Sweet Girl (19 page)

On the TV a contestant face-plants, and we both laugh loudly. The combined decibels must freak out Holden, because he scampers off into the other room.

I feel the slightest touch on my left wrist, and before I can even comprehend its meaning, Taylor asks, “Fifteen percent—what does that mean to you?”

My heart, lungs, hands, and everything else go utterly still in response to the question. Then I blink once, twice. I know he isn’t done with the twenty questions tonight, but out of all the things he could ask about, it’s my bracelet.

There is absolutely no way I can explain that number to him, or to anyone else for that matter. No one knows its meaning because the number is only valuable to me. I can’t do this right now. I don’t have the energy to be evasive. I choose deflection instead.

“What do your tattoos mean to you?” I ask harshly.

I refuse to look away while Taylor stares at me, doing his best to strip past the outer layer, as if the truth is just below the surface.

“
That
personal, huh?” he finally asks.

“Too personal,” I answer, and turn back to the wannabe ninjas on the screen in front of us.

I take a drink and then another, trying to chase away the anxiety brought on by his question. I have figured out his Achilles’ heel. There is no way he’d cover every available surface with tattoos if they weren’t a symbol of something for him too, though I suppose it makes me a bit of a scumbag to use it against him.

“My father hated tattoos,” he shocks me by saying.

My head swings around to stare at him, surprised that he is going to talk about them after all. When he doesn’t say anything else but continues to stare absently at the bottle in his hands, I prompt him.

“And?” I ask softly.

Dark-brown eyes find mine.

“And I hated my father.”

He runs a hand along his jaw in agitation and takes a deep breath. “He was all about appearances. Perfect little family, same pew at church every Sunday; he did everything to protect the truth. Truth was that he’d get drunk, slap my mom around, hit her harder if she got in between him and me.” He clenches his fist repeatedly as he did that night in the bar. I am pretty sure he wants to hit something. Without thinking I fit my hand into his. He doesn’t look at me, but he holds onto it. “He ended up running off before my seventh birthday, before I was old enough to stand up to him. It’s stupid, really, how much I wanted”—he laughs, but there is no joy in the sound—“or
still
want to beat the hell out of him. When I was seventeen I got a fake ID and had my first ink done.” He pulls up a sleeve to show me the inner biceps of his left arm. A solar system of colorful planets spreads out down his arm and (I knew from a brief peek one day in the shop) runs down his ribs. The planet he points to now is blue with white striation throughout. Whoever did the work on his body is an artist in the truest sense of the word.

“Is that—”

“Uranus,” he says.

His grin is self-deprecating, but at this point I am relieved to see any kind of smile on his face. So relieved, in fact, that it takes me a minute to get the implication.

“As in god of the sky, father of the Titans—” I start to ask.

“As in, I was seventeen and thought I was esoteric and deep. How did you get that reference, though? It’s pretty obscure.”

“I got my degree in English,” I answer him.

“Why did you pick English?”

“To keep my mom off my back.” I sigh. “It’s incredibly immature, I know, but the master’s bought me a bit more time before she started questioning my life choices.”

“You call grad school immature? I had a ball tattooed on my arm! Can you imagine the field day the guys on the football team had with that? The color only added to their fun.”

I nearly do a spit take as I catch his implication.

“Oh man, I bet.” I chuckle into the mason jar as I take a drink. “It clearly looks like a planet, just to give you an unbiased third opinion.”

“It’d better! I’ve had it recolored twice.” He smiles and drinks too.

“And the others?” I gesture with my glass at the expanse of artwork I know is hidden under his shirt.

Taylor kicks off his flip-flops and props his feet on the coffee table, settling in. I do the same.

“At first I just wanted to add on and turn it into a sleeve. I was twenty-two and almost entirely covered with ink from the waist up when I realized what I was doing.”

“And what was that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Still letting him affect my decisions. On some level I was doing it because I knew he’d hate it. I couldn’t have been more than five at the time, but he made some comment about the type of people who get tattoos. The memory stuck with me. I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, and I was still a seven-year-old trying to fight back. I haven’t gotten one since.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t think of what else to say.

“Don’t be.” He grins and winks. “Women totally dig it.”

I laugh and turn my attention back to the TV. I feel the slightest pressure on my wrist, a single fingertip running back and forth along the chain. I look back at him. He is closer now, leaning over onto the cushion between us and looking at me with a question in his eyes.

I know the implication. I showed you mine, now you show me yours. He has laid it all out between us and honestly answered my questions. He is hoping I will do the same. The problem is, he doesn’t understand how impossible it is for me to speak the words out loud.

Not improbable.

Impossible.

I’ve never talked about it and done my best not to think about it at all costs. The only reason I wear the bracelet now is as a reminder. A reminder of the thing I shouldn’t be allowed to forget.

A small penance in the grand scheme of things.

Neither of us speaks as we both watch that single finger rub back and forth. Back and forth.

His eyes don’t look into mine; they are staring intensely at the bracelets on my wrist, as if he can’t quite believe he is touching me at all.

My eyes follow the line of tattoos that starts at his wrist, symbols that create a map of his life.

A vintage clock held aloft by an angel.

Music notes climbing the scale to turn into a poem.

Forearm, biceps, shoulder, jaw. My eyes finally fall on his lips.

I won’t,
can’t
answer his questions, but I know I can give him something, something I haven’t given anyone else in so long that it isn’t worth thinking about.

The idea takes root and begins to grow, my heartbeat clambering along behind it. It isn’t liquor that hums in my veins, because my drink is only half-finished on the coffee table. It is anticipation. My fingertips tingle, and energy rushes from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. I am going to do this stupid, crazy thing, even knowing what an absolutely terrible idea it is. I am going to follow my instincts instead of the little voice in the back of my head, which is reciting a litany of past mistakes as a reminder not to make another one. I can’t listen to that voice, though, because I am too busy staring at his mouth.

If I don’t do this now,
right this second
, I am going to talk myself out of it, and then I’ll never know what it is to feel his lips on mine.

The lips I can’t stop staring at part slightly as he inhales a sharp breath. My eyes shoot to his. He must see some of my thoughts written all over my face, because he starts to speak. I don’t let him get the words out. I don’t give either of us time to contemplate.

The feel of his lips on mine is electric, a sensation that is so good and perfect and
right
that I whimper. The sound of his drink hitting the hardwood floor only vaguely registers, because the feel of his hands holding my face consumes every rational thought. Those hands are infinitely sweet, just like our lips dancing against each other, and it isn’t enough. Sensations I have gone too long without course through every inch of my body.
It isn’t enough
. I climb over to straddle him, demanding without words. The kiss deepens, becomes something else.
I
become something else.

Lips, tongues, and teeth clash. My fingers claw at his shirt, desperate for more of him and this feeling between us.

It isn’t until he pulls back and catches my hands that I realize he’s calling my name.

“Jennings, slow down,” he says softly.

I shake my head.

“I don’t want to.” I reach up to pull his head closer to mine, but he captures my hand again and holds both of them between us. I stare at him in shock as he leans in to kiss my cheek.

“Baby,” he whispers into my ear, “you’re shaking.”

His words bring me out of my daze, and I recognize the truth. My entire body trembles in his arms. It’s too much adrenaline, way too fast, and his stopping it and not wanting to kiss me back is like being doused in ice water. As quickly as my body was lit up, the fire is extinguished. I pull my hands free and start to get up.

“Wait. What are you doing?” he asks, trying to get me to look him in the eye.

I look anywhere but at him, because my mortification is bad enough without seeing it reflected back at me in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” I nearly choke on the words. “I shouldn’t have thrown myself at you. I just thought—”

My words are unceremoniously cut off as Taylor grabs me around the waist and hauls me back onto his lap. This time he cradles my chin and forces me to meet his gaze.

“You thought what? That I might want to kiss you? That I’ve wanted to kiss you since the very first time I saw you?” he says. “That I’ve thought about it so many times already that I could almost convince myself it had already happened? That I tricked myself into thinking that I actually knew what your lip gloss tastes like or what it feels like to have your fingers in my hair? Or that the actual reality of any of those things is so much more fucking perfect than anything I dreamed of that it actually physically hurts to stop doing it?”

I blink at him in shock.

Taylor’s smile is almost shy. He leans down to kiss my shoulder, then my neck, then the spot just below my ear. His voice is a physical caress across every single one of my nerve endings.

“Baby, you thought exactly right. But you’re not ready to move so fast. I’m not going anywhere, OK?”

I am so overwhelmed by his speech, by our kiss, by the feel of his lips still rubbing back and forth along my ear that I can’t speak. I let my forehead fall on his shoulder and I nod. His lips stop moving and he takes a deep breath.

“Do you want another drink?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Something to eat?”

Another shake.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

I sit back and look at him in question.

“To—” I start to ask.

“To sleep,” he says with a slight grin. “It’s almost two, and you’ve got to be dead tired. Do you want to crash here? Or I can drive you home.”

Ever the gentleman.

I smile at him, feeling suddenly younger than I have in ages.

“Yes, I’d like to stay.”

I don’t say anything as Taylor leads me down the hall to his bedroom. He leaves me there with one of his clean T-shirts, some pajama bottoms, and his toothbrush in the bathroom if I’m not too weirded out to use it. When he comes back into the room fifteen minutes later, I am sitting at the end of his huge fluffy bed, unsure what to do next. He stands in the doorway, dressed in running shorts and a white T-shirt, and rubs a hand over his jaw, seemingly unsure what to do.

“I can sleep on the couch . . .” His voice trails off along with his eyes.

“But?” I prompt.

Brown eyes find mine again.

“But I don’t really want to,” he answers.

I take a deep breath and blow it out.

“I sleep on the left side,” I say, already turning to crawl to that spot.

Taylor laughs and flips off the light. “I can live with that.”

I pull back the duvet and slip under sheets that smell like him. I hear him walk to the other side of the bed and then the sound of his shirt hitting the floor. I feel suddenly nervous, unsure what is going to happen and still not entirely recovered from all the adrenaline from earlier. When Taylor finally slides under the covers, he doesn’t make any move to get closer. He stays on his side of the bed, and I stay on mine. It makes me feel antsy.

Even though I am beyond tired after the long day, the knowledge that he is lying next to me keeps me from falling asleep. I turn onto my back, then my side, then my stomach. Nothing seems to work. I flip onto my right side again, and he curses, reaches a hand around my waist, and slides me back into the wall of his chest.

“Go to sleep, Jennings,” he whispers into that place on my neck.

I blame whatever vodka is left in my bloodstream for the ridiculous sigh that leaves my lips. I am asleep a moment later.

My bare foot rubs over something soft. Back and forth, back and forth. I have rubbed my feet together in my sleep ever since I was little, but today there is something warm and silky to rub against. My feet slide against it before I am even fully awake. Realization comes in short waves. The bed is fluffier than normal. My bedroom smells different. I am warm. Wrapped up in warm heat that is way too heavy to be a blanket. My foot stops sliding against the foot next to it.