Someone to Watch Over Me (20 page)

“How else would I demonstrate my love?”

“Sex, babe,
lots
of sex.”

Laughing, I took a bite of Tate’s bacon
pizza as he proffered it to me. “You could make a song outta
that.”

“Sex? I think it’s been done already.”

“I meant proving my love for you with a
slice bacon pizza.”

“It would be original.”

“Can’t be any worse than hot rubber chickens
and menthol.”

“Do you want to see the inside of the body
bag?” Tate warned. “Keep talking trash about my lyrics and you’ll
be sleeping out there.”

“I’m not knocking your lyrics. That song
made you a star.”

“It was a joke.”

“I know. I got it. I knocked your song; you
threatened me with a body bag. I’m not all just looks. I’ve got
brains and a good sense of humor too.”

“I meant the song was a joke. We were all
coming down with the flu, and either wasted or fucking delirious. I
was letting off some steam.”

“Sounds to me like ‘I’m a Loser’ or ‘Fake
Plastic Trees.’ Some of the best shit comes from fucking around.
You get a good riff going with those insane lyrics and you catch
people’s interest. Next thing you know they’re all arguing over the
true meaning. It’s good shit.”

“True, but there’s more satisfaction writing
shit with meaning.”

“Shane’s addiction doesn’t have
meaning?”

“Your shit has meaning.”

Mid bite, I almost choked. I pushed the
mouthful of pizza to the side of my cheek. “You’ve read my
music?”

“I was looking for some paper,” Tate
explained, picking bits of bacon off his pizza and popping them
into his mouth. “I was hoping to get some writing done while we’re
on hiatus, and your place is perfect. It’s quiet, solitary, gives
you time and space to think. You don’t get that on the road. It’s
rare.” Pausing, he looked up, seeming to realize he might’ve tread
onto personal ground. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone through
your shit. I wasn’t snooping. Swear. I didn’t have my tablet with
me, that’s all.”

“I could care less about you going through
my stuff.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You read my music.”

“Your music’s great, Coop.”

“You really think so?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Hiding a smile, I polished off my wine
cooler. Tate Watkins thought my music was great. Tate Watkins loved
me. Despite the attempt on my life, I think today might’ve been the
best day of my life. Miracles did come true.

“You never told me the song you sang the
other night was yours,” Tate said. The song was one of the dozens
written in my notebook he found. It was a journal, of sorts, most
of it deriving from my experiences in life. It spanned from high
school to current day.

“I guess it slipped my mind after you
corrupted me in the storage room.”

“I was enlightening you. Remember, you
called me a god.”

“Oh, right, the teaching of all things holy,
pun intended.”

“That, I just might write a song about.”
Twisting open another wine cooler for me, Tate took a sip before
handing it over. He looked at the bottle with distaste. “You know,
now that I think about it—”

“Promise me you won’t write a song about
that. For reals, I can see it already. Number one on the top one
hundred…
I touched Cooper’s pooper…
”

Tate laughed, shaking the bed. The wine
coolers clinked together between us. “You are seriously cute.”

“That’s so not funny. If my mother were
listening…”

“Your mother listens to my shit?”

“My mother has very eclectic taste.”

“I liked her before, but I like her even
more now.”

“I got news for you, buddy, she
loooovvves
you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You saved my life today, Tate.” If not for
his quick thinking by calling the police from my landline, that
psycho would’ve killed me. It was close, too damn close. “Don’t
underestimate the value of your deeds.”

“Ok, no songs about your naiveté.” Folding
the pizza box shut, he dropped it to the floor and then placed the
wine coolers on the small bed table. When he lay down and held his
arm out, I stretched out beside him and rested my head on his
shoulder. “Back to the song you sang last week…”

“It probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“You’re positive that it wasn’t your ex
today? That song was a blatant flip-off if I ever heard one. If
this asshole’s as arrogant as you say, it might’ve pissed him
off.”

“I’m not positive about anything.”

“In any case, I talked to Richard, and he’s
going to look into the reports. See if he can get them bumped up in
line. Whoever’s trying to hurt you needs to be behind bars.”

“I agree, but I’m not putting my life on
hold anymore. I’ve been so damn vigilant with everything I do, and
it obviously hasn’t made a difference. I’m done hiding.”

“Promise me you’ll still be careful.”

Sliding my leg over Tate’s waist, I rose and
sat astride him. “Careful? I’m done being careful. I want to be
wild
and
reckless
.”

“Wild and reckless? Where’d my Coop go?”

“She doesn’t belong in this illusion.”

“Oh?”

“Nope, this is the new Coop. She likes
living on the edge. She likes hard alcohol—”

“I hardly think wine coolers are hard
alcohol.”

“This is my illusion. I make the rules. I
say wine coolers count. Now where was I?”

“Living on the edge and hard alcohol.”

“Thank you. Like I said, she likes hard
alcohol. She likes fast cars—”

“Like Mini Coopers and Ford Focuses?”

“That’s the old Coop, Tate. Stay with me
here. She likes living on the edge. She likes hard alcohol. She
likes fast cars. She likes loud music.” I stroked a fingertip
across the length of his arm, tracing his tats. “She likes
ink.”

“Ink?”

“And piercings.” Leaning over him, I nibbled
the hoop circling his lip. The one in his tongue would come next.
It was like the hard gumball in the center of the snow cone, a
hidden little gem.

“Piercings?”

Nodding, I leaned close to his ear.
“And…sex…on…top.”

Tate swallowed thickly, giving me the best
portrayal of fear he could drum up. “On top?”

“Mm hmm. If I’m facing my fears, you’re
going to face yours.”

“I have one demand. If we’re going to do
this…no holding back. You need to give me your all. I don’t want
you to take it easy on me. If I’m going to get over this fear of
mine…I think you need to be…
rough
.”

“Rough?”

“Rough, babe. I can take it.”

Chapter
10

“Y
ou brought
everything but the kitchen sink,” Tate observed. “Do you really
need so much stuff?”

“I brought an umbrella stroller and a diaper
bag.” The stroller was the smallest out there and I didn’t even
bring a purse. I travelled light.

“But the kid can walk.”

“The kid can run. The kid can grab stuff,
knock stuff over, and break stuff,
expensive
stuff. The kid
can disappear between the legs of people in a second flat. The kid
can pick chewed gum or cigarette butts off the sidewalk—depending
on his mood—and put them in his mouth. When all’s said and done,
the kid will get tired and want to nap in the stroller.”

“When he gets tired, he can ride on my
shoulders.”

“It’s ninety degrees out; do you really want
a possibly wet diaper hugging the back of your neck?”

“I walk!” Levy exclaimed. “I no nap!”

After my spending Saturday cooped up and
hiding my bruises, I was starting to go stir crazy. I desperately
needed some fresh air or I was going to go certifiably insane.

Maybe I already was.

For some bizarre reason, I thought a day
outside would be relaxing, if not pleasant. Thus, I packed the
necessities, and set off for a day of leisure in the quaint village
of New Hope.

It was an amazing little strip of art
galleries, antique shops, and restaurants. It even boasted a
playhouse for those that like the theatre. If you really felt
adventurous, you could take a nature walk along the Delaware Canal,
or visit a few historical landmarks dated back to the Revolutionary
War. Me, I just wanted to score an ice cream cone and some fresh
air.

“That’s right, Mini Cooper, you’re a big
boy. You’re gonna walk with Tate, right?” Tate held his hand out,
which Levy looked at with indifference and then immediately bolted
down the sidewalk. To give Tate credit, he didn’t hesitate. He
chased right after Levy, though he did mutter a “little shit” under
his breath in surprise. “It’s ok, I’ve got him!”

Shaking my head, I laughed along with Carter
and Jake. Shane had stayed behind. He was camping out in the body
bag when we left. From what Tate had explained about him, he wasn’t
much of a group person. He preferred a bottle and the bag of
whatever illegal substances he was consuming that week. He had a
diverse taste in drugs.

“Cigarette butts?” Carter asked, shoving his
hands into his pockets and starting after Tate and Levy. I shoved
the stroller forward and met his stride. “That’s nasty.”

Jake walked behind us, gazing through the
store windows as we ambled along. “I had a dog once. He used to eat
everything. And I mean
everything
. If it was within reach,
it was game. Toilet paper. Trash. Plastic bottles. Crayons. He shat
a rainbow of colors. Oh man, one time he ate one of one of my
gloves my gram knitted for me. He had yarn coming out his ass for a
week. When it would get too long, it would tickle his bunghole, and
he would run in circles trying to get at it.”

“It would’ve been funnier if he did,” Carter
said. “It would’ve been an infinity chain, an ever constant loop of
yarn. How gross is that?”

“I’m stuck on ‘shat,’ I observed, fighting a
smile. “Did you really just say he ‘shat’?”

Jake lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “It’s
grammatically correct.”

“I know but I’ve never heard anyone use it
before.”

“Then I think I should get a gold star.”

“I have a drawer full of them at home that
I’m saving for Lev’s potty training, but I’ll give you a whole
sheet if you can use
shat
three more times before the day is
over.”

“I shat glitter when I was a kid,” Carter
confessed. “What? It was in preschool! We were making some fake
sugar cookies that we decorated with glitter instead of sprinkles!
They were made of fake dough! They looked really real!”

I snorted, trying to suppress a laugh. “What
color did you eat?”

“A big spoonful of pink glitter.”

“Pink?” Jake observed. “Why pink?”

“I don’t fucking know. I was three. I only
remember because my mom tells everybody every year at Christmas.
She said my shit looked like one of the pinecones you roll in
glitter and hang on the Christmas tree.”

“I have one of those,” I admitted. “A
pinecone, I mean. Ours is silver so that it looks like snow.”

“We used to cover them in peanut butter and
birdseed and hang them outside,” Jake said. “But I sure as shit
didn’t eat any.”

“You never ate anything gross or unusual,”
Carter objected. “Ever?”

“Uuummmm, no,” Jake said sarcastically.
“Never.”

Carter made a sound of disbelief and looked
at me. “What’s the worst thing you ever ate, Coop?”

“A penny.” I shoved my hand in my pocket and
pulled out one green and pitted Abe Lincoln. “I still carry it
around. It’s good luck.”

“Dude!” Jake exclaimed, staring in
revulsion. Carter guffawed so loud everyone turned to stare.
“You’re pulling my leg, right?”

“Yes.” I slid the penny back in my pocket.
“If you haven’t noticed by now, I have terrible luck, Jake.”

“Coop, you kill me,” Carter said, taking me
by surprise. It must’ve shown in my expression because Carter
lifted his hands. “What? I like a girl that can hold her own.
You’re funny. You have a good sense of humor.”

“I’m just waiting for the punchline,
Carter.” I really didn’t think he liked me, and with that catty
smile of his, I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not.

“Well, I had a good one lined up, but you
look like you’re ready to kick me in the balls again, so I think
I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Ha ha.” Up ahead, I spotted Tate. He had
Levy in his arms. Some blonde bombshell was cooing at him—not at
Tate, at Levy—as if he was a baby. The million-megawatt smile, she
aimed at Tate. Levy looked completely disinterested with the baby
talk. He panned the sidewalk for something with a little more
appeal.

“Momma!”

“Babe!” Tate beamed, the blonde forgotten.
Handing Levy over to Carter, he pried the stroller from my hands
and pushed it toward Carter too.

“Tate, what are you doing?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“But Levy—”

“Carter’s an uncle. He can handle him.
Besides, Mini Cooper’s a chick magnet.” Before I could object any
further, he clutched my hand and began dragging me down the
sidewalk. “It’s just a small place, but it looks clean, and they
have an opening right now.”

“What are you talking about?” As we turned
the corner, the sign answered my question.
Tiny Tim’s
Tattoos
. “Oh my God.”

Tate dragged me inside, where a largely
muscled man with a handlebar mustache was prepping the piercing
station. He looked up upon our entrance. “This your girl?”

“Cooper,” Tate said.

“Coop,” I added.

“Call me Tiny, Coop. Have a seat.” As I
climbed into the leather barber’s chair, he began pulling on a pair
of black latex gloves. The room smelled like a doctor’s office from
all the sanitizers. In this case, the scent was comforting, as was
the sight of all the medically sealed implements. Hopefully that
meant Tiny kept the place sterile and I wouldn’t contract tetanus.
“You look like you’re going to faint.”