Fuck Buddy (25 page)

BLAKE

My life was filled with distractions. My addictions, at least by my own self-diagnosis, were all a result of me attempting to rid myself of the things that lingered in my mind. Never an easy task, the objects and events of my past seemed to not only overtake my thoughts, but become part of who I was.

I had always felt a joint or a drink was the best way to minimize my recurring thoughts and clear my mind. Now, even though I could declare sobriety as being something I had obtained, the distractions continued, but were in a different form.

“Listen, I’m not going to have you here fucking with me the entire time I’m trying to tattoo her. I promise, I’m not going to try and fuck her tonight. Hell, maybe never, I don’t know. But tonight? It’s not going to happen,” I said as I pilfered through my drawer full of tattoo machines.

“Gorgeous bitch like that? Dude, she’ll be sucking your cock as soon as you’re done with the shoulder piece. You and I both know it. She made that late appointment for a reason, she wants you,” Tyler said as he stood from his stool.

I shook my head as I gazed into the drawer, eventually shifting my eyes in his direction.

“You can be a prick sometimes. I’m trying to get better. I might end up wanting to do something with her, but it’s going to be a long time, and I’m gonna to do it right. Seriously, I’m getting better,” I tried to assure him.

“Lemme ask you a question,” he said.

“Ask away,” I responded.

“When she came in earlier, was she wearing her glasses?” he asked.

I nodded my head as I pulled the machine with the knurled brass grip from the drawer.

“Fuck yes, I knew this was in here,” I said as I admired the machine.

“Answer the question, Blake,” he said.

“Glasses? Yeah, she can’t see without them,” I responded.

“Whatever. Did she have her hair in a fucking ponytail?” he asked.

“Yeah, she had a ponytail, she’d been at the gym.”

“You’re a fucking blind idiot,” he huffed. “Tell me this, what was she wearing?”

I stood from my seat and placed the tattoo machine on the bench beside my box.

“Listen. She’s not what you think.”

“Oh really? Okay, tell me what you know about her, Detective,” he said as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I know her name and her birthday. I know she seems a little nervous around me, and that’s a good sign. I know that she seems genuinely interested, and this isn’t the typical client-aritst…”

“You don’t know shit. Who wouldn’t seem nervous around you, you weird fuck?” he interrupted.

“Fuck you,” I snapped back.

“No dude. Fuck you. You asked for my help, and I’m trying to give it. You’re justifying things. You’re setting yourself up for a failure. You’re going to bend that chick over and shove her full of cock. It’s what you do, you can’t help yourself. Let me ask you something. One more question, then I’ll leave you alone,” he said as he lowered his arms and walked in my direction.

“Fine.”

“What was she wearing?” he asked.

“When?”

He stared down at the floor. After a long moment of appearing frustrated, he shifted his eyes upward. His gaze was one of question and concern.

“When she graduated high school, you dumb ass. Jesus. What was she wearing when she came in today? You know, when she stopped in out of the blue to get her shirt that she didn’t need and she very fucking well could have got when she came in later on today. What was she wearing?” he asked.

“Sports bra, workout shoes, and some of those little shorts,” I shrugged.

“Those little shorts? Jean shorts? Those big oversized swishy fuckers that the softball players wear? Cargo shorts? What kind of shorts, Blake?” he asked in a more demanding tone.

“Boy shorts,” I responded.

“Boy shorts?” he laughed, “She wore boy shorts?”

I nodded my head.

“Ass cheeks hanging out and everything, right?” he chuckled.

I shrugged my shoulders, “Fuck I don’t know.”

“The fuck you don’t. She came in here half fucking naked and got a shirt she didn’t need. She’s testing you, Dude. She’s probably going to plop her face in your lap and swallow your rod and ask if you can do that piece while she sucks you off. Wait and see,” he said as he spun around and stomped toward his work station.

“She’s not a skank,” I said.

“Oh really? Comes in here with her ass falling out of some spandex underwear and her nipples so hard they can cut a fucking diamond, and she’s not a skank. Her nipples were hard, weren’t they?” he asked over his shoulder.

I was done listening to him. His efforts to keep me from acting on my addictive behavior had become more than annoying. I glanced at the clock. It was fifteen minutes until four.

“Listen,” I paused, cleared my throat, and changed my tone to a harsh demanding one.

“You said you’re waiting on walk-ins? Well, go home. You’re done for the day,” I barked as I pointed toward the door.

“Fuck that. I’m staying. Someone’s got to keep your dumb ass in line,” he responded.

“No. This is my shop. You’re fucking done. Now, get the fuck out in the next fifteen minutes,” I growled as I pointed toward the back door, “I’m going to go smoke and when I come back in here you better be gone.”

He waved his hand my direction as he turned toward the door. “Fine, Asshole. I hope that little bitch brings in a sack of weed, an eight ball of coke, and a jug of fucking scotch. And I hope you fall down on her dick first. I’ll be gone, don’t fucking worry. I’m about done trying to help you.”

I reached for my cigarettes, pulled one out, and rolled the remaining pack into my shirt sleeve. As I tapped the butt of the cigarette onto the face of my watch I walked toward the door.

“I smoke fast, so you better fucking hurry,” I said as I pushed the door open.

I stepped onto the sidewalk, leaned against the wall, and lifted my shaking hand to my mouth. Tyler may have become the brother I always wanted, but since my attempt at sobriety, he was more and more protective of me with each passing day. His manner of sheltering me from myself - at least when it came to Riley - was becoming more aggressive in nature than what I was comfortable with.

The cigarette calmed my nerves and allowed me to come back down to earth. As I took my last drag and prepared to toss the butt into the street, I recognized the headlights of Riley’s BMW.

I glanced at my watch.

Five minutes early.

Long before I suspected she noticed me, I flicked the cigarette aside and turned toward the shop. A precursory glance through the glass indicated Tyler had taken my advice. As I pushed the door open, the empty stool at his work station confirmed my suspicion.

I would spend the night alone.

Well, not exactly, but as close to alone as I wanted to be.

RILEY

As ridiculous as it seemed, I had spent the last four hours counting the minutes until I was going in for my new tattoo; checking my watch every fifteen minutes hoping somehow an hour had passed, only to find out it had been minutes. After changing outfits no less than six times, I finally settled for jean shorts, my tattered Chuck’s, and a freshly purchased, but vintage appearing
Clash
concert tee shirt.

I had no way of knowing if my obsessive behavior was normal, or even if it would qualify as obsession for that matter, but I really didn’t care. I felt like my interest in Blake was genuine, without any real motive, and harmless. After convincing myself that no one would be able to schedule when their life presented a person of interest, I dismissed my thoughts and feelings to be nothing more than reaction to a good opportunity.

I hated to call it fate, because the word made everything seem so cliché. Fate, to me, was reserved for romantic comedies, love songs, and a few well written books. Realistically speaking, there was no such thing as fate. The world spins, we stumble forward in life, and if we’re paying close attention, sometimes through the course of our stumbling we bump into someone who catches our interest.

Blake surely caught mine.

I sat in my car waiting for four o’clock to arrive, wondering how much different a person I would be if I had never met Stephen. The summer after my junior year in high school we met, and immediately following, we started seeing each other. Within a year, I had graduated high school, and against the demands of my mother, I moved in with him. He was nine years older than me and had just completed law school two years prior.

At the time, his manner of dress, his many cars, and his attentive nature caused me to yearn to share my time with him. Fairly quickly, I fell in love. In hindsight, I was young, immature, and all too eager to fall for someone who provided me with an ounce of attention. My having grown up in a single parent home with a working mother and no siblings made my appetite for affection far greater than it would have been for anyone else my age.

I clung to Stephen like gum to a shoe. My plans to attend college were soon cast aside after promises that everything I wanted, desired, needed, or required would be provided to me without question as long as I was loyal to him and his needs.

So, the little girl who resided within me looked at him in a fatherly sort of way, and I fell deeply in love with what it was he provided me. Protection, comfort, love, affection, and a good hard fucking a few times a day convinced me he was nothing short of the answer to my dreams. Constantly showered with gifts, money, and clothes, it was difficult for anyone to convince me that my best interest wasn’t exactly what Stephen was furnishing.

I dismissed the violent outbursts to my immature behavior, and told myself as soon as I matured fully, I would stop making the same mistakes, and the abuse would stop. In time, I did mature, yet cruel behavior continued.

I had never, however, had a chance to live life. I had no friends, not even anyone I could call an associate. All of the people I came in contact with were Stephen’s friends and associates, none of which were close to my age, and in no way were any of them interested in me beyond what they expected Stephen would require of them. When we split up, there was no huge argument, no fight, and no text messages or calls following my having left.

As one of the bank accounts had both of our names on it, and was primarily used for my shopping sprees, I drove to the bank and asked about having his name removed from the account. Because we shared the account, and I was listed as the primary account holder, I removed his name without incident. I told myself it was what I was entitled to as his spouse, and although I fully expected him to make an attempt to recover the money, he never made a single effort. The state in which we resided dictated I was entitled to half of what he owned, and the portion I decided to take was more like five percent of his earnings or estate.

We had discussed a prenuptial contract on many occasions, and although I knew from his explaining matters that we were married as a matter of law, I refused to sign a prenuptial agreement, feeling it cheapened the relationship.

I suspected one of the reasons I never heard from Stephen was that I had warned him of my intention if he ever hit me again. The other reason, I was quite certain, was that when I obtained control of the account we shared, he was able to see exactly what I took, identify it, and accept is as a loss, knowing it ended there.

It was apparent he accepted it, as he chose to allow me to disappear from his life without so much as a text message.

If I were able, I would give everything back to him just to have a chance to begin my life again from scratch. If nothing else, I was grateful that I was only twenty-one years old, and had my entire remaining life ahead of me, and shared no children with him.

I glanced at my watch.

Ten after four.

Fuck.

I jumped from the car and pressed the lock button on the key fob. After making my way to the sidewalk I realized I had parked in the same spot, a hundred yards away, and with no good reason. Blake had seen what I drove, and made no real issue with it.

As I walked along the sidewalk toward his shop, he stepped outside and turned my direction. After checking his watch and making me feel even guiltier for bein late, he turned away and walked inside.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I increased my speed to a slow jog and slowed immediately before reaching the window in front of his building. After adjusting my glasses and tugging the bottom of my shorts out of my twat, I pulled the door open and stepped inside. As it had in the past, the shop smelled sterile, causing my nostrils to flare for a moment until they adjusted to the unidentifiable cleaning products.

“You ready?” he asked as soon as I stepped through the door.

“Uhhm yeah. Sorry I’m late. I was actually early, but I was thinking. I think I want a sleeve. I’ve seen some pictures online and I really like the thought of a sleeve,” I said as I began to walk his direction.

“Let’s get this done first, have a seat,” he said as he turned away.

Don’t be mad.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” I said as I walked toward his work station.

I glanced around the empty shop. The work area adjacent to Blake’s was a mess. The drawers to the tool box were opened and there were tattoo machines, supplies, and drawings scattered about.

“Where’s uhhm,” I paused as I continued to look at the mess.

“Tyler?” he asked.

“Yeah, where’s Tyler?”

“He got mad and left. He was distracting me. You need to use the bathroom or anything?” he asked as he held the stencil in the air for me to see.

A large coiled snake with the scales on the stomach exposed and the mouth partially opened was neatly drawn on the paper.

“Oh wow. I like that. It amazes me you can just draw something like that,” I said.

He widened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He seemed short tempered. I hoped my being a few minutes late didn’t upset him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. No, I’m ready. I brought water and some protein bars, so I’m good to go,” I said.

“Well, have a seat. Actually just lay down on your stomach. We’ll do it a little different than last time. You wear a sports bra?” he said as he pointed to the leather chair.

The leather chair was similar to a dentist’s chair, and was extended to be flat, resembling a wide leather bed elevated on an aluminum frame. I glanced at the chair and thought of lying on my back in my bra while Blake tattooed something on my hip. For whatever reason, the thought of lying down half naked seemed more intimate than sitting upright. After a short study of the chair, I turned toward Blake and grinned.

“Yes, I did. Are you upset with me? Because I was late?” I asked as I placed my purse beside the chair.

“No, I’m not mad at you, I’m pissed off at Tyler,” he snapped back as he pulled rubber gloves onto his hands.

“Take your shirt off and lay down,” he said flatly as he pointed to the chair again.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked.

“About what?”

“Tyler?”

“Tyler’s a fucking idiot sometimes. He was saying shit about you, and it made me mad.”

I didn’t want to act overly interested, but if Blake was sticking up for me when Tyler was talking shit, I wanted to hear about it.

“What did he say?” I asked as I pulled my shirt over my head.

“Just talking shit,” he shrugged.

“Like what? I won’t get mad, I’m just curious. I don’t even know him, it seems funny that he’d say anything,” I said as I lowered myself onto the chair.

“He said if you came in here this morning wearing the clothes you wore, you did it to encourage me,” he said.

Lying flat on my stomach, I pressed my elbows into the leather and rested my chin in the palms of my hands. I fixed my eyes on him and shook my head lightly, taking complete offense to what Tyler had said, but hoping to keep my cool in my display of my anger.

“Encourage you to what? Jesus. I was on my way home from the gym. If I would have gone home and then came back, it would have been like another hour. He’s full of shit. And encourage you? What does that even mean?” I snapped back.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s gone now it doesn’t matter,” he said as he leaned against the side of the chair.

Still upset about Tyler saying anything about me, I rolled to my side and gazed up at Blake. His hair was the same usual adorable mess, just spiked a little higher than normal. His eyes were puffy and he looked exhausted, as if he had slept very little the night before. I didn’t feel it my place to pry into his personal life, and I guessed it was completely possible that his fight with Tyler had worn on his nerves so much that he was simply worn out.

“So what all did he say?” I asked, “Just tell me, I won’t get mad.”

He shook his head lightly, grinned, and eventually started to laugh. As he raised his hand to cover his mouth, I realized he had yet to rub his hands together since I had arrived. I began to wonder just what it was that triggered him to rub his hands together in the manner he did so, and as I was preparing to press him a little harder about Tyler, he began to speak.

“He said you were a slut. He said you were wearing those clothes to encourage me to try and fuck you. I explained you weren’t like that, and he just kept going on and on about it, swearing you were nothing but a skank,” he said.

I sat up in the seat, “A skank? Really? Wow. Wait till I see him.”

He shook his head. “Forget it, really. I made him leave for the rest of the day. He’ll think about what he said, believe me.”

A slut?

Really?

“You know what?” I asked.

He sat on the edge of the chair, reached for my ponytail, and moved it to the side as he studied my back. After a moment of leaning behind me and staring, he sat up straight.

“What’s that?” he responded.

“One guy. Just one. That’s how many people I’ve slept with. One. I was with him from my junior year in high school until last year. One. I wonder what Tyler can say about himself? That fucker,” I growled.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” he said as he stood.

He stood at the side of the chair nodding his head. After a moment of what seemed to be deep thought, he continued.

“Holy shit, I’ll have to tell him how wrong he was. But Tyler? He’s a man whore who’s basically addicted to sex. He fucks anything that moves, so he’s not one to talk. Just forget about it, you ready?”

“Sure,” I said as I relaxed onto my stomach, “That fucker. It just makes me mad. Who’s he to say anything?”

“Exactly. Let’s just both forget it.

The thought of Tyler calling me a slut or saying I was intentionally trying to lure Blake into something sexual was aggravating. I was conscious of what I was wearing, and I was even a little apprehensive to come in with it on. The reluctance, at least in my mind, confirmed my intention as being more wholesome than whorish.

“Okay,” I said.

I closed my eyes as he wiped my back, shaved the area, and pressed the stencil onto my skin. After checking the placement in the mirror, I relaxed onto the chair, and he sat beside me on his stool.

“Ready?” he asked.

I tilted my head to the side and glanced upward. He seemed peaceful and much different than when I arrived. After a few seconds of admiration, I grinned and nodded my head.

“I’m ready. You really enjoy this, don’t you?” I asked.

“If you find something you really enjoy, you’ll never work another day in your life,” he responded. “This isn’t work. For me, it’s therapeutic. It keeps me at peace.”

“I like it. It’s weird, but getting a tattoo seems soothing,” I responded as I lowered my head.

A song I recognized,
Pearl Jam’s Yellow Ledbetter
, began to play. I realized as I absorbed the guitar solo introduction that the music wasn’t some special “for tattoo shop only” selections. It was probably music that he had personally chosen.

“I like this song,” I said.