Текст книги "Every Second With You"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

Harley

When morning comes, he’s wide awake and showered, parked on the end of my bed, drawing.

I yawn. “What are you working on?”

“Cherry blossom tree. It’s gonna be hard as hell, but totally badass. By the way, do you like sandwiches?”

“I love sandwiches, and you know that.”

“Then get your fine ass in the shower, because I’m taking you to Ben’s Arcade and Sandwich Emporium.”

My eyes light up. “I’ve heard it’s amazing and that the Brutus is delish.”

“Made with Caesar dressing. Now go, because I have an appointment to see a tattoo artist down the block who’s going to give me some tips on this design so let’s get lunch first.”

An hour later, I’m dressed, blow-dried, and walking into the combo sandwich shop and retro arcade. The sound of PacMen or PacWomen gobbling ghosts bounces past my ears, then fake guns shooting down spaceships, a kaleidoscope of noise, of theme songs and sound effects, and quarters sloshing into machines landing on top of more silver coins. It’s Saturday afternoon and the place is packed. There’s a counter for popcorn, fries, burgers and Cokes with two gangly college-aged students running it, slapping up basket after basket of fries on the counter for gamers. The crowd is a hipster one. It’s as if everyone got the memo to wear faded black pencil jeans, high-tops and band tees.

I never used to feel like I fit in. Back in high school, and even in my first year of college, I felt like a liar, even when I walked through the hallways. I might have been a student like the rest of them, but I was a call girl at night, with a clandestine life, a secret wardrobe, and another name. Here, today, I fit in perfectly, and I love it. I no longer feel like a girl leading a double life.

I am one girl; I am whole.

I survey the menu above the counter and it has all my favorite kinds of sandwiches on it. “Have I ever told you that sandwiches are my favorite food in the whole world?”

“Only twenty times. That’s why I brought you here.”

I laugh, and then it’s our turn so I order the Brutus.

We make our way to a table in the back, but Trey points to the Frogger machine. “Want to go for a round? I’ve been watching this video-game show Let the Wookie Win, so I’ve got all my Frogger skills down.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Frogger tips on a web show?”

“Yeah. Watch,” he says, sliding in a quarter, then proceeding to dart and dodge around every truck, car and cab on the street in the game.

“I had no idea you had this hidden talent,” I tease, and then he loops his arm around my neck, kisses my forehead, and for a moment I feel like we’re just a regular guy and a girl having lunch on a Saturday, our only cares whether we’ve studied for our test on time. And yet, it doesn’t entirely feel like an illusion, because we both know the score, we’re not fooling ourselves. We’re allowed to do normal things, aren’t we? Just because we’re going to be parents in seven months doesn’t mean we can’t play an arcade game, right?

I answer the question for myself.

Right.

We finish the game, and he beats me handily. When our food order is called, he grabs our sandwiches and we sit down and eat.

“So, what do we do now?” he asks when he’s done with his sandwich.

“Well, generally speaking, we bus the tables, and toss out the napkins,” I say, teasing him.

“Ha ha. Funny girl. What are we going to do about the baby? Are you going to finish school? Work full-time? Drop out? Get a shack in Jersey?”

I’m surprised by the simple directness of the questions. How he asked without a preamble or awkwardness. Most of all, he asked without freaking out. My guy is making progress. Majorly.

I snort. “Hopefully not the shack in Jersey.”

He shifts over to my side of the booth, taking my hand in his, grasping it for emphasis. “I want you to finish school, Harley. You can’t drop out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“We have to be smart then, about everything, and I have an idea.”

There’s a nervous look in those green eyes.

Chapter Fifteen

Trey

Funny, how we try to plan for things, and anticipate perfect moments, but then life comes and punches our plans in the mouth, leaving us with big fat lips. But then moments circle back around, and they become more perfect than we could have planned. And this is so much better than a Bed Bath and Beyond card, or the T-shirt I wanted to buy her.

Because this is real, and it’s what we have to do, and it’s the next step. “Harley, will you move in with me?”

She furrows her brow, leans away from me. “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Well?”

“I live with Kristen,” she says, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

It irks me slightly, but I push forward. I’m not backing down. “Harley, we’re having a kid. And you act like moving in together is weird?”

“We have a lease and stuff.”

“I know. But it ends eventually, right?”

She nods. “December, I think.”

“Move in with me then. You need to finish school, and there’s no reason for us to have two places. I know you’re not hurting for money in the short term, and I’m not either, but at some point we have to be smart, right?”

“Are you asking me to move in to save money?”

I shake my head and laugh. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, but her cheeks start to flush, and she knows she asked a silly question.

“I’m asking you to move in with me because I’m ridiculously in love with you. And for the record, I was going to ask you before you told me you were pregnant. This is something I want for us.”

“Really? You were going to ask before?” Her lips start to curve up.

“Yes.” I trace her top lip, mapping the beginning of her smile with my fingertip. “So is that a yes?” This time I’m not going to freak out. I’m not going to shut down. I’m going to face up to the future like a man, and I’m going to be the man she needs.

She nods happily. “Yes. You are always a yes. End of the year let’s move in together.”

Then she kisses me, sealing our deal, and doing that thing she does to me with the slightest touch.

Turn me on.

She turns me on, always. Constantly. I groan as she nips my lips lightly, and then kisses me in a thoroughly sweet but intensely seductive way. She breaks the kiss to whisper in my ear. “You taste like a yummy sandwich.”

I laugh. “So do you.”

“I want more.”

“More sandwich or more me?”

“Both in general. But right now, more you,” she says in a low voice as she presses her lips against my jaw, and runs a hand down my arm, making me harder.

“Now, you’re not playing fair. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and you’re killing me, but I have to take a rain check.”

* * *

Ilyas strokes his beard absently as he shows me the needle he uses for thin branches. “See? It’s like a sewing needle,” he says. Ilyas is built like a football player, inked like a biker, and he speaks with an accent that’s some kind of combination of Greek and Russian. We’re in the back of his shop, and the front is filled with customers. He employs several artists and they are hard at work on this busy day.

“Like this?”

I press the needle against my forearm, demonstrating.

“Yes. Exactly,” he says, nodding.

“And that’s how I do the leaves?”

“That is precisely how you do the leaves, but first you have to see the leaves,” he says, closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and widening his hands in front of his face. “Like a vision. You see them, you draw them, and then you ink them.” Yeah, so he’s also a combination of arty and precise, too. “It is best when they are delicate. Have you seen ugly tattoos of trees? Fat, non-descript branches? Splotchy leaves? Hideous blossoms?” He spits on the black tiled floor, disgusted even by the mention.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen some like that. I don’t want to do ones like that.”

“No. You don’t. You want to make transcendent ones. You want a tattoo that is like a painting. That moves someone, like a museum piece can do. Do you know how to do that?”

I flash back over the ink I’ve designed, the ways clients have responded, the remade heart on Harley’s shoulder. I grab my phone and show Ilyas a picture of her heart and arrow tattoo.

“That is very good. Hector said you had great talent. And if you want to make this cherry blossom, you need vision, a needle and a steady hand. And practice. I want you to draw and draw and draw, every day and night, until the cherry blossom feels like a part of you. Like a part of your heart.”

I nod.

“Come now. You watch me. I am starting a lily design in ten minutes using this technique.”

Then I spend the rest of the hour studying Ilyas’ technique, memorizing the move of the needle, the focus in his eyes, the way he shades in the lines.

When he’s done, he shows his client the design, and she gasps in awe.

That reaction never gets old. It’s one of the reasons why I do what I do For the priceless moment when a client first sees his or her ink.

“It’s gorgeous,” she says, and throws her arms around Ilyas.

After she’s done, he walks me out. “Now, you go. And you practice. You will show me the tree you make this week, and if it’s as good as Hector says, then I will introduce you to some artists you can learn even more from.”

“That would be amazing.”

I thank him many times over. Things are falling into place. This feels like potential, like possibility, like a future that makes sense. The more I hone my craft, the more I can grow and improve in my job.

As I leave, it hits me that my job is not just for me anymore.

Chapter Sixteen

Trey

I must be made of iron.

Harley’s been sitting topless on my futon for the last hour. The window is open, and a warm breeze filters in, mingling with The Postal Service playing faintly on my phone. The heat wave has broken, but it’s still September, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her neck. It takes all my resistance not to lick her right now.

But then, resistance is something I’ve learned to manage better. We both went to an SLAA meeting this evening—she to the girls,’ me to the guys,’ and then we came back here so I could practice.

She’s behaved too, sitting cross-legged, wearing only a pair of white cotton underwear, as she reads a book for her literature class and I draw on her chest. Her blond hair is twisted with a pencil on top of her head, and a few loose strands have fallen. One sticks to her neck, the heat making it curl. She is the perfect canvas, and I’m nearly done. She twitches once as I finish shading in the last pink blossom right under her collarbone using a tattoo stencil pen.

“Stay still,” I tell her in a soft voice.

“I am,” she says, never taking her eyes off the pages.

A few minutes later, I’m finished.

I release a breath I barely realized I was holding, and then relax my shoulders. I stand up and look at the drawing on her body. It starts above her right breast and curves over to her bare, unmarked shoulder.

“Come look,” I say and bring her to the bathroom.

She appraises herself in the mirror, nodding several times as she admires the pink blossoms, the red leaves, and the brown branches. “This is amazing. You are seriously talented, Trey. You might almost tempt me to have you do one on me too.”

“Thank you for letting me practice on you. You know what the cherry blossom tree means?”

She shakes her head.

“In Japan, it’s a symbol for the preciousness of life. With tattoos, it represents femininity and beauty, so it’s perfect for you,” I tell her, watching her eyes shine in the reflection. She is so beautiful. I press my lips to her neck, kissing her, and then licking off her sweat. I watch her reaction in the mirror. Her eyes flutter closed, and she draws in a quick breath. “Especially now,” I whisper. “It’s even more perfect for you now.”

Her lips part, and she moans lightly.

“And this reminds me that I have unfinished business with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Something I was remiss in doing last night.”

She opens her eyes, meets my gaze in the mirror. “What would that be?”

I spin her around. “I wanted to be inside you so much last night that I couldn’t wait. But now I can do my favorite thing. I love going down on you,” I tell her and she inhales sharply, licks her lips and nods a yes.

I run my fingers along her hipbone, that spot that drives her wild, before I fall to my knees, and pull down her underwear, helping her step out of them.

I look up at her, and she’s ready, her eyes are hazy, and she reaches for my hair, threading her fingers through me, pulling me close. I lick her softly at first, because that’s how she likes it. She needs the tease, the kiss, my lips against her and kissing her wetness like I do her mouth, before I plunge my tongue inside her. She cries out, clasps a hand over her mouth, and yanks hard on my hair.

I know this won’t take long, and I love when she loses control like this, because I’m the only one she’s ever been like this for. Ever, ever, ever. I make quick work of her, cupping her sexy ass, burying my tongue inside her. She rocks her hips against my mouth, fast, and then faster, until she’s fucking my face just the way I like it. This is my favorite place to be, and I couldn’t be happier to hear her pant and moan as I kiss her senseless until she comes, hard. She tastes so fucking good on my lips.

After her legs stop shaking, I stand up and run my finger across her jawline. She shivers against my touch, her eyes all wild and drugged.

“I love everything about the way you taste,” I tell her.

“You do?”

I nod. “Everything. Do you have any idea how many times I thought about doing that to you during those six months when we were just friends?”

She shakes her head. “No. How many times?”

“Every single night. I can’t get enough of it.”

“I think it’s your turn now though,” she says.

I don’t argue with that as she strips me, takes me in her mouth, and I lose my mind with pleasure.

Later, we’re naked on my futon, and Harley lays her hand on my thigh. “So listen, remember those cards I told you I found?”

“Yeah.”

“I went back to my mom’s and I did what you said.”

Oh shit. I flash back to the day she went there, when she tried to talk about it and I was far too focused on fucking her to listen. But I want to listen now. I want to know.

“What did you find?”

“More cards,” she says, and then she jumps up and grabs her purse.

She digs into her purse, and shows me several cards. I study each one, tracing the words as if I can decode them. Stories of the sand, the beach, and a girl. Like this one: She could build them as high as the sky, with sand turrets and towers that reached for the clouds. Only, there were no clouds where she was, underneath the bluest of blue, so different from the places she was used to . . .

“It’s kind of a cool story,” I say.

“Yeah, I love it. And that’s all the more reason why I want to find them,” she says, and tells me how she and Kristen hunted for a name, an address, any sort of information. “I really want to know where they are. How to reach them. I want to talk to them, Trey. So what do I do?”

I push my hand through my hair, running through scenarios in my head. Sites to try, names to research, documents to look into, but the reality is we’re here in New York, and her grandparents are probably somewhere in California, and she doesn’t even know their last name. She can’t waltz into the hall of records for the county and dig around till she finds the info. I wish I knew a detective, or an investigator to track them down, but then it hits me.

There’s one person who just knows stuff. Who can find things out.

And I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this because two months ago he was my worst enemy, but he might be the one who can help her. And it takes every ounce of guts and restraint to get the words to travel from my brain to my throat to my mouth to my lips, but I want this for Harley, and I want to show her I can move on.

“What if you asked Cam to help find them? He could probably figure out their names somehow, right?”

She blinks several times as if she doesn’t recognize me, as if I’m some strange robot inside her boyfriend’s body.

“Are you serious?” Her mouth hangs open, the shock still lingering.

“Give it a shot,” I say, even though there’s a part of my brain that’s smacking me for suggesting this at all. But I ignore that part because I know this is what she needs. “I want you to find them and he’s one of those people, right? He’s the kind of person, for better or worse, who knows how to figure things out. Just don’t wear your socks and Mary Janes when you go see him, okay?”

She shakes her head, and laughs. “I burned those motherfuckers.”

Chapter Seventeen

Harley

The receptionist doesn’t remember me. But I recognize her instantly from the last time I walked through these doors three months ago. Her stick-straight blond hair is blow-dried in the same perfect bob, exactly as she looked when I told Cam I’d work for him again.

She has no idea what goes down behind his closed door. She probably has no clue about his secrets.

But maybe she has her own secrets too. Maybe she has darkness inside her that she hides behind her perfect hair, and her pink, lip-glossed, closed-mouth smile. Maybe she’s struggling to fit in this world.

I smile broadly. It’s all I have to give a stranger, but sometimes it’s all someone needs for their day to be better.

“Hi. I have an appointment to see Cam Jackson. I’m Harley Coleman. And you have gorgeous hair.”

She touches the ends of her hair briefly, and her smile reaches her eyes for the first time. “Thank you,” she says crisply. Then she calls Cam’s office to let him know I’m here. She says he’ll be with me shortly.

I nod and take a seat. I’ve never taken a seat here before. I’ve never waited before. But I have to be okay with that because I’m no longer the star in Cam’s stable. I’m not in his stable at all, and I need to be grateful for whatever help I can snag from that fixer of a man. I open the book I have an essay test on later this week and re-read some of the passages full of symbolism, since the professor said he’d focus on that in the exam.

Ten minutes later, the receptionist tells me I can go to Cam’s office.

I stand, and smooth out unseen wrinkles on my green T-shirt with a cartoonish owl on it. My hair is cinched in a ponytail, and I have on jeans and combat boots—the reminder of who I am is as much for Cam as it is for me. My purse is on my arm, the gift for him inside.

I tread the familiar route across the plush navy blue carpet in the hallway, reminding myself I am on the other side, I am here as Harley, only Harley. Layla is history; the girl I once was for him and his men is gone, and the jitters under my skin should be ignored. When I reach his suite, the door is ajar, and I hear Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ playing on his computer.

I knock tentatively, and then press a hand against my belly as I wait. There’s a whole damn flock of nerves setting up a base camp in my stomach.

“Door’s always open,” Cam’s loud voice calls out to me.

When I push open the door, he’s leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, clad in European leather shoes. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he’s sporting a crisp shirt the color of eggplant. His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.

I wave. “Hi.”

“You like this song?” he asks, tipping his forehead to the computer.

“Um. Yeah? Who doesn’t?”

“It’s my anthem today. It represents all the hope in the world that I feel building in my chest right now,” he says, tapping his sternum.

Uh-oh. He thinks I’m coming back, even though I specifically told him this wasn’t about working again.

“Cam,” I say softly, shaking my head.

He waves gregariously, then stands up and walks over to me, wrapping me in a massive hug. “I know, baby doll. I know. But you can’t fault a man for dreaming. Especially not this man. And especially not after the shitstorm I fucking endured the night you left,” he says, rubbing his hand across my back.

I inch out of his embrace, and cock my head to the side. “What do you mean? What happened?”

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “What? You think Mr. Stewart was just fine and dandy with you waltzing off into the sunset with a tummy ache-cough-cough-new man?” Cam shakes his head several times in an exaggerated fashion, his movements punctuated by the upbeat chorus to the Journey song.

“Did he do something?”

Cam nods. “You bet he did something. He gave me a black eye six ways to Chattanooga. Right in the men’s room at the Parker Meridien. Man, he’s one cold bastard. All mild-mannered on the outside, but steely-eyed when you fuck with him. Don’t mess with businessmen from California, evidently. That’s my new mantra.”

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” I say, and reflexively I step forward and trace my finger beneath his eye, even though the marks are gone.

He hisses in a breath, but after a few seconds of contact he swats my hand away. “It’s nothing. My mama came over and took care of me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Your mom? You told me your mom passed away years ago. Your dad, too,” I say, because Cam’s all alone. He’s an only child with a mom who drank till her liver shut down, and a dad who died of cancer. He’s a man against the world.

“I’m just busting your chops, baby doll. I took care of myself. I always take care of myself. Got a steak, slapped it against my eye, poured myself some scotch, watched a little Notting Hill and I was fine by the morning,” he says, all cool and smooth, like he’s always been.

“Notting Hill?”

“It’s only my favorite movie. C’mon. Is there anything better than when Julia Roberts says—” Cam adopts a female voice, placing his big hand on his heart, “‘I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her?’”

I shake my head. “Nothing better. That’s a great line. And Cam? I’m so sorry he hurt you.”

He flubs his lips casually, making a pshaw noise. “Your old man is one hundred percent fine. Nothing can hurt me. You see this?” He tugs at his shirt. “It’s called armor, baby doll. Armor. I got it in spades. I grow it from the inside out, and nothing can hurt me.”

I give him a smile, but I’m wondering why he is the way he is, so glib and devil-may-care on the outside. What’s he truly like beneath? What drives him? Why does he help put bad guys behind bars by leaking tawdry secrets to the press, yet run a call girl ring? And is he even still running it?

“Are you still doing your thing?” I’m not sure what to call that thing anymore.

He makes a dismissive gesture, a sign that he won’t go there with me. “I’ve got my fingers in a lot of business pies, little Miss Harley, don’t you worry one teeny bitty bit. Now, what can I do for you? Sit.” He motions to his couch. I park myself there, and he joins me, but he keeps a distance of a few feet. It’s odd, this new Cam. A part of me misses the strange closeness we had. But then he’s taking cues from me, and this me has to keep on moving into new habits, new patterns, as Joanne would say.

“I got a little something for you.” I reach into my purse and hand him a gift. It’s wrapped in sapphire blue tissue paper that reminds me of his eyes.

“Did somebody say Christmas came early this year?” He shakes the gift by his ear and pretends to listen to it, as if he can tell what it is that way.

“Just open it,” I say as I roll my eyes.

In one swift move, he unknots the silver bow and rips open the paper to find a signed copy of Sophie Kinsella’s newest release.

“Be still my ever beating heart. How did you know how much I wanted this book?”

I shrug. “Took a wild guess it was your taste.”

“I know what I’m doing tonight. Calling off all my business meetings and having a long hot soak.”

I have a feeling he might be telling the truth.

“Now that you’ve buttered me up, what can I do for you?”

I show him the cards and tell him everything. Every single detail. “I really want to find my grandparents. Can you find them for me?”

He takes the cards, looks carefully at each one, rises and heads to his computer. He taps on his keyboard. “You never listen to NPR, do you?”

I shake my head. “Not really a radio person.”

“Well, I am a radio junkie. And NPR did a story on one of the last vintage letter press companies in America a few months ago. I’d be willing to bet the house that these are from Violet Delia Press in La Jolla, California.”

“Really? You figured it out that quickly?”

“Yes. Bet it all on black.”

Then my shoulders fall. “But even if we know where they’re from, how will I get their names?”

He laughs, a knowing laugh. “That is the kind of shit I make a living off of. I’ll have it for you in a few days.”