going through some shit, and I wasn’t planning on getting anything done tonight because I wanted to make my mom happy, but I knew there wasn’t gonna be anything here that could have any real meaning for me. Then here you are, and here’s this tattoo that, I don’t really know why, but it honestly feels like you reached into my head and pulled out the one thing that could possibly make any sense of all the fucking craziness I’ve been feeling. So thank you.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “That’s all. Thank you.”

She turns around slowly, so close she’s in my arms and I can move less than a handful of inches and have my mouth on hers.

“You’re welcome.” The words slip out quick and rigid. The next words are slightly more relaxed. “Sorry. It’s been a really long day.” She twirls out of my arms and away from me and gathers her purse and that fucking annoying phone, suddenly in a rush to leave. Me. She waves to Rocko, and turns to me as I’m pulling my hoodie over my head. “Well, it was cool meeting you.”

I ignore her attempt at a sendoff and push the door open with one hand so she can walk out in front of me. She tucks her hair behind her ears and heads right to a white Chrysler LeBaron that’s kinda pimp. She leans against the driver’s side door and smiles, but it’s not a real one. It’s too angular, too polite, there’s too much thought in it. I want to see a smile that rips out of somewhere deep and changes the shape and shine of her eyes.

“Thanks for walking me to my car. So, um, I guess I’ll see you around.” She pops the door open and leans in, setting her bag on the passenger seat neatly, then looks back at me with expectation clear on her face. Only it’s like she’s expecting me to go, which I’m not about to do. She’s definitely not expecting me to step closer, run my thumb over those sexy lips, watch while her eyes widen with shock then burn with sexy desire, and kiss her. But that’s exactly what I do anyway.

It’s a good fucking kiss. I hook my arm around her waist and pull her so her body is locked close to mine. She leans her head back, and I put my lips on the curve of her neck and kiss up under her jaw, right where the the crushed leaf smell meets that perfect clean-girl skin smell. I pull back and look at her parted lips, closed eyes, dark, curved eyebrows pressed almost together like she’s overthinking this. Before she can change her mind, I press my mouth to hers.

She opens her lips, and I’m a little shocked by the hungry slide of her tongue and the low moan that echos from her mouth to mine. I pull my hands down to her hips and squeeze tight, wanting to feel her skin under my fingers. She turns her head and deepens the kiss, her hands cupping the back of my neck with a possessive need that makes me hard and blots out all thoughts other than her and the clawing desire to get her in the backseat as quickly as possible and peel back everything until it’s just the two of us and what we want bared between us.

I nip that bottom lip, exactly the way I’d been wanting to since I saw her bite it in the shop, and she lets out a tight sigh from somewhere deep in her throat. She pulls me closer and licks at me with a tongue so soft, my mind reels and crashes before it can imagine everything that tongue might be capable of doing. I press my hands under her shirt, just grazing the soft skin of her stomach and start moving up for more when she tears her lips away.

She’s breathing fast and heavy, her face is pink, her eyes are shiny, she has no idea where she should look or what she should say, and I want to capitalize on her uncertainty by kissing her again, hard and fast, but she ducks out of the way and shakes her head slightly.

“It’s my birthday today.” I pull my fingers down her arm and take her hand. “My grandpa is making some lobster and we’re going to smoke some fucking crazy cigars my dad sent from God knows where. We could pick up some beers. Or some wine or whatever else you want. His place is right by the bay. You can see every star from the dock.”

She pulls her hand out of my grasp and presses her palms down along the front of her skirt, shaking her head like she’s trying to get her bearings. “Happy birthday, Deo. I’d like to come by, but I…I really can’t. I gotta go.” The buzz of her goddamn phone interrupts her last words, and she glances down at the screen. Her eyes go wide for one split second, and then she looks flustered and embarrassed before she sends a quick reply.

She’s sexting. With someone who isn’t me.

It’s fine. Or it should be fine. I’ve known this girl for just over an hour. We kissed one time. It’s not like she’s wearing my fucking varsity jacket or whatever. So why am I so royally pissed the fuck off?

“Look, it’s cool, right? Do what you gotta do. I’ll see you around, maybe?” I want…more. I want enough to make the tattoo scalding my ribs and that sweet as hell kiss burned in my memory mean something more than they do. But she’s not available, and this is probably a good thing. Whit isn’t the kind of girl I need right now. Way too uptight. Way too control-freak. The ‘W’ inked behind her ear is just an anomaly. I know this girl is probably type-A, high-maintenance, high drama, and that’s not my thing. At all.

“Deo?” I turn and look at her, hands in my hoodie pocket. She takes a few tentative steps my way. “You have a phone?” She nabs her lip between her teeth again, like she’s about to do something she knows she shouldn’t, and it makes me feel this wild surge of triumph. I have a feeling her worst instincts are leading her straight to me whether she likes it or not.

And I’m betting she doesn’t like it much at all.

Yet.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and hold it out to her. She crushes it in her hand, closes her eyes, and sweeps her thumb over the keys rapidly before she shoves it back my way. “Call me. If you want. If not, it’s okay.”

She turns on her heel, clips back to her sensible LeBaron and fumbles with the door handle before she slides in and backs out, a little too fast.

I’m left standing in the parking lot, phone in my hand, the screen still bright with her name and number, and I can’t stomp the goofy smile off my face. My brain flips through a million scenarios involving me, Whit, and that sweet little mouth of hers, and they melt my mind so completely, I almost manage to forget the painful sting on my ribs, part of me, and a decent part her. Whether she likes it or not.

-Four-
              Whit

              Ryan smiles as he pulls the door to his apartment open for me. His eyes are droopy, like he just woke up, and his hair is a crazy mess. But no matter what, he’s hot, and right now, that’s all that matters. I know it seems skeezy that I just kissed Deo and here I am, meeting Ryan for a little action, but it wasn’t planned. Deo just snuck up on me.
              I barely take a step through the door when he closes it behind me and presses my back against the cool wood. His lips pry mine open and his tongue gets right down to exploring the landscape of my mouth before we even say hello. I can feel him already  hard against me, which would be difficult to conceal, since he’s not wearing anything other than a pair of boxers. Ryan doesn’t bother dressing up. It’s all going to end up scattered across the apartment, anyway. But that’s why I’m here, right? No strings. Just fun.
No conversation. No lobster dinners.
              “Well, you’re not wasting any time tonight, huh?” I ask, pulling away.

He moans. “What’s the point? We both know what this is, Whit. And I have an early class.”

“I didn’t have to come,” I say.  

I tuck my short hair back behind my ears and fight the urge to bail. I want him. It’s not a secret. That’s why I’m here night after night. Ryan is nice enough. He doesn’t make me feel like this relationship, or arrangement, is shady, he treats me right when we’re together, and, good lord, the boy is a god in the sack.
              “I
always
want you to come. Let me prove it.” His voice is low and sexy in my ears.
              He smiles and pulls me back in, running his hands up the back of my shirt and unhooking the red lace bra that I put on this morning, obviously with him in mind. His lips crush into mine as he pushes me back onto the sofa, and Ryan makes good on his promise.

This is always the most awkward part of our arrangement. When the sex is over and Ryan is passed out and I’ve got to scrounge around the apartment in the dark, hunting for my clothes. I tiptoe to the refrigerator and pull it open, letting the light filter through the front rooms.

“Gotcha,” I say. I smile because I’ve managed to find the next-to-nothing thong Ryan had peeled off of me and flung across the apartment earlier. It’s wrapped around the leg of an end table. I sort of thought it was a goner. “Well done, Whit.” I mentally pat myself on the back and then move on to tracking down the killer kitten heels I wore over. There’s no way in the world I’m leaving without those.
              I know I should feel some form of shame that I’m in this situation. That I regularly put myself in this situation. But I don’t. I’ve learned the hard way recently that life is too fucking short, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take a second of it for granted. I’m living doubly hard from now on. I owe Wakefield that much after all he sacrificed. No one should have to leave this earth at eighteen. No matter how honorable their death is. And since he can’t be around anymore to live it up, I’ll do it for him.
              I slide the black pencil skirt over my hips and zip it up. Even the noise of the zipper cuts through the silence in the apartment, and I feel like a first-rate asshole, because what I want least in life right now is to wake Ryan up. Goodbyes are never any good, and really, who wants to say ‘thank you’ to their fuck-buddy for getting them off? It goes against the no-strings-attached beauty of our arrangement. I hold my gorgeous shoes in my hand as I crawl around the front of the apartment trying to put my hands on the small purse I’d tossed aside when Ryan met me at the door.
              Out of nowhere, Ryan’s quiet apartment turns into a fucking big band concert when my stupid phone starts ringing.
              Shit. Shit. Shit.
              I easily find my purse now that it’s illuminating the room with each note my phone plays from the inside.
              “Whit?” Ryan calls groggily from the sofa.
              “Sorry!” I squeak. “I’ll shut it off and get out of here.”
              “Thanks for a good time.” His voice trails off at the end. I cringe. Exactly what I was trying to avoid.
              “I’ll call you,” I promise guiltily. He mumbles something that’s so full of sleep I can’t understand it, just as I silence my phone. I pull out my car keys and sprint down the stairs to my car. It isn’t until I’m outside in the fresh air that I feel like I can breath again. I check my missed calls as I walk to the LeBaron.  I don’t recognize the number.