Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella) (2 page)

T
he illumination inside was dim
, except for the work lights over the front desk, a vintage gasoline sign slung in place of a logo across its front. Behind it gleamed another, smaller version of the neon sign outside. In one musty corner sat a couch upholstered in faux leopard skin, and all over the walls hung framed designs and photographs of the bodies bearing them. A shelf bore various statues and trophies, from little league championships to industry awards. A sign above it said ‘Dickie’s Emporium Minor Achievements' in ironically grandiose script. Motes danced in the air where daylight struck through the open door, and the low throb of the loading trucks outside seemed to burst the shell of this tiny world. She felt like an intruder, like she'd wandered into someone's well sign-posted, but nonetheless private, home.

The brightly festooned woman sketching at the desk raised her head and smiled, her delicate pixie face dotted with tiny star-like gems, glittering in the light of her tru-lite lamp. The severity of her gothic pin-up make-up offset her inherent cuteness, and her deep scowl completed the picture. If Becka wasn’t mistaken, this had to be Karen. The same one that recommended this tattoo shop to Mick, and hence, to Becka.

"Hi, I'm Becka."

"Of course you are, pretty little thing! Don't shuffle in the doorway, come on in. You're letting the heat out." Karen’s voice was low and rich, but decidedly sullen. She'd clearly seen it all, and yet another cute clean-skinned girl wasn't about to pique her interest.

"Are you sure it's not warm enough?" Becka asked, blushing as she closed the door behind her.

"Oh, you'll appreciate it when you've got half your clothes off and we're jabbing you with pointy objects."

"Sounds like a Tuesday,” Becka winked, and the woman leaned over and shook her hand resolutely, her magenta and jet-black hair tumbling over her shoulders as she swept it away with a look of annoyance. She pulled a barrette from the depths of her leopard-print corset and pinned a particularly troublesome lock of hair behind her head, revealing yet more stars inked across her neck and jaw.

"Ha! Aaaaaanywaaaaaay… Mick warned me about your witty banter. Lemme get Fitz.” She reached out and abruptly rang an old-fashioned brass bell, the first hint of the resonant 'ding!' sending her back to her drawing as though she'd never been interrupted. Becka shuffled her feet, hesitant to start another chat with Karen again as she waited.

After a few moments, a guy in mangled old blue jeans walked out from behind the beaded curtain at the room's rear. As he sauntered, he lazily pulled on an equally torn up black t-shirt over his own constellations of ink. Hula girls danced frenetically over his washboard abs, coiled dragons leered from his waistband, and hot lava flowed from the V of his pubis, dusted with wiry hair, marking a tight trail from his navel to the depths below. Becka had to wait until the guy’s shirt was entirely covering this beautiful body before she even remembered about things like 'faces' and 'names'. Even so, on seeing the former, she felt the latter could have been 'Beelzebub' and she'd still be throwing herself over this guy faster than if that guy at the shoe store greased her sneakers. This guy... yes. Every kind of
yes
.

"Hi, I'm Fitz, and you are… I want to say… Beth?”

"Ha ha! Yeah! I mean, no. It's Becka, but I could be Beth if you wanted! Ha ha! Beth! Ha!" Oh crap. She could hear the stupid pouring out of her mouth, but she was powerless to stop it. This was definitely not a cool and confident young woman making a grand lifestyle-affirming gesture. This was a fourteen year old kissing that Ashton Kutcher poster in her bedroom. Not that it ever happened... ha ha. Ha.

The Adonis spoke again. "Well anyway... I thought we should sit down first and have a talk about your design. You don't want to go off and get something half-cocked."

"No, no, I definitely want to be whole-cocked." Damn it. Not smooth.

"Uh-huh. Soooo, what have you got for me?"

Becka tried to pull out her scrap of paper from her ultra-tight jeans without standing up, a feat her rapidly dampening hands barely managed. With a guy this handsome, you had to play 'hard-to-get', that was her own rule. Fitz, for his part, acted decorously, smoothing out the rumpled paper on the worktable. He was thankfully absorbed in the designs before him, and Becka’s resulting wave of embarrassment at her amateurish scribblings helped the threatening wetness in her underwear subside. Yes, she was definitely hot for this guy.

With Fitz’s face turned to the page, Becka had a chance to really check him out. He was no less handsome on closer inspection: the slight creases at his eyes and the gritty quality of his stubble told Becka he was older than herself, but not by
that
much. Probably late twenties, not any older, but with a timeless Bradley Cooper quality to him. His hair was dark and slightly wavy but not in a greasy-biker way. More like a rock star. A rock star with beautiful hands. Something about Fitz’s looks tugged a string of familiarity in Becka’s mind, but she was so frazzled that for the life of her she couldn’t concentrate enough to grasp at that string.

"Tell me about yourself, Becka."

Becka shook her head a little, suddenly nervous again as the green-hazel eyes swept up to her own, seeing the firm line of Fitz’s jaw and the delicate tilt of his brow that sent her heart beating out a samba. She hoped Fitz would notice her own crystal clear blue eyes. In the right light, they even looked purple.
Please think my eyes look purple
, she thought desperately. This guy was just too good-looking. Wait, he asked something. What was it?

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Fitz laughed a little and leaned back on the couch, scratching his belly.

"You seem a bit nervous, am I right? Can I get you a soda?” he asked.

"A-a soda would be great."

"Hey Karen, would you get us some Cokes?”

"What am I, a housewife?" she snapped back, but since she was already scooping out a Diet Coke for herself, she brought them two icy cold cans. "One time only, Dickie-boy,” she said before settling back to her ink and papers.

"Dickie-boy?" Becka asked, taking a sip from her can and trying not to think about it interacting with the latte churning in her stomach.

Fitz chuckled again, devilishly. "Well, you know how it is with nicknames. And the last name like Dixon doesn’t help, I guess.”

"Go on..." Becka smiled lasciviously, the cold drink helping her ease into her sauciest persona.

"No, no, enough about me. I asked about
you.
Why do you want to get some ink?"

"Ink is cool."

“Couldn’t agree more,” he sipped on his soda. “Let me rephrase. Why do you want
this
ink? What does it mean to you?"

Becka’s face burned. But something in the way Fitz fingered the dog-eared page, searching for meaning where Becka knew there was none, made her feel comfortable enough to say so.

"This... doesn't mean anything to me. I just thought it sounded cool, and well, kind of deep."

"Have you seen this movie?"

"Sure I have!" Becka replied, drinking long from her can again.

"Did you like it?" Fitz asked, gentle as a fawn.

"Well... I liked this scene."

"Yeah…” Fitz took a deep breath. “I don't think this is the tattoo for you. Now, I don't usually push people away from their ideas, just so you know. But I must have inked this on half the girls your age in this city, and I think you're different. So tell me about yourself."

"I don't know where to start!"

"Tell me something important to you. What are you good at. What do you like?"

"Well, I like… ummm, well... partying, I guess.”

"I don't think I needed much help figuring that out," Fitz gave her a sidelong look and grinned before he went on. “But that's not who you are. If that's all there was to you, well you may as well get a massive tramp stamp or something. Don't laugh, I do it every frikken’ day.”

Becka sputtered out her drink, hurriedly covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "You don’t! Still? I thought they went out of fashion, like, before I was born!”

"I do! And you know what,
those
girls are all about
partying,
all the time
.
But for you? Some twee phrase about love and dreams in swirly font? No. You deserve better."

"Don't fight it, girlfriend,” Karen's weary voice drifted over, "He's on swirly-lettering strike right now. You'd better just give in to the process or go to the parlor at the mall."

"Don't mind her. Were you into sports?"

"Yeah, but... mostly because my dad liked them so much. I hated it myself, to be honest. Bookish girl, late blooming, et cetera et cetera.”

"Alright. I get it. But what did you
like
doing?"

"I liked... I liked math."

"Math?" Fitz’s eyebrows raised in surprise, his pen poised.

"Yeah. Geometry, specifically."

"Geometry, huh? Why?"

"I liked how precise it was. Like, how shapes and angles and forms can be consistent. Across everything, across universes. It's about taking everything there is and could ever be and making it something we can understand. Taking everything that's all jumbled-up and fragmented in our minds and expressing it as simply and purely as it can be. In a shape. Or an equation. It quantifies everything. Geometry takes ideas and makes them... real."

Fitz nodded his head all the while Becka was speaking, his movie-star brow furrowed and his luminous eyes became thoughtful.
Why does he look so familiar?
Becka just couldn’t shake the nagging thought off.

"I think I get it. Look, would you be available in a few days to pick this up again? I want to draw something special for you. Are you free Thursday? Come back Thursday. Early. I want plenty of time to work you over." Fitz’s lazy eyes flew open, "I mean work on you! On it! Work on the tattoo. For you." Becka beamed inside and out as Fitz squirmed. He must have noticed her purple eyes after all.

"I can come Thursday. But not too early, and not too late. Right on time." Becka winked and took one last swig of her soda.

Thursday couldn't come fast enough.

"
S
o who's doing
it for you?" Jerome asked, inspecting his nails as he lay sprawled across Becka’s couch. Friends for years, Jerome was bedecked with tattoos of his own: swirling tribal designs etched over with newer, more complicated curlicues. Jerome, her second bestie forever, after Mick. The three of them met in coding club at their college’s computer lab, and have been inseparable since. Jerome was formerly known as
Jeremy
, but officially changed his name to
Jerome
as soon as he came out. And don’t you dare call him
Jeremy
anymore. A gold ring glinted in his left nostril, and his high-and-tight hair style paid homage to his years in the armed forces. Before Jerome came out, he managed to squeeze in a rather unsuccessful one night tumble in bed with Becka, which prompted a night-long conversation and subsequent purge from the closet, and the two remained firm friends ever since. He liked to come over and raid the kitchen for snacks. He said he didn't have the self-control to keep any in his own apartment. Plus, Becka had cable.

"Fitz? Down at Dickie’s Emporium."

"
Dickie boy?
Ooof, you lucky thing. That guy is HOT. I wish he was gay every day.”

"You know him?" Becka asked, feigning casual interest while a voice in her head screamed for more details. In just a few short hours she'd get another glimpse of the man. The last few days had been rife with unexpected flashbacks. Every now and then she'd remember the saucy glint in those swampy eyes and she'd feel herself tickle with longing. Even now, her underwear was on the verge of getting quite moist, and she willed Jerome to go on, even as she chided herself. Obsessive was just not a good look.
Be cool, you inner geek; just be cool.

"Yeah, I know him. He works with Karen, right? Mick said something about their studio being overrun with coeds since he came on board. I'm not surprised: the guy is hotter than Ryan Gosling.”

"I guess he's popular?" Becka willed her voice not to shake.

"Oh yeah, he's popular alright! Not that his clients ever get a shot at him. He's not into cuties so much nowadays. Some kind of weird kink or something. He's into mature chicks, I heard.”

"You're kidding!"

"Barely! You know Wendy?”

Of course, Becka knew Wendy. Everybody did. She was arrogant, conceited, and just plain nasty. But she also had a face like a Victoria Secret model and a body to match it: effortlessly charming and brutally conniving, with a serious taste for conquests.

Becka shrugged, recalling all the times she'd snubbed Wendy’s invitations to ‘hang out’ simply out of sheer principle. That girl was a bitch. "What about her?”

"Well,
Wendy
said Fitz told her a few months ago that he's only into
mature
nowadays."

"That could mean anything though!"

"I dunno, Becka. Wendy sounded
preeeeetty
convinced he's a grave robber. He likes 'em saggy and wrinkly. Makes him less self-conscious about his own impending mortality."

“Wendy said that?"

Jerome winked and nodded vigorously, upsetting the bowl of pretzels balanced on his concave stomach. "Scandalous, right?"

"Huh. Yeah, if it's true. Could be just that he rejected Wendy and she cooked up the whole story herself.”

"Becka, my sweet girl!” Jerome trilled as he dug the remote from between the cushions and started flicking through the channels at lightning speed. "Are you planning on seducing this poor lost hunk? Going to find him on a mountainside and bring him back to the herd to play among the lambs? Got your crook and staff all ready to go? Eh? Little bo peep?"

Theater majors don't shut up, Becka reminded herself, but I can. "I'm just getting a tattoo. I don't need all that drama." She held up another t-shirt against her chest and reflected on her inspection. Ugh. They all looked the same. Should she go collared, maybe? A button-down? Don't be stupid, this is a tattoo, not a first date. And the t-shirt was coming off anyway, what did it matter about the shirt? Still though, always best to make a good impression.

"Just a tattoo, huh? Sure, sure. Don't forget your bonnet."

"I'm taking a shower. Guard the couch while I'm gone."

"SIR-YES-SIR!" Jerome barked through a mouthful of pretzels. Becka could still hear him laughing as she closed the bathroom door.

J
erome was great
, and one of the most sincere party boys Becka knew, in spite of his infuriating nonchalance. He had little regard for the privacy of others and never really acknowledged his own: he had no secrets whatsoever, even when his friends truly wished he'd just try having one, for once. Everyone at Lux knew when Jerome did something foul or slept around on his boyfriends or got himself arrested for public urination, and everyone knew Jerome would be the first to excuse his own behavior and expect everyone else to follow. Becka had club friends as close as brothers, with whom she'd never even dream of hooking up but was bound to by mutual affection. Jerome was now one of those brothers, having joined her at Lux after trying to get an acting gig for months—and failing. Since Lux was a huge establishment, with multiple floors and rooms, catering to all sorts of sexual orientations, her BFF was welcomed there with opened arms. Jerome defied description, but if one could be pinned to him, it would almost certainly contain some permutation of the word 'slutty'.

Jerome proclaimed club boyfriends didn't count, and whether that title was bestowed on the conquest in his arms or the one left holding his coat was never really clear. Becka simply knew better than to get mixed up with Jerome lover-boy shenanigans. He had the mouth of a sailor and he knew how to use it, a phrase he used so often he had it inked in a snaking trail down his left hip, lost in the myriad of ink blots covering his military-grade lean muscles.

Normally, it wouldn't have surprised Becka to turn around in the shower and see him hovering at the bathroom door, ignoring her behind the foggy glass and urinating and chatting with her as if nothing was amiss. Today though, she was busy trying to expunge her lustful thoughts of Fitz before her appointment.

But when the bathroom door swung open silently on its hinges to reveal Jerome with not a care in the world that Becka was showering, she was still startled.

"Jerome, if you don't mind, I’m kind of in a hurry? What do you need?”

“I met a guy last night,” Jerome pouted, pointedly staring at Becka and ignoring her nakedness. "I just need your opinion.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Becka showered and Jerome poured his heart out about yet another “true love” which they both knew would be forgotten the next day.

But she couldn't really be angry with her lackadaisical friend. After all, Jerome always knew when Becka needed to calm down, and just the right way to distract her. And right now, he knew that she was all wound up about going back to the tattoo shop. Once Jerome told her everything there was to know (and there wasn’t that much since the two destined-for-each-other lovers had only met), she finished her shower in relative peace, grateful for the distraction.