Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Thirteen

My phone rattles against the glass coffee table, and both Rose and I look down at it. I’m curled up on the sofa trying my best not to think about how disastrous my first day apprenticing was.

“Who even has your number?” she asks.

I shrug. “I gave it to Tina.”

“Why would she be texting you at half-twelve?”

My eyes flick to the clock on the wall above the television, and she’s right. It is way too late, and I somewhat doubt it’s an emergency. Playing on the television is a nature documentary about jellyfishes…

I squirm out from under the blanket and reach for the phone, unlocking it.

“Unknown number,” I say, and then I read the text. My eyes go wide.

“What is it?” Rose asks, concerned.

“You won’t believe this,” I say, shaking my head. “How the hell did he get my number?”

“What is it?” Rose asks again, reaching over and grabbing the phone from me. She reads the text.

Drinks and dinner, tomorrow after my tattoo.

“Who is this?”

I look at Rose. “Guess.”

She shakes her head. “I have no idea. Someone from the tattoo shop?”

“Yeah. Someone you know.”

“Someone I know?” she says, pondering with a finger to her lip. “I can’t think of anybody.”

“It’s Pierce.”

She balks. “Pierce Fletcher? He gets his tattoos from your boss?”

I nod, and I rub my forehead. I’m trying to hide it as best as I can, this heady concoction of mixed emotions I feel. On the one hand, there’s annoyance, irritation, even anger. How could he just be asking me out like this?

On the other, excitement, anticipation, a physical response. Personally, I think Rose sees right through it, judging by her smile, but she’s holding back from saying anything.

Which is totally unlike her.

“You going to go?” she asks.

“Probably not,” I say.

She just shrugs and makes a ‘huh’ noise.

“I’m not!” I say. “He really is an asshole, Rose. You should have seen him today at the shop. Plus, like I told you before, my dad is dating his mom. No way!”

That’s when she starts laughing. “Well, damn, Penny, it’s not like they’re getting married! It’s not like he’s your stepbrother or anything! You should go. See what he wants.”

“I know what he wants.”

“You obviously made an impression on him the other night, not to mention the fact that you saw him this morning in the tattoo parlor.”

“So what? He was a dick. I don’t want to go. Plus, we don’t like to call them ‘parlors’.”

Rose peers at me, and then grins. “Did something happen today?”

“No.”

“Yes it did!” she says, wagging a finger at me. “What haven’t you told me, Penelope?”

“He’s in the middle of getting a tattoo.”

“Oh? And it just so happens that Tina is his tattoo artist, right? Now that’s a coincidence.”

“Yeah.” I bury my face in my hands. “What are the chances?”

“Well, it’s a big city, but it’s not huge.”

“He was getting a tattoo near his groin.”

Her eyes widen, and she gets this really mischievous grin. She lowers her voice and narrows her eyes. “Tell me more.”

“He had to be naked from the waist down.”

She covers her mouth and lets out a high-pitched laugh. “So you saw…?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Was it weird?”

“What do you think?”

“Because you had kissed him before?”

“That,” I say, nodding. “And just the general fact that he was naked from the waist down.”

“Oh come on. Think about nurses who have to do that prostate stuff.” She shudders. “Yuck.”

“Tina said the same thing. She got me in trouble for not being very professional today.”

Rose eyes me. I can see the cogs in her brain turning. Though she hasn’t got much self-awareness, she’s very in-tune with what other people are thinking.

“Was it your first time seeing a man’s penis in real life?”

“Uh…” My voice fades.

“No!” Rose cries, slapping the armrest of the sofa. “You’re kidding, girl!”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re still…?”

“Yes.” I frown, and close my eyes, placing my finger and thumb on my eyelids. “Is that weird?”

“No!” she says, quickly rubbing my leg. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin.”

“Don’t say it like that,” I groan.

“But I just find it hard to believe.”

“Why?” I say, my voice raising. This indignation is a convenient outlet for my embarrassment.

“Because of your tattoos and stuff.”

“Well, that’s a stereotype.”

Rose sucks in a breath of air. I can see she’s thinking about how to word her next sentence.

“I don’t mean that all girls with tattoos—”

“Yes you do.”

“No, I really don’t! I mean, you just got one pretty early, you were hanging out with all those older kids before I came here to Australia. You know, I just assumed you would have dated an older guy. One of the guys from that tattoo parlor you always hung out at.”

“Well, I didn’t,” I say. “I cared about the art. And, again, we don’t like calling it a parlor. It’s a shop, or studio.”

“Okay,” Rose says, putting her hands up. “It’s not like I meant anything by it. What is it with you and this shop-parlor business?”

“Ever heard of a massage parlor?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“What’s the first thing you think?”

“Prostitution,” she says flatly.

“There we go. It’s about connotation. No tattoo artist calls their shop a parlor. It’s either a shop, or studio, okay?”

“Okay,” Rose says with a sigh.

“Please try and remember.”

“I will, I will. So,” she says, drawing out the word. “What was he like?”

“Who?”

“Pierce!”

“What do you mean?”

She drops her voice to a very low whisper. “Was he big?”

I swallow, and nod. There’s a twinkle in Rose’s eye, as if she’s thinking: Unsurprising.

“Did he shave?”

I shake my head.

“Trimmed?”

“Yeah.”

“What about his balls?”

I blink. “I didn’t notice,” I say slowly, staring hard at her.

“Has he got lots of tattoos?”

“You saw him fight.”

“I mean, under his shorts.”

“No, not really. He had this jellyfish, and the tentacles wrapped around his thigh.”

We both turn to look at the television. The narrator, in a posh and sticky British accent, is talking about the Portuguese Man of War – one of the deadliest jellyfish in the world.

What are the chances?

“You should go,” she says.

“Why? I don’t want to.”

“You don’t think he’s hot?”

“He’s a dick. He’s so full of himself. He’s probably got, like, three STDs. So what if he’s hot?”

“He’s a fighter, but he’s not stupid.”

“How would you know?”

“You can always tell when somebody is a dumb-dumb.”

“What do I want with a rude man-slut, anyway?”

“I know you’re attracted to him. I saw how awkward you were when you met him. Not to mention that whole driving-you-home scene after the club. I’m still pissed off at you, by the way. We never got into Juice. You just left us waiting in the line outside.”

I sigh. “I was awkward because he was being a dick.”

“Yeah, he was, but you were also awkward because you liked him. Which is why you hit the sauce hard.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.”

“Okay, babe.” She says it in this really condescending way, and it pricks my temper.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she says, flicking her head to the side. She watches me out of amused eyes.

“Stop that, Rose.”

“Stop what?”

“Just stop it!”

I go into my bedroom, cheeks feeling warm, and flop down on my bed and stare at the screen of my phone.

Maybe fifteen minutes pass by, before I finally tap out a reply:

Only if you’re not an asshole tomorrow during your appointment.

I put the phone on my bedside table, and turn out the light, but moments later I hear it vibrate.

I thought girls liked assholes.

Chapter Fourteen

“Told you I’d behave.”

She smiles, and actually it’s one of the few times she’s not being hostile to me. I… I like it. She’s beautiful when she smiles. Her whole face just lights up.

It makes my heart race and my cock throb. Even just a quick glance at her bare neck – she’s got her hair tied up – brings me up. I want to bite her there, lick her, taste her. God, my lust for her is carnal, almost savage. I want to bite her until it hurts, and then a little more.

“You did behave,” she says. “To my great surprise.” She gives me an accusing stare, as if to ask, ‘What’s your angle?’. I just play it off as nothing. I got no angle. She knows I want her.

Penny clears her throat. “Tina did a good job with the shading, didn’t she?”

“She did,” I agree.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Tingles.” I pull the Porsche over. “We’re going to Lou’s.”

“Lou’s?” she says. “That sounds like an American pizza restaurant, or something.”

“That’s because it is,” he says. “Deep dish, Chicago style. Thought you’d like something from home.”

There it is again, that smile. God, she looks amazing when she smiles.

I lick my lower lip, and bunch my brows together for a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever thought something like that before.

“Thanks, but it’s not really just a Chicago thing anymore. I had no idea they had something like that over here?”

“American themed restaurants are popular here,” he says. “Mexican, too.”

I get out, and then help her out of the car on her side. It’s so low that she practically has to climb up onto the curb.

As we step into the bar-and-restaurant, a smattering of American accents reach us. I see Penny looking around, perhaps a little surprised that there’s such a large American enclave in the form of a restaurant. The place is heaving, and the television above the bar is playing one of yesterday’s college basketball games.

“This feels pretty authentic,” she says.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Just the decorations, the atmosphere.”

“Well, it’s popular.”

“With Aussies, too?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, flagging down a waitress. “They love this shit over here. They pretend to hate the ‘yanks’, but really they’re enamored with us.”

We get seated in our own booth, pick out a spinach and mushroom mix, and then order drinks. To my surprise, she gets a vodka-martini.

Penny shrugs when she sees my expression. “Dad and I have this thing where we watch a James Bond movie every other weekend together. I don’t really like them, but he does. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to try one.”

“The old ones are the best ones.”

She snorts. “More like the most misogynistic ones.”

“So, what made you want to become a tattoo artist?”

Penelope grins, and peers at me. “What is this? You pretending not to be a dick?”

“Got a bite, do you?”

“Seriously, Pierce. Why are we here?”

“Why do you need a reason for everything? It’s like you’re always suspicious, always need to know every detail. Don’t be so insecure.”

“I’m not being insecure,” she says. “I just don’t believe this whole act you’re putting on.”

“What act is that?”

“The whole dinner date thing.”

“We’re on a date?” I ask, smirking. “You just can’t say no to me, can you?”

“I’m going to leave,” she tells me. “Really. I only agreed to come because I was curious as to what you might want.”

“You’re so prickly all the time. It’s like defusing a bomb trying to get to know you.”

“Well, get used to it, because I’m not letting my guard down.”

I lean back. “You going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What made you want to become a tattoo artist.”

“You tell me what made you want to become a fighter first.”

I shrug. “Fair enough. My dad’s brother, Uncle James. He was a boxer when he was young. He was pro, but not very well ranked. Before—”

“I don’t need a retelling of your life story.”

“Are you going to let me tell you or not, Pen?”

“Fine.”

“Before my dad died, he showed me an old black and white recording of Uncle James boxing. He wasn’t a hard hitter, and he had a bit of a glass jaw, but fuck me he could dance in the ring. He was so springy, always moving, like a rabbit on amphetamines. I was just mesmerized by it. He could dodge and evade like no other. I wasn’t a big kid growing up. It wasn’t until I was about sixteen that I hit a second growth spurt, so his style was attractive to me. I mean, half the time he wore his opponents out, and when their guard was down, that’s how he scored his points.”

She frowns. “There are points in boxing?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. It’s a technical sport. You get rewarded for good technique, and you can win off points, even if you’re outclassed physically.”

“But in your illegal cage fighting, no points?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“Why didn’t you go into boxing?”

“Uncle James trained me, starting from when I was ten. Mom kind of checked-out after Dad died.”

Penny’s beautiful features turn cautious, awkward. “How, um did—”

“Car accident. He was hit by someone.”

The atmosphere grows somber quickly. It’s like grey clouds have collected above us.

“Sorry, Pierce.”

I smile at her. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, so Uncle James took care of me, raised me, and eventually sent me to boarding school out here.”

“Why Australia?”

“He was moving here because he got offered a training gig. Anyway, I was good at boxing, but I wanted to try more styles. He was a traditionalist, didn’t believe in all the new fighting approaches, especially with the emergence of MMA. We had a bit of a falling out. He died of a heart attack when we weren’t talking. It was my own damn fault, anyway. I pushed him away.”

“Color me unsurprised.”

“So I stopped boxing.”

“But you could have gone pro?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not as good at boxing as I am in the cage. There are a lot of rules, a lot of technicalities. It feels stiff to me. But I mean, it’s not stiff at all. Watch Ali, and there you see a fluidity that’s just amazing. Even Tyson was a really fluid athlete, and he had all that power.”

“You like fighting,” she says, thanking the waitress politely as she sets down our drinks.

“I do. Now it’s your turn. Why a tattoo artist?”

She relents. “Fine. My story is nothing so dramatic. I just saw a tattoo one day – one of my high school classmates got one – and I started researching it. I was always good at drawing, but I liked the idea of drawing on skin. It all just sort of continued to grow out of there.

“Before I realized it, I was obsessed, reading magazines, talking to owners of tattoo shops around the city, making new friends in the industry. I found Tina’s work online, and loved her style. She makes such great use out of lines. Like, she’s got this style that’s hard and soft at the same time, you know? It reminds me of a strong woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hard and soft,” she says. “We can be all sharp lines, or we can be smooth curves. You know, flexibility. Unburdened by ego? We can fulfill multiple roles where men typically are singular. Anyway, I’ve never seen someone draw so well on skin before. I mean, her proportions are just perfect.”

“Technically perfect? Like, if you measured them they would add up mathematically?”

“See, that’s just the kind of thing I was talking about with regard to men and women. It’s not about technical perfection all the time. Anyway, I followed everything about her, started planning how to meet her.”

“And it all just fell into place?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she laughs softly. “I’m a little amazed, to be honest.”

“Your dad just let you go?”

“No, I had to push him a bit, but eventually he did.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Even though it’s been so little time. We’ve been like a team, you know? After mom left, it was just me and him. I looked after him. He never cooks well on his own. He eats unhealthily.”

“You’d think a fifty year-old man would know how to manage his diet.”

“He’s busy,” she says. “He works really hard.”

“So does everybody,” I say. “Not eating well is a conscious choice.”

“Not everybody lives in the gym like I assume you do. Not everybody wants to be an athlete.”

“I’m not talking about being physically fit. I’m talking about eating right. With all the information out there about healthy eating, anybody who doesn’t is making the choice not to. Frankly, if it’s not idiotic, it’s lazy.”

“Don’t talk about my dad like that. And don’t be so judgmental. Like you never had a fucking pizza.”

I look at her, and she at me. We both turn to our neighboring table, and see a family tucking into a big pizza. Our spinach and mushroom one is on the way. We are, after all, in a pizza restaurant.

“You know what I mean,” she says.

“I’m just calling it like it is.”

“You don’t know his situation. He works sixteen-hour days sometimes. He worked hard for me.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s an architect.”

“An architect?” I echo. “Fuck, that’s a job for people with passion and pride.”

“So?”

“So he didn’t just work for you.”

Penelope tenses up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, he does it for himself, too. Don’t tell me that if you had a child, you’d say you tattooed people for her! You do it for yourself. It’s your own reward as well.”

“You know, Pierce, you have this talent for pissing people off. Everything you say is just so typical.”

“What, you think I’m wrong?”

“I think you don’t know half as much as you think you do about my dad’s life.”

“People are the same. Seems to me like you’re just being sensitive.”

“I’m not being sensitive. You’re being a jerk.”

“Well, trust me, he doesn’t need you looking after him. He’ll have to change his diet on his own, especially when he starts feeling it. At his age? That’ll catch up to him fast.”

“He does need me,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

“Why are you guilting yourself for coming out here?” I ask. “Why are you under the delusion that you somehow left him worse-off for going after your own career? You’d think a parent would be proud.”

“Is your mother proud of you?”

I pause. That was a good counter. “I wouldn’t know,” I say. “We don’t talk much.”

“Well isn’t that the surprise of the fucking century.” She’s huffing now. “For someone with apparently so much life wisdom to dole out, you sure set a poor example, don’t you?”

“Don’t get upset, Pen. We’re just talking.”

“Upset? Well, obviously you have a talent for reading people,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You should become a therapist, put those amazing skills to good use.”

“Admit it,” I say. “You enjoy being miserable. You like to guilt yourself.”

“You know what, Pierce? I’m done. You want to know why I think that about Dad? Because I have to make sure that I coming out here was worth it. I have to hold my feet to the flame. Because if I don’t accomplish what I set out to, then it will all be for nothing. How would he feel about that?”

“You use it for motivation?” I ask, impressed. It’s something athletes do all the time. Find something – guilt, an imaginary slight, an imaginary debt – and use it to push harder and faster, to be stronger.

“I don’t use it for myself,” she says. “I’m done. I don’t know why I agreed to come here in the first place.”

She gets up, and I watch her as she leaves.

I don’t know why, but I don’t try and stop her. I don’t even know why I kept pushing. I sigh, and rub my forehead, looking out at her through the window.

Penelope is making me lose my grip.

She goes to the tram stop outside and waits, wrapping her arms around herself in the cool night time wind.

Chapter Fifteen

“Hey, beautiful.”

Tight in front of me are two guys, maybe in their late thirties. They look drunk. They’re ruddy-faced, and have that glaze over them. They’re walking all wobbly.

I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. Alarms are wailing in my head. They’re practically bomb sirens.

I don’t reply, slip my hand into my bag and fold my fingers around my phone.

“You looking for some company? You look sad,” the one on the left says. He’s wearing a red baseball cap on backwards, and he’s grinning, baring yellowed teeth at me.

“I’m just waiting for the tram,” I say. I don’t want to tell them to leave me alone or to go away, because I suspect they’d react badly to that.

“It’s been a really long day,” I continue. “I work with old people, and one of them threw up all over me today.”

They just look at each other and smile. Damn it. They’re not taking the bait.

“There’s no nursing homes around here. You lost, honey?”

“No. I came here to grab a bite to eat.”

“You mean, while in your clothes that someone puked on?”

“No,” I say, my voice dropping. “I mean, I changed.”

“Well since you’ve had such a bad day,” the man with the baseball cap says, “Why don’t you let me and my mate here buy you a drink. You know, take the edge off.”

“No thank you,” I say, taking a step back. I can feel adrenaline pumping through my body, and I’ve got to admit to myself that I’m scared. I flash a look quickly back at the restaurant, but it’s too dark and I can’t see if anybody is coming my way or not.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go ’ave a drink, shall we?” the second man says. “Don’t worry, we’ll be heaps of fun.” He licks his chapped lips.

“I said no,” I say. “No means no.”

“Well, unless no means yes. And you know how it is with women,” he says, sneering at his friend.

“Isn’t that right, mate?” his friend says. “They’re always sending us confusing signals.”

I’m holding my breath. I don’t know what to do. I think about running back to the restaurant, back to… back to him.

And I really don’t want to do that!

“Hey, fuckhead!” The voice is an angry growl, and I turn around to see Pierce walking up to us. He’s got anger in his strides, and his fists are balled. His whole body is like this charging tank, hard, with a promise of hurt.

“No, wait,” I say, trying to grab him, but he just walks past me. “Wait, Pierce. They’re drunk!”

“I don’t fucking care.”

The two drunk men stand stupidly, stare at the behemoth of a man bearing down on them. Pierce grabs the man with the baseball cap and throws him down onto the tram stop bench. One of the armrests bends his back unnaturally, and I wince.

The other tries to run, but Pierce grabs him by the collar and yanks him down, kicking out his feet at the same time in what I’m sure is a move you only learn when you train to fight.

I hear the drunk slam against the ground. His bones must be rattling in his body.

Pierce kneels down, points the guy’s face at him, and then punches him right in the cheek. His body goes limp.

“Your turn,” he says, standing up and going to the man with the red hat groaning on the bench and clasping onto the small of his back.

“No, wait!” the man gasps.

Pierce hauls him up to his feet, and pins him against the scuffed-up plastic of the tram stop shelter.

“What are you?” Pierce asks.

The man just shakes his head. “What?”

“What are you?” Pierce barks. His voice is savage, full of promised malice. When the man doesn’t answer, he sighs. “Repeat after me: I am a lowlife shit stain with a small cock.”

The man just shakes his head.

“Repeat it you cunt, or God help me I will bash your fucking head in.”

“Okay, okay!” the man says. “I’m… uh… a lowlife, shitstain… with a small cock.” He says the last words quietly.

Pierce pushes down on his shoulders and the man falls into a squat. “Stay,” he growls. “Until morning.”

“Pierce,” I say, exhaling. “Come on. You’re being a dick.”

“Say it again!” Pierce shouts, slapping the man on the top of the head.

He repeats it, this time quieter. He’s speaking at the floor, head buried between his knees. He looks pathetic.

I just shake my head. “You don’t have to stay here until morning, just wait until we’re gone.”

Pierce shoots me an angry glare, and then he walks over to me and grips my arm.

“Hey!” I cry, shaking free. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

He’s panting, but I slowly see his body relax. Then his hand comes up slowly, and he touches my face.

“Would you have come back to the restaurant? If these two assholes were chasing you?”

“You shouldn’t have let me go!”

I hear the man with the red baseball cap get up, and start running. Pierce’s eyes don’t even go to him.

He takes my hand, and he presses it to his mouth, and he kisses it. I can feel his hot breath against my palm, feel how quick it is.

That’s when I notice something. His eye shave gone shiny, and the expression on his face isn’t the anger I thought it was.

It’s worry… possessiveness… protectiveness.

“I would have been fine,” I say. “They were just a couple of drunk creeps. I can handle that.”

“Would you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Have come back to the restaurant?”

“Of course I would!” I say. “I’m not stupid.”

His mouth flickers into a smile ever so briefly.

“I would have gone back to the restaurant not because you were there, but because other people were there. It’s a public place. They would have called the cops.”

We look at each other for a moment, and I know he hasn’t bought my lie. I would have run straight back to him, because I knew that he, more than anyone else, would protect me.

I try to pull my hand from his, but he grips it tighter. “I’m not letting you go. Let’s finish dinner.”

“I don’t want to,” I tell him. “I stormed out, we made a scene. I don’t want to go back in there.”

“Fine, I’ll settle-up, get the pizza take-away. We can eat it at my apartment. What do you think?”

“Your apartment? What was that, some kind of move?”

“No.”

“What if I just want to go home?”

“Do you?”

I look into his hard, grey eyes.