All the Pretty Lies (11 page)

“And
hot!”
Sarah adds.

I grin over at her. “And it’s driving me
crazy!”

“Oh, I bet. By the time you get him to get on
that horse and ride, you’ll be ready to fall apart. But that can be
a good thing, especially for your first time.”

I hate thinking about my first time, much
less talking about it. I know all the details, all the mechanics
and physiological aspects of it. I just want to get past all that
painful, awkward shit and move on to the good stuff. Time’s a
wastin’!

“Well, if there’s anybody I would bet big
money on to make a girl’s first time pure heaven, it’d be
Hemi.”

“And I want alllll the details. You hear
me?”

“I hear you.”

“And hurry up about it. You’re a woman. Use
all the tools God gave you and bring that boy to his knees.”

I sigh. “I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just floating along,
letting things ‘happen’. You can’t do that. You have to
make
things happen. Your way. In your time.”

“I’m on it, Sarah. Trust me. I’ve got
this.”

I say this to get Sarah off my back, not
believing it for one second. The more time goes on and Hemi doesn’t
make a move, the more insecure it makes me. But I’m not ready to
give up yet. If I could pick anybody in the world to be my first,
it would be Hemi. As tough and hard and matter-of-fact as he is,
he’s shown me a whole different side of himself. The side that’s
caring, and wounded, and uncertain about some things. He may not
have intended to show me, but he did. And I saw it. And now I can’t
forget it.

What I can’t—and won’t—tell Sarah is that
this is too important to me for me to just capriciously screw it up
over sex. It’s worth more than that to me.
Hemi
is worth
more than that to me. I just can’t tell her that.

“So when do you see him again?”

“Since I’ve got school, he doesn’t want me
coming in there so late and being tired the next day, so he said I
should plan on coming Thursday and Friday night.”

“How considerate,” she says sarcastically.
“He needs to get over that shit and just get this done.”

“Sarah…” I roll my eyes. “You should’ve been
a guy.”

“Why? Because I’m honest?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, that’s why I’m
not
a guy. Guys
aren’t honest. They hide things from you and tell you what you want
to hear. I don’t do that. Therefore God made me a female. By far
the superior gender.”

“You really
should
put that on a
mug.”

“I’m working on it. I’m working on it.” One
glance in her direction tells me that she probably really is. And
if she does, I’m sure at least one of them will end up under my
tree at Christmas time.

I shake my head and roll my eyes again.

Sarah’s one crazy girl.

********

By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m
more than ready
to see Hemi again. I feel like I’m becoming
addicted to him, like time spent away from him is nearly painful.
Which is ridiculous, of course, since I haven’t known him very
long.

But still…

I dressed carefully for my first night in the
“studio” as Hemi calls it. I wanted to look sexy and mature without
looking trashy or like I’m trying too hard. I chose some snug jeans
that ride low on my hips and a cap-sleeved shirt that makes my
boobs look good and my waist look small. When I move a certain way,
it gives a glimpse of my stomach, and showing a guy some skin is
always a good idea. At least that’s what I’ve heard. It also gives
a peek-a-boo look at my butterflies from some angles, which I
love.

I park in a spot at the end of the street, so
as not to take up any customer spaces, and I climb out, leaving my
purse but grabbing the folder with the forms for Hemi’s boss to
fill out. Releases for school and stuff, and then Hemi’s preceptor
form. It’ll be official then. He’ll be stuck with me for the rest
of the semester, a thought that thrills me to the bone.

When I walk in, there are two people in the
lobby. By the looks of them, they’re waiting for their turn in one
of the chairs. I give them a smile and make my way to the doorway
that leads to the back room. I’m not sure whether I should just
walk on back or not, so I poke my head in and see if I can spot
Hemi. And I do. Immediately. My eye is drawn to him like the earth
is drawn to the sun. I can just make out his head behind the
partition that divides his area. It looks as though he’s talking to
someone, a female most likely, judging by what little bit of her
face I can see.

A young guy appears at my side. I was so
caught up in looking for Hemi, I didn’t even see him approach. He
can’t be much older than me. He has a Mohawk and several piercings
on his face. Even so, he’s cute in a punk rock way, with his
engaging smile and sparkling green eyes.

“You looking for Hemi?”

“Yes, I see him over there, but I don’t want
to interrupt.”

“Oh, you won’t. She’s not a client.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to get him into
trouble.”

“How would you do that?”

“Well, his boss might get mad if—”

The guy laughs. “Hemi doesn’t
have
a
boss. He
is
the boss.”

I’m puzzled. “He runs this place?”

“Yep, he sure does. He’s the manager.”

“Oh,” I say flatly. I wonder why he never
told me that.

“That’ll be our little secret, though. He
doesn’t tell a lot of people that. I just assumed he’d tell you
since you’ll be hanging around here quite a bit.”

“How do you know about that?”

“He told us to expect you, that he’d be
showing you the ropes. Some kind of thing he’s doing for your
school.”

“Right. Yeah, he’s…helping me.”

“So, what are you waiting for? Go on back,”
he says with a pleasant smile. “I feel
sure
he’ll be wanting
to see you.” I’m not quite sure of what to make of his comment, but
he distracts me from it when he sticks his hand out and introduces
himself. “I’m Paul by the way. I’m one of the part-time
artists.”

I return his smile and take his hand. “Hi,
Paul. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sloane.”

“Sloane,” he repeats. “It’s gonna be
very
nice
to see you around here, Sloane.”

Virgin or not, I can still spot appreciation
in a man’s eyes. And there’s appreciation in Paul’s. Lots and lots
of appreciation.

“You’re a flirt, Paul,” I tell him bluntly.
“But I like you anyway.”

“I knew you would. Girls can’t help it. Wanna
touch my hair?”

He bends his head slightly forward,
presenting me with his stiff Mohawk. It’s a silly gesture on his
part, but it makes me grin. And I
do
actually want to touch
his hair once he practically shoves it in my face.

“What
is that?”
I ask as I touch the
spikes.

Paul lifts his head, dances his fingers over
his prickly hair and grins at me. “You don’t even want to know.” He
starts to back away, toward the chair that now has a client in it.
“See you around, Sloane.”

I smile as I watch him go greet the heavy
man. He offers his hand in an upright handshake, taking the
customer’s palm against his and patting the back side like they’re
old frat buddies or something.

Paul. What a character.

I turn my attention back to Hemi. I make my
way across the room to the little cubby where he works. It’s not
until I round the corner that I see how “not a client” the woman
actually is. A gorgeous blonde, she’s leaning into him like she’s
very
familiar with him.

When I stop in my tracks, they both turn
their head toward me. Hemi looks irritated. The woman
looks…hungry.

“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I
say to the woman. I glance at Hemi. “Paul said I could come over.
But if you’d rather I wait out in the lobby….”

“No, you’re fine, sweetie,” the woman says.
Up close, I can see that her eyes are a cool gray and her face is a
study in perfection. “I was just leaving.” She turns a stunning
smile on Hemi. “Thanks again, babe. I’ll repay you. I promise.” The
woman brushes her lips over Hemi’s before she leans away from him.
“I’ll let you get back to work.”

She slides past me in a swirl of expensive
perfume. I can only imagine what kind of swagger a woman like that
has. I refuse to look, but, then again, I don’t really need to. The
way Hemi is watching her go tells me all I need to know.

No wonder he has no interest in me. Not
really. In a thousand years and with a team of plastic surgeons,
there’s no way I could compete with a woman who looks like that.
No. Frickin’. Way.

I feel a lump lodge in my throat. I shouldn’t
let this upset me. I mean, I was looking at Hemi as just a means to
do some living, to rid myself of my virginity. That’s all,
right?

Right?

“I can come back later if you’re busy,” I
tell him, proud that there is no quaver in my voice.

“No, that’s not necessary. We were…we were
done.” Hemi looks down at the folder I’ve got a death grip on. “Are
those the papers for me to fill out?”

“Yes, I guess you can sign them all since
you’re the manager.” He doesn’t flinch when I say this. He must not
care whether I know or not.

Hemi takes the forms out of the folder and
puts them on the small counter off to one side of his cubby. As he
reads over them, the silence—and the curiosity—is too much to
bear.

“So, she’s…attractive.”

“I guess,” comes his absent reply.

He makes no move to explain further. I should
let it go. But I can’t. I just can’t.

“Is she, like, an ex-employee or
something?”

“No.”

“Is she your sister?”

“No.”

“A cousin? A loan shark? A nun?” I’m crossing
my fingers he says yes to the last one.

He doesn’t give me a grin or even look my way
over the nun part. “No, she’s an old friend.”

“Oh,” I say, not relieved at all to hear
this. “I thought maybe you had some family in town or
something.”

“No, no family in town.” He seems distracted.
And not entirely happy at the moment. I can’t help but think it has
something to do with his “old friend” popping in. I’m immediately
resentful. When Hemi finishes filling out the paperwork, he hands
me the forms and throws his pen back on the table. “So, there are a
couple of people waiting. Let’s go see what they’re interested in.
Maybe we can get you in at least a couple of sketches and a stencil
tonight.”

And so goes his detached, clinical attitude
for the rest of the night.

Much to my dismay.

It makes me wonder about the wisdom of
trapping Hemi in this “professional” arrangement. I thought it
meant more time together, but I’m beginning to think that might not
be such a good thing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN- Hemi

The arrival of Sasha back into my life does
nothing to improve my mood. I’m already feeling like a dirt bag.
Having her around here will only remind me of it on a more frequent
basis. Of course, that will probably work out better for Sloane.
She—and her damnable virtue—are much safer with me this way. And my
ultimate plan is safer this way, too.

Still, I don’t have to like it.

The only other good thing about this is that
Sasha
is
the kind of woman I’m used to. History or not, she
knows the score. Maybe I can pound out my frustrations on her very
willing body.

If I can just get a sweeter one out of my
mind long enough to do it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- Sloane

Somehow, I had managed to convince myself
that things would be better tonight, that Hemi’s…pique over his
“old friend” would dissipate and that we could resume our dance. My
hopes are not only officially dashed as soon as I walk through the
door, but they are choked, sliced, stabbed, and burned, too.

The first thing I see is the gorgeous blonde
straddling a stool in front of one of the tattoo chairs, inking a
design on some guy’s thigh.

My heart sinks.

And keeps sinking.

She looks up, embarrassingly enough, to find
me standing in the doorway staring at her.

“You must be Sloane. Come on in and pull up a
chair. Hemi will be back in a few.”

She’s friendly and likeable, which, of
course, makes me hate her that much more. Still, I do the only
thing I can and I grab a stool and wheel it over to the other side
of her client.

“You learning how to do this?” the guys asks
me.

“Trying to,” I say lightly.

“She’s gonna have one of the best teachers. I
oughtta know. I taught him everything I know,” she says, winking at
the guy.

Oh shit!
This
is the woman who took
Hemi under her wing?

At first, I feel worse, but then, as I think
about their connection, I actually start to buck up a little. This
hard core glamour doll wasn’t a love interest. Hemi was her
protégé. That lends a whole new feeling to their relationship, one
that doesn’t intimidate the frick out of me.

I find I can actually smile at this woman
now, and it’s almost genuine. “So you taught him how to do this,
huh?”

“Yep. Not that it was too hard. Hemi’s a
natural. We used to sketch on napkins every morning at breakfast. I
knew he had skills before he even picked up a gun.”

The small, fledgling hope that had poked its
head out of the cave of my despair is effectively obliterated by
her comment.

Every morning over breakfast.

Only Hemi doesn’t do breakfast. Anymore. He
said he hadn’t in a long time. Now I’m getting a feel for just how
long.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “how long
does it take to get all this down? I mean, how long did it take you
to teach Hemi?”

I hope I’m being subtle. Please God, let me
be subtle.

“A couple of years. But I don’t think it
really took that long. I think we just drew it out, if you know
what I mean.”