Six Flavours of Sin (12 page)

Chapter 22

What a Chop

Monday morning Shayne sidles up to me and fiddles with statements on my desk, "I don't want anyone to know. Just keep it between us, okay?"

YAY!

"No problem."

Inside jiggy dance. What a relief. Although secretly I am
aching
to tell Selene; I know what a rabid sex-addict she is. She'd find Shayne's dilemma hilarious. To my credit, I never tell a living soul about him. (Until now that is).

So imagine the thunderous ‘Thor is angry’ glare I get from him, when James pops over to my desk, squeezes my shoulders
–(ouch!)– and sits his mammoth frame on my desk, folding his arms, to smile at me. He also wears spectacles by the way. (Gee, what's going on in my life?)

"Are you busy tonight?"

Where's this going?
"No. Why?"

Slap. Ow! My shoulder is cramping now.

"Great, I'll be over at seven. I'm making us dinner."

Weeeel
l
now, how can I say no to that? Gary is
so
yesterday. Not to mention Neanderthal.

I smile, "Okay."

Shayne glowers at me but says nothing.

I stare back and want to telepathically yell, ‘Keep your wings on, angel! I'm not going to shag the whole office.’

At seven, James arrives, beaming. Why do men smile at me like that anyway? What does it mean? Is it a secret code for something?

He walks straight into my kitchen, whips out a chardonnay, uncorks it and pours us each a glass.

Clink

"Cheers. Now get out. Go and relax while I cook."

(This is so odd. Why cook here? Why not invite me to your place?)              

"Okay."

So I take my black-jeaned ass out of the kitchen and sit down on the couch, sipping wine and indulging in a new smoke. How come none of these men smoke? I thought non-smokers hated smokers?

Twenty minutes later, he produces a plate for me with a flourish, "Tah dah!"

I stare at the huge steak dwarfing the plate. Oh no. "Thanks. This looks fabulous, but I don't eat red meat."

(See? I'm the cheapest date ever. I feel guilty, because I certainly don't mind cooking it for other people. I just don't like it myself. It's like chewing on polystyrene.)

His face is crestfallen. He's horrified. His big surprise just went belly up.

"Darn. It's my speciality. I thought you'd love it."

Oh shit. Life just sucks.

I rub his forearm the size of my thigh, "Thanks; I really, really, appreciate this. I'll try it, if it'll make you feel better?"

"No ... Crap! I didn't know."

I'm squirming for him. This is so awkward. I get up, "It's fine, really. I have loads of meals frozen. I'll just pop something in the microwave."

He masks his chagrin with a rueful grimace, "Are you sure?"

"The wine's great." I give him a reassuring wink.

We go into the kitchen together and I prepare the 'other half' of our meal. I watch his deft movements around the kitchen and am impressed. He's really overdressed though. Black boots, black trousers, black button up shirt: a closet goth cooking in my kitchen. I smile to myself. Spiky dark brown hair. This guy is just huge, it's the only way to describe him. I suppress a giggle as I realise that his hand is bigger than my face.

We eat together and this evening is dragging. It's early but I'm awkward and nervous. Why is he here? What's his intention exactly? At nine, after he's washed the dishes (Hello!), and after at least forty-five minutes of small talk, he suggests, "Should we go out?"

Hell yeah.  Anything to get out of this rut.

"Yes!"

"The Corner Bar okay?"             

I nod.

Great! Smokes, money and off we go.

This evening is working now. I haven't ever met a man who actually dances. That's what girlfriends are for. He towers over everyone on the dance floor. Now we have
something to bond over. Music! I love this place. It's a biker's, head-banger's, delight. It's dim, smoky, and wall-to-wall average dudes and gothic chicks.

The men are all earthy and ordinary. Jeans, T-shirts, denim or leather jackets are everywhere. Lots of interesting tattoos, lots of long hair on everyone, I fit right in. The girls all look vampish. So my manoeuvres are right at home. No one hits on me. No one harasses me. Wow. The people here respect each other. Don't believe the stereotype rubbish you hear; or maybe it's because I'm with my own personal bouncer?

To make my life complete, we are lucky enough to have one my favourite local bands playing live. Unobtrusively, I lean against the wall, watching Brandon growl out lyrics that I've set my life to. I mean, come on, a girl's allowed to swoon in secret isn't she? I am way too cool to ever do the groupie thing.

Lordy, Gary might have stripped my dignity, but in public I have my pride. Brandon is really tall, his hair is dyed black, and he has electric blue eyes that scythe through the room seductively. Couple that with his, ‘I can sing the pants off you’ voice and, let's just say, my body likes him very much. A lot of their lyrics are heavy, deep, intellectual. Which is probably why James likes them too …. hmm ... I wonder if James planned this?

I watch their drummer strip off his shirt with the suffocating heat in here and am reminded of how groovy it is to be single; and grin at the CDs stacked on a table.
Shards
. How apt. My life is in smithereens. My heart is smashed to shards.

Brandon's voice is like Sam Elliot mixed with Chad Kroeger. Just close your eyes and let that voice carry you anywhere you want to go. I think it's time I upgraded to a man.

I fan myself, imagining how awesome it must be to be stuck in a blackout with this crowd. Is it suddenly clammy in here?

That was the night that James and I became friends. He never ever put a move on me. And I respect him for that. We share a love of grungy music. Soon this becomes routine, sometimes including Selene. I like having male friends.

Anyway, so I meet Don at the Corner Bar. Don does tattooing for a living. And who needs Tupperware, when you can have a
tattoo
party? I explain how shy I am. The only tattoo parlour I know of with a good reputation contains two flaws. A gigantic python! And glass windows into the studio. Which means everyone will see me with my pants off! No can do. I pout, plead and manipulate, until Don tells me, "Fine. But make it worth my while. I'll do yours for free if you line up five clients."

So that weekend I have five friends lined up. Don is expected at two in the afternoon, so I wonder what the hell? when my doorbell rings at eleven in the morning.

I look through the peep hole and see a huge man I've never seen before at my door. He rings the doorbell again.

Suspiciously I crack the door open, "Can I help you?"

"Are you Stefanie?"

I nod.

He smiles, "Great! I'm at the right place."

Huh
? 

"Sorry?"

"Hey man, it's breezy out here, aren't you going to let me in?"

I am a dimwit. You can tell
. "Um. Why are you here? Who are you?"

"Eddie! Jake sent me."

Jake? Dianne's seedy boyfriend Jake?

"Dianne's boyfriend?"

He nods, looking around as if he's about to score drugs off me and has a guilty conscience. So I let him in.

He walks in, surveys my tiny home, and flops his body-builder's frame onto my sofa, "Got anything to drink?"

"No, you aren't supposed to drink before getting a chop. Don emphasised that he wasn't tatting anyone who's been drinking in the last twenty-four hours."

"Got any coffee then?"

You know what? You are fucking rude.
"Yeah, sure."

Paranoia snakes up my spine as I leave a complete stranger alone in my living room while I make him coffee. Feeling jumpier than exploding pumpkin seeds, I light a smoke and sit down opposite him to watch him drink his coffee. We have
hours
to go before Don or anyone else is due to arrive.

"Nice place you've got here.” 

Whatever. Actually, I'm scared. This man is huge, arrogant and confident. I feel like a ten year old on my seat. Shit. Maybe I should start praying?

Ding Dong.

What? Has someone put up a neon sign saying, ‘STEF'S PLACE’?
I get up and move to the door. Eddie gets up too, and stands behind me like my bouncer, as if he's going to protect me or something. Fuckenhell. This is so freaking weird. My life has just become insane.

I look through the peephole and see another complete stranger. I open the door, "Hi?"

"You Stefanie?"

I nod as my stomach arranges itself into a perfect sailor's knot.

"Excellent!" and he pushes past me. Body-builder number two!

"Eddie! Hey man. How's it hanging?"

"I wasn't sure I had the right place."

And the two comrades bounce off my sofa's
bonding, relaxing, while I feel completely redundant and alarmed, and go to make more coffee.

I sit and smoke quietly in my corner, with huge frightened eyes. I'm scared. I hate the way they're looking at me. I am feeling very diminutive and 'alone', right now.

Ding ... Dong.

I race to the door.
Please
let that be one of my friends. I need back up. I fling it open.

"Stef!" Jake. Thank God. Who ever thought I'd be happy to see you?

Dianne follows with four more people. No Way. My home is not big enough for the Chippendales. Unlike every other woman on the planet, I don't like bulky boys and this is sawing on my sanity. I grab Dianne and haul her, and their drinks, to the kitchen, while the men all do their macho fist-thumping bonding crap.

"What were you thinking! How can you send complete strangers to my home?"

She giggles, completely unfazed. "Relax man. They're all friends of Jake's." Miss tall, willowy, long straight black hair, high cheekbones and doll perfect skin just winks at me.

"I don't care: that's
not
cool," I say.

"You said you needed five or more people. So shut up and stop complaining."

My house becomes like the subway that afternoon. I get my chop done first. A little Celtic cross on my hip. I'm deep into symbolism. Sometimes we're nailed to that cross; sometimes we're carrying that cross; sometimes we find salvation and peace through that cross. But it's private. I don't want to share it with the world. That's why it's on my hip. But having this party was to ensure my privacy whilst receiving ink. I am alone in my bedroom with Don, nothing but the buzzzzzing of his tattoo thingamajig breaking the reverent silence of an artist at work on a human canvas.

Great. (Major sarcasm in that ‘great’.)

In bursts (ew-ew-ew) Eddie and two of these strangers, into my private space – (my bedroom) – and I cannot obviously run away now, can I? I can't cover up my  thong either. I cringe and close my eyes as my cheeks flood with heat. Shudder. Don feels it and the buzzing stops as he glares at the intrusion, "What?"

"What's taking so long, man?"

I take a peek through a half-open eye. Oh skin crawling
Gaaaawd
. Get that man's slimy gaze off my naked thigh. This is so wrong on so many levels. Eddie is standing there and he has creep written all over him! No no no no no! Fuck OFF.

Don calmly, but in a fabulously passive-aggressive way, says, "Get out and close the door after you."

They seem stunned, but they comply. When bahm! In bounce two more men. I am going to gut Dianne for this.

"Hi Stef!"

A new, kind of acquaintance, Tim, who is about a foot shorter than me but built like a bull terrier, waltzes over to have a look at my half-finished cross. "Looking sweet, babes."

He holds out a hand to Don, "Hey Don. Thanks for doing this."

Don shakes it with a latex gloved hand and pushes his bandana up to wipe the sweat of concentration off his brow. I am beginning to feel like a specimen all scientists with bulging muscles should come to study. I feel like a piece of meat for the first time in my life. I'm embarrassed by Robert's observation of me, as he's filling my door-frame with his humungous build.

He's built like the Rock, to put it into perspective for you. I've known him since I was sixteen. We did bodybuilding together a very long time ago.
He has a violent temper.

I met him when he was going through his first divorce. I still, to this day, have no idea how old he is. But he still looks exactly the same as the first day I met him. Huge, tanned, brown eyes, cropped brown
hair and a great smile.  Which is aimed at me, "Hey Stef. I didn't know this was your place?"