Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella) (8 page)

T
he silence drew
on as Fitz changed inks: from aquamarine, to teal, to chartreuse to carmine to aubergine to goldenrod. One by one, the panels in her tattoo filled with ink drained from that buzzing implement, and every panel took Becka closer to never seeing this beautiful man again—unless she started talking. It was almost too much to bear, and her whole body seemed to be pumping potent hormones at her to force her to run away or punch something or most painfully—to push Fitz against his desk and ravage him. She’d read that sadness could make people horny, but Becka didn't believe that the last few weeks. Now, all of a sudden, she totally got it. 

To distract herself from her impending doom, Becka tried to small talk to Fitz while he changed the inks. At first, he was gruff. He held up his hand and paid too much attention to a process he must have done a million times before. Becka was not too perturbed by this elaborate wrangling of machinery, so she continued trying. As the rows of ink packs were spent one by one, Becka took each one as a challenge. She felt some of her old pluck return as she tried to bait him.

"Knock knock... C'mon, knock knock!" 

Nothing, Fitz would just shrug, and bite his lip to hide a smile (or stop a tear). Becka could feel his hands shaking a little, and she thought about kissing those quivering fingers. For the first time in weeks, Becka felt like she could maybe make things right. She kept her voice soft and just tried to enjoy her proximity to the object of her desire. Her sex drive was stymied with woe all those weeks, and the sadness in her had only lightened a little. But now, with the pool of warm light cast by the bulb dangling above her, and the smell of the leather heated by her skin, and the stunning man stroking her tenderly under her breasts with damp towels after each panel he filled in... Becka was starting to feel the familiar stirrings of lust. She hadn't expected it, so deep was the stew of her misery before now. Every now and then a little moan slipped out of her and she'd draw in breath sharply, Fitz tsk-tsking her for the movement.  

The hours wore on, and Fitz started to respond, or at least his grunts and mumbles bore a hint of communication instead of gruff command. Becka was gratified to see, when sneaking a peek at him as he fiddled with his gear, that he was flushed and breathing heavy. It didn't come across as angry. Becka wanted to fold him up and keep him safe. She wanted to take all the hurt from those sorrowful eyes and see that naughty dirty charm again. She wanted to kiss away the tears she was sure she saw brimming there. She wanted to fix this, and be with him. 

Fitz reached the last color in his stack and with extra diligence set to filling in the remaining specks of bare skin. Becka knew she had to say something now, or she may never get the chance.

"I think our parents are wrong, Fitz."

The buzzing stopped short and the pen clattered to the surface of the tool-strewn rolling caddy. Becka saw Fitz breathe in sharply, a catch in it—and a tiny sniff. She closed her eyes and felt the hasty application of the moist towel on her torso and the feel of cooling lotion smearing across her skin. 

"Please say something."

"I don't know what to say," came his reply, after several moments had passed, which felt to Becka like lifetimes upon lifetimes. "I guess I'm just kind of... kind of a dinosaur. Too old-fashioned.” 

"Sexy dinosaur," Becka murmured and then mentally slapped her forehead. That was the old Becka, still tumbling away somewhere in there, trying to make light of serious situations, sabotaging any chance of a connection with mindless innuendo.

But luckily, Fitz gave a soft, half-hearted 'ha' in response. The dejection in his voice made Becka’s heart cry out, and she caught Fitz’s hand in hers and held it tight. She rolled over onto her side, careful of the plastic wrap Fitz had applied, and looked up into his eyes. 

"Please, we’re not doing anything wrong. Give us another chance."

Becka watched as Fitz’s eyes held her gaze for a moment, as they crept down the length of her semi-naked torso, lingering over her perfect bra-clad breasts. She felt her ears ringing as Fitz checked her out, and under his watch, she felt herself getting moist between her legs. She saw Fitz notice her hastened breathing, saw his tongue dart once in the corner of his mouth. She dropped her gaze to Fitz’s hips and allowed herself a faint smile as she noticed his cock grow stiff, drinking in the sight of him.

She still had it.
They
still had it. How could anyone ignore an attraction this strong? She wanted to pull Fitz down and suck his tongue, have him pinch and tweak her nipples, slip in and out of her anywhere and anyhow he liked until she, until both of them, felt better. 

"Please, Fitz..." she whispered and licked her own lips. She wasn't surprised when he, face burning with shame and grief and lust, turned away from her, but it still hurt. She tried to ignore the frenzied throbbing between her thighs. What mattered now was getting a second chance. "I want to take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go. I want you to tell me everything about you since you’ve moved away, and I want to tell you some things you've helped me realize about me. I... I think I love you, Fitz. I want you to give me a chance to show you I mean that. Please say
yes
.” 

Fitz stood with his back to her, head downcast. Eventually, in a voice no bigger than a whisper, he said the words Becka longed to hear.

"Cafe Montmartre at 8 PM,” he said, then moved swiftly through the beaded curtain. Becka heard the click of the heavy metal door and a muttered protest from Karen before she even found her shirt.    

"
S
o
, that went okay.” Karen was standing at the door to the back room, an eyebrow raised at still undressed Becka.

"We've got a date, I guess." Becka shrugged, squirming to hide her excitement from the amused and intimidating Karen in the doorway.

"I heard. But that's not what I meant." Becka blushed and pulled on her t-shirt. "I meant he was sporting enough wood to open a lumber yard when he walked out, and all you did was just get a tattoo. He’s either got a serious latent needle fetish, or you guys are so hot for each other, it'd be a crime not to get it on." 

"You think?" Becka asked, aware of how pathetically pleased she sounded and not caring one bit.

"Oh Becka, I'm not saying you don't have your work cut out for you. I mean sure, you gave him the Eiffel tower of erections in a totally non-sexy setting, but he also preferred to run that baby into oncoming traffic than sit around with you."

Becka’s face fell at Karen’s characteristic bluntness.

"Hey, I'm not saying it's impossible: far from it. I'm just saying you've got your work cut out for you either way. But hey, you sure do turn him on! Good news!" 

The throbbing between her own legs finally subsiding, Becka took a moment to consider Karen's conclusions and determined that yes, she was right to be optimistic. Whatever else was going on in Fitz’s mind, he clearly still wanted her. She’d have to work hard to get him to look past the hurdles. She might have to beg. She might have to plead with him, prostrated before him while he sits in an easy-chair, stroking his thick, veined shaft... She didn’t realize she was gliding her hand along her hard-as-rock nipples as the thoughts raced through her mind.

"Whoa there, calm down, girlie. Still in the room. Geez..." Karen scolded, laughing as she turned on her heel and went back to her desk. “No decency…” she muttered theatrically, and Becka laughed too. She didn't have time for monkey business anyway. She had a date to prepare for.

C
afe Montmartre stood on a quiet
, leafy corner. Soft lights and white tablecloths provided the backdrop for the smooth tinkling of piano music, the chime of wine glasses and silverware, and muted conversations. It was the kind of romantic place Becka used to think would be improved with go-go dancing cages and a few blistering DJ sets. Now it seemed perfect, the ideal place to go with someone who really meant something, and deserved to be shown. 

As usual, despite Becka’s meticulous timekeeping, Fitz was there waiting for her. He must have been early. Becka could feel the crinkle of the plastic wrap under her new BCBG dress, and the tender skin beneath it. The color definitely stung more than the lines had, but Becka couldn't tell if that was a product of the greater area covered or the absence of numbing lust. She was lusty, sure, but not in the same way. It had a sharp keening quality to it. She didn't want to fuck. She wanted to make love to the man in the same button-down black shirt, the cuffs linked with subtle silver barbels instead of rolled back up his muscular forearms. His hair was mussed back, and he looked nervous and still a little sad, a perfect rockabilly bundle of vulnerability and sex. 

Becka let the penguin waiter show her to the table even though she could see Fitz from the street window. She allowed the obsequious staff member pull back her chair and splay her napkin for her. She accepted sparkling water and a glass of pinot grigio from the ice bucket beside the table, poured with a flourish, before they were finally left alone. 

"I was going to get Shiraz but... but I remembered you don't drink red wine."

"I told you that?" Becka smiled, going for casual but convinced it was coming off more like axe-murderer. 

"You did... in bed."

"I remember," Becka said, her voice low. "Thank you for... thank you for remembering."

"I wouldn't want you to get a headache."

"I feel like I've had a headache for a month,” Becka smiled again.

"Karen mentioned you hadn't been feeling too great. Truth be told, I haven't either." 

"I know,” Becka nodded gravely, and hesitantly she reached out for Fitz’s hand across the table. Just like back in the tattoo parlor, he let her.

"I guess I should be in better shape. I'm older, I've got the practice."

"I'm just learning now that isn't how it works. I didn't think I could get my heart broken. I didn't even really think I had one to break. I know better now,” Becka spoke, her voice low with emotion. Fitz scanned her face but said nothing. "I want you to tell me how you feel, what you're thinking,” Becka continued. “I can take it. I want us to work.”

Fitz bit his plump lip and said nothing, before taking a sip of wine, the delicate stem looking so fragile in his strong tanned hands. 

"So I've only slept with four women,” he said slowly. "And that was my choice, and it's stupid to get hung up on that now, I'm too old for that. But those four girls, well, the three before you... they were more like you. They liked to get wild. They weren't stay at home types. It's weird, right? That someone like me would keep falling for these party girls. I guess I'm just a sucker for cute faces with charisma. I don't think I'm alone there."

Becka nodded and grinned with embarrassment, shrugging off the pseudo-compliment and topping up Fitz’s glass. "Please, go on."

"Well those girls, one by one, after a couple of years... I'd start finding things out. My last girlfriend… well... it didn't take her a couple of years to get bored. It was only six months before I caught her in bed with my boss. And after I found that out, a lot more came out of the woodwork. It turned out she'd slept with half the guys I knew while we were together. When I confronted her about it, she... I don't know what I was expecting. But what I got was a long, detailed list of complaints. I'm boring. I don't want to go out. I should party more. Then the nasty stuff: we never said we were exclusive, you don't have the right to tie me down, if this is love then I don't want it, you're sucking the life out of me. You're dragging me down."

He paused and couldn't lift his gaze above the starched rim of the table cloth. He allowed Becka to stroke his hand, and for Becka’s part, she tried to instill all the tenderness and longing she'd felt over these weeks into that momentary touch.

Fitz went on. “I didn't mean to. I feel like my need to be loved, is just too... too freaky. I guess it maybe stemming from my distant relationship with my mother… Well, you know all about it. I fall for free spirits and then I try to lock them up in a cage. And… you're so like her, my ex. So beautiful and fun, and it's just plain wrong of me to want to hold you back from all the experiences you should be having. So when this news of us being step-siblings hit, I just thought… it was my sign. That we weren’t meant to be, you know? There were too many red flags.” He breathed deeply and finally raised his eyes to Becka’s face. "And I'm embarrassed because... because I'm really just so attracted to you that I don't know what to do." His eyes were pleading, and Becka longed to fling herself across the table and lick the tears from his face. "But here's the other thing. I say all that, and I know I'm wrong, but I'm still just... I'm still mad at you. For leaving without talking to me that day. It was just such an immature gesture. I’m mad at myself for being wrong about you. And expecting too much. And damn it, I just wish… instead of going silent on me you should have just come and talked to me. I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you to do the right thing if the stakes are that much higher. I don't know if I can get over all these obstacles, if I should keep fighting against the red flags.” 

"I'm sorry, Fitz. I really, really am.” Becka’s voice was quivering with nerves. “And of course, I didn't know anything about your history, about those other women that, I promise you, didn't deserve a guy like you. But I can guarantee you, I'm not like them. And I’m sorry I freaked out on you. Seeing those photos of your mom on your phone, my stepmom… It was just too much. It's taken a lot of soul-searching these last few weeks to come to terms with who I want to be and how I want to get there. But one thing I was sure of: I want to get there with you. You're the one for me."

"For now."

"Forever. Or at least as far into forever as I can see right now. I don't need anyone else, and no one ever made me feel anything close to the way I felt with you. We barely know each other—as adults—and we're learning. I'm learning for the first time, and you're learning again, but we're both finding out what it really means... to love someone."

They sat in silence for some time, and the waiter took advantage of the pause in an obviously heavy moment to ask if they needed more time with the menus. 

"Just the check please," Fitz said softly, and for the first time that evening held Becka’s fingers in his own tender grasp. "Have you seen your tattoo yet?" he asked after their server had disappeared with his credit card. Becka shook her head, refusing to let the wine and emotional outpourings go too far to her head. Or at least, trying to refuse. She couldn't help but get excited at the tiny glint of something buried deep in Fitz’s gaze. She knew she was getting giddy and tried to force her spirits down with the last few mouthfuls of wine. 

"No,” Becka eventually replied. "I want you to show it to me—like you did last time." She was getting lost in his face again, but all of a sudden the reverie was broken by the hard buzzing of her phone against the table. Damn it. She should have turned it off, or at least turned it face-down. Because there, in glowing relief of the formerly dark window of the touch-screen, was her father, a photo of him spread across the display.

Fitz’s face was crushed as he tried to look away but kept returning to the glowing phone on the table. Finally it stopped ringing and the stupid photo blipped out of existence. But it was almost immediately replaced with a text message, plainly visible in capital letters:

Why did her father have this annoying habit of capitalizing his messages when he was pissed? And what the hell did he mean,
agreed
? She never agreed with him about anything that had to do with Fitz.

“Agreed?” Fitz asked, his face pained, as if reading her thoughts.

“Dad is tripping. I haven't agreed with him on anything!” 

“Sure looks like he’s under a different impression,” Fitz muttered, before pulling on his jacket and striding out the door on his long, gorgeous legs. 

Becka wasn't going to waste time freaking out now. She grabbed her own jacket and the credit card the maitre d' waved vainly at her and ran after the man of her dreams.