Tattoo Kiss x, page 12
Big-Al-Kitchen-Guy guffaws and there’s a general tittering in the crowd as we banter back and forth across the establishment and over the crowd.
Only one of us is musically inclined. I’m stuck just yelling insults.
Jack- 100
Letti-0
Clever man.
He planned this.
Touché.
Joe’s smile at my discomfort turns to a frown as he witnesses our visual game of ping-pong over the crowd’s heads. I dig my brown eyes firmly into Jack’s, shooting him a clear message.
Fucking stop. Oh my God.
He breathes in deeply in a half-beat and smiles, with only one end of his mouth curling up into a grin.
No fucking chance, Eddie.
This is his turf. I’m clearly the away-team and he’s going to use that to his advantage.
Jerk.
Jack raises his eyebrows at me as he goes back into the chorus before the guitar solo.
If I wasn’t so appalled, I would laugh at the scene in front of me.
There’s Joe at the piano, like Grumpy from that scene from Snow White, where they’re all playing and dancing around. Mouth set firmly in distaste as Jack goes off on stage performing for the audience like a bounding Golden Retriever puppy out of its yard for the first time without a leash.
His joy—gleeful.
His smile—flashing us all blind.
His hips—swaying in a way where, yeah…
He should not be unsupervised.
Do shock collars work on humans? What I wouldn’t give to stick a few volts of electricity right to his cocky neck right about now.
If I thought it wouldn’t get any worse, I was sorely mistaken.
I see a slight break in the crowd as some dude dressed like a mini tractor supply store walks in and a girl is quick to cross over to him and run-jump into a hug. Gross.
PDA is so not my thing. Not even when I had someone to do it with.
In this particular scenario, though, I am thrilled.
I see a break in the crowd and I fucking go for it. Pumps digging into the floorboards, I make a beeline to the little back door to the alley.
I get halfway through the room and my worst fear is happening.
Jack is coming off the stage.
Dammit.
Of course, he’s not plugged into an amp.
Fucking acoustic bullshit.
About halfway through the room, the audience parts just in time for him to hop down off the stage, guitar in hand and, get this, he keeps playing!
Okay, I see you. I hear you.
Level 1000 showoff mode engaged, eh, Jehoshaphat?
I didn’t think he’d have time with the guitar solo coming up, but the bastard is playing it as he is coming over to me.
True to the Bible, like his nickname, the audience parts like the Red Sea and make for either shore, leaving me stuck in the middle with him. I find my path blocked. A bunch of people are looking at me as I hear Jack come up behind me, still playing the solo.
Goddamn it, it sounds like he has two guitars because I am hearing dueling melodies here. Is that even possible?
Sure enough, the music is coming from one instrument being played expertly by a certain ridiculously tall Scotsman as he circles me like I’m the bad guy and he’s the hero in some foreign language film and I’m the little villain he’s ready to fight—or kiss—or kill. I don’t know which.
I’m both mortified and slightly flattered. I don’t think he shares the spotlight with just anyone. I am not a performer, but he is. He has everyone eating out of his fucking hand.
I have no choice but to turn back to him, cringing as he comes dangerously close to me. I back up into someone who miraculously takes the water glass I’m clutching out of my hand just in time for me to see Jack drop to one knee in front of me and, holding the guitar on his thigh he finishes out the solo with reckless abandon, his face creased briefly in concentration as his hands mesmerize me with their agility.
It’s truly a feat, made even more so by the fact his pants didn’t even rip, almost painted on as they are very tight dark denim. My face is a brilliant shade of crimson, I’m sure of it. I’m flustered as fuck and he’s all over me without touching me.
In front of everyone.
Jack spins on his knee and he’s standing again, not even missing a beat. As the crowd breaks into a standing applause, his nose is almost to mine. I can smell the Irish peach sour on his breath as much as I can smell my want to taste it off his lips. Jack twists the guitar around his body for the last few chords just so he can get his torso closer to me.
We’re inches apart now. I honestly don’t know how he’s still playing, but he is. I notice him trip up on the last chord, but he’s smiling at me like the actual sun shines out of my ass. I have no idea what my face is doing, but I can’t look away.
“Will ye ever forgive me for this one, Eddie?”
“Not a chance!” I yell over the cheers as he smiles broadly, finishing the song strong and proud.
Jack’s voice is vibrating in my chest, as is his guitar playing. He’s pulled it off and he knows it.
Cheeky bastard.
He strums out the last chord with a resounding ring, putting vibrato in it with his left hand and holding his right out to me, palm up.
Why is he holding his hand up to me like this?
What do I do?
Is it customary to tip?
Do I kiss the silver ring on his right pinkie finger like he’s the fucking pope?
Jack smiles as I slide my hand into his and he yanks me into a twirl. I almost fall over and am plastered to his chest. Then my back is suddenly to him and my side is against his guitar as his lips suddenly press into my cheek through my dark hair to the crowd’s roaring approval. A small current of electricity shocks me to my core with the brief kiss. I feel his scruff on my ear for just a second, but it’s enough to take my breath away and cause my mouth to pop open with no words coming out of it.
My exhale rushes through my tingling body as he holds me to him for a moment and I hear his voice hot in my ear, full of interest and maybe even a little lust.
My skin prickles up into goose bumps and a small shiver runs down my neck.
“Still wanna give me back that pick, Eddie?”
Pick? What pick? Oh, that pick?
Yeah, I forgot all about it.
The hand gesture makes more sense now.
I don’t think he was expecting me to slip my hand into his like I did, but he was more than happy to have me here. And keep me here. We’re still holding hands.
My pulse is on his wrist, and I can feel his heartbeat racing through my veins as surely as if his heart is beating my blood through my ears in a deafening roar.
I can’t even look at his face right now. Not with my cheeks on fire and my skin tensing up under his steady touch. I know if I were to turn just enough to see him straight in front of me, my whole body would launch at him, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
I want to kiss him.
There, I said it.
I want to make out with Jackson Mackay.
I’ve already seen what his mouth can do on another, and pure spite and jealousy runs through my veins knowing I was only the witness.
I want to be on the receiving end of that.
I wouldn’t kiss him fast.
I’d kiss him long, and I’d kiss him slow.
I’d kiss him until I was weak against him, and he was melting into me until we didn’t know where one of us ended and the other began in one tangled, glorious mess of pure emotional heroine.
I want to use.
I want him to use me, and I want to use him.
To hell with the consequences.
Yeah. I’m fucked.
Jack’s freckled nose is ridiculously close to my face as I extricate myself from his arm and smile weakly to the cheering crowd trying my best to find my way out. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
I know it.
I know I’m a loser and I fucking flip-flop.
Mental stability isn’t predictable.
My indecision was always a giant pet peeve of Kyle’s.
We would make plans and I would be okay with it for weeks until the day-of when my mental health would go to shit and I would question and doubt my ability to follow through on it.
“Make up your mind, Letti. We’ve been over this. You were literally fine with it until today. What’s wrong with you?”
I always hated the way he treated me like a mental patient.
“Letti’s not here now,” he would say, whenever I would disengage from the real world because of my anxiety.
He would shut me down and avoid any and all discussions with me if he deemed me mentally absent or disengaged from his cruelty.
I was governed by his rules.
I was a spectator in my own life, and he called all the shots.
It crippled me.
That’s why most people cry when their husbands die, and I didn’t.
I try to think of Alicia, what she would say to me right now.
“It hasn’t been that long ago, Letti. Have you ever taken the time to mourn the loss of what you thought you had? The good times. When it got bad. A loss is a loss, and you’ll need to feel it. Feel every part of it, to let it go.”
I’m not ready to let go. To let go is to forgive myself and to forgive myself is to forget.
So now, in the pub, my hands are shaking, and I rush to the ladies’ room to sit in the stall and try not to cry.
I end up blotting hopelessly at my tears as they fall over my lower lashes and saturate the terrible one-ply toilet paper in giant drops.
When I first moved out of my parents’ house at nineteen, I didn’t know this fact of life. Now only the thickest of two-ply toilet paper touches my skin. There are just some things in life you don’t scrimp on.
Garlic in a recipe, straight alcohol in your best friend’s party drink, and toilet paper.
The holy trinity of moving out for the first time.
Take notes, younglings.
“I’ve Just Seen a Face” is easily my favorite song from HELP! And that’s saying something. I don’t know how he knew that or if it was a lucky guess.
Do you believe in fate?
I try not to.
I have a feeling Jack does.
He seems like the kind of man who believes in things.
The kind who doesn’t just say he does to impress you.
He’s all action. I’m all inaction.
The bathroom is dark and feels comforting and I revel in the silence before a few of the bachelorette gang burst in and start primping at the sink.
I open the stall and walk out, trying to busy myself by scrubbing my hands almost clinically at the far-left sink.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Bad things don’t happen if I count to seven.
Your brain literally can’t focus on anxiety if you’re trying to list things out of sequence and not repeat anything.
Seven, one, three, two, four, six, five.
Okay.
Lavender soap, nice.
Big suds, even better.
The brunette next to me is watching with her eyes bulging at me, mouth ajar with glitter gloss smeared haplessly across her upper lip.
It’s purple.
“Some boyfriend ya got there,” she remarks in a bubbly tone.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Ah, oh…” She’s clearly taken aback. “Well, mind putting in a word for me?”
Purple-Glitter-Surprise erupts into a giggle, and I can’t stop my jaw from twitching tersely. “Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”
I grab a wad of paper towels and dry my hands hastily, leaving the swinging door open in her face.
Jack is nowhere in sight and Joe is halfway through his blues set. No one notices me slipping out the front door into the parking lot.
Coward.
That word keeps running through my head.
Why do I care?
For someone who tries so hard not to care, it’s like his word is cutting me to my core.
My heart physically hurts over his keen sense of judgment and damn, if I don’t feel like he’s snatched my soul through that cheek kiss as well.
It’s almost like he wants the best for me.
I’m not sure what to do with these feelings inside me, but can Jack be good for me?
How in the world can he be if I want to kiss him and slap him at the same time?
That can’t be a healthy reaction to anyone.
The night air is cold. Thankfully, it’s ten o’clock on a Friday night and most everyone is inside The Trinity. The lights from the stage inside flash brightly upon the stained glass peaked windowpanes. The name of the bar suddenly makes more sense as I realize for the first time it’s potentially a converted old chapel.
Ironic how I found my faith here and yet lost all my religion at once. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Jesus, it’s cold as balls.
I sink to the steps and clutch my suit sleeves slightly to my stomach as I hunch over for warmth.
I should go home, but the thought of driving right now makes me queasy. I’ll have to wait for the anxiety to pass if I want to function at all tonight. Jack’s stunt scared the little anxiety monster in my head and right now it’s running around screaming into random corners of my brain like a Muppet on Percocet.
“Eddie?”
I snap my head up and see a hulking shadow filling the doorframe. Jack pokes his head out and slips outside after me, sinking onto the step next to me and leaving a small gap between us.
I’m sandwiched between him and a scraggly rose bush next to the step beside me.
I straighten up and try to stonewall him with my face so he can’t tell I’ve just been on a trip down anxiety lane.
Getittogether.
“Are ye all right?”
“Fine,” I say quietly, turning my head away from him.
Why is a random tear walking my eyelash like a tightrope?
“I thought ye’d headed home,” Jack comments quietly.
“And if I had?”
“I’d say ye owed me a pick if ye did. But ye didn’t find me to give it to me, so unless ye hand it over right now, I’d say ye liked the song.”
Maybe even me.
I know what he’s really asking here.
“I was mortified.” I smile shakily.
Jack chuckles to himself in the low kind way he has. “Aww, I bet ye were. Yer face though, Eddie.” He taps my nose with a finger and laughs. “God, it was brilliant.”
“Do you always serenade girls?” I already know the answer, but I want him to say it.
“No. Ye think I’m really some kind of manwhore, don’t ye?”
“You did bold face admit to fucking casually, and I got the impression you were only after one thing, so…Yeah, I don’t know what to make of you, Jehoshaphat.”
“Eh, I was being a dick that day. Name’s deserved.”
“So was I.”
“First step in AA.” Jack nods.
“Alcoholic anonymous?”
“Arseholes Anonymous. We have to admit when we’ve been one.” Jack checks me with his shoulder and almost sends me flying into the rosebush. “I’m in the club, too.”
“Some club,” I reply dryly.
There’s a silence between us that no one seems inclined to fill, but the air is charged with the unspoken.
“Can I ask ye a question?”
I cock my head at him and look up into his face. With the light behind it, he looks almost angelic.
Almost.
If Michelangelo himself were looking for a model in the afterlife, I know who I’d recommend.
“No. But I’ve a feeling you’re going to ask, anyway.” I bemuse.
“I admit I half-thought ye’d be gone when I came out here, Eddie. But ye didn’t leave. Why?”
Because I’m feeling a panic attack starting and don’t want to be caught behind the wheel with one.
“Didn’t feel mentally stable enough to go.”
My own honesty shocks me. Jack is quiet.
“Ah,” he says.
Not the pity “ah” or the pity “ooh” like my neighbor gives me. But an understanding “ah” that means no explanation is needed.
“I’m glad ye stayed,” Jack says softly under his breath, kicking at a pebble on the concrete with his dark boot.
I watch it skitter along under a bush and lay there.
“Better than being alone,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“We can be alone together if ye’d like. I’ll stay quiet. Or,” Jack jumps up and offers me a hand, “ye can come for a walk with me.”
“A walk? Where?”
“I ken a place. Ye’ll need something warmer though, Eddie. I’ve got a hoodie back in my truck. Gimme a sec, love.”
I flush slightly over his use of the word “love” and I definitely see a side of him I haven’t before.
It’s soft.
I didn’t peg Shrek for being one to be soft, but after his grand gesture inside, I have a feeling this guy can surprise me.
After a few minutes, Jack emerges out of the dark with a large gray hoodie in his hands. He tosses it to me, and I put it on and stand up in front of him.
It fits over my slight frame like a couch cover, and I snort to myself as I get lost in the velvety inside.
“E.T. phone home.” I stick out my pointer finger in his face and he promptly pulls the strings on the hood closed so my face is squished in the opening.
“Hey!”
“There’s a reference the kids won’t get these days.” Jack smirks at me.
The hoodie smells like him and feels like new dandelion fluff, so I can’t complain.
God, I just did that.
I just put on his clothes like it didn’t fucking matter and smelled them.
“I know, right?” I snort, thinking of the movie. “When did we get so old?”
“Time makes fools of us all, Eddie. May I?”
“May you…?”
Jack is holding his hand out to me, palm facing upward.
“I’d very much like to hold yer hand if ye’d let me.”
I cautiously poke out my small fingers from the sleeve of his massive hoodie and look at them, small and pale in the yellow glow of the streetlight.
