Tattoo Kiss x, page 2
“Maintenance, ma’am. Okay if I come in?”
Okay, first, the audacity. I know I have zero makeup on and a few gray hairs at my temples, but to call me ma’am over miss still insults my vanity a little.
Second, come in, as in enter my house?
I say the first thing that comes into my head.
“Fuck no. I didn’t call maintenance.”
There’s an awkward silence between us and I glare at him, my mind going to the several things I could grab at a moment’s notice should he try to barge his way in here. Something tells me the old, burgundy, wood-handled umbrella wouldn’t even faze Shrek. Not even with a sound wallop on his boulder of a cranium.
Maintenance my ass.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”
There’s the miss. Okay, he picks up quickly. I’ll give him that. Also, the stoic Viking has an accent. I take a moment to place, but it’s vaguely Scottish.
“It was yer upstairs neighbor who made the call…Beverly? She had me come to check out a leak in her faucet and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t coming in through the ceiling here.”
Dammit, Bev.
“Jesus. Fine, but be quick about it. I’m on lunch and have to get back to work soon.”
Cold and wet, Shrek gives a huff and nods sharply.
Shit. I’m not wearing a bra.
I totally wasn’t planning on letting a stranger into my house today, much less a stranger of the male variety.
I make a quick attempt at crossing my arms to cover my nipples, now rock-hard in the cold. Just then, a black flash of lightning zooms out of the crack in the door that widens as the man turns to pick up his tool bag and I open the door further to let him in.
“Fuck, my cat!” I scream. “Hercule, come back!”
I forget the stranger and the fact that my door is wide open at this point as I panic and shriek after my cat-dog as he makes a run for it. I see it in slow motion; the little bastard re-enacts Chariots of Fire as he makes a run for it. Head back, hair streaming in the wind before it gets plastered down all around him with the chilly rain. It would be majestic if I weren’t so mad at him for doing this to me right now.
Little fucker is having the time of his life with no intention of coming back.
My first phrase in French class was “je déteste le froid” or “I hate the cold.”
Despise it with every fiber of my being.
I literally want to hibernate each winter until my seasonal depression goes away and is replaced with a fancy new spring depression. Or as my therapist would call it, Major Depressive Disorder. It’s best friends with my PTSD.
They go out together sometimes and wreck my life.
Super fun when that happens.
The only thing worse than the cold is cold rain.
Hercule is currently racing to my backyard, unaffected by the bone-chilling water droplets pelting down like meteors of ice.
Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed his name. It seems to have only fueled his desire to run away from me and leave me behind, like everyone else.
Fucking traitor.
I grab my green wellies by the door and run out after him in the freezing rain. My tits are bouncing, thoroughly unchaperoned, as I run after my cat-dog who darts around the back of the building and makes a beeline up the steep hill behind the garage.
My teeth immediately chatter. Freezing is an understatement. It’s Siberia out here.
My words are coming out chopped short by my shaking jaws as I take a deep breath and try to sound serene so I don’t scare him further away.
“Here boy, here, kitty kitty. Come to mama, honey.”
I take a second to realize the stoic Viking man is behind me and did me the favor of closing the green door to my home in case any other hell-beasts break loose.
I bet I’m giving him quite the show as the rain pelts my thin men’s sweater, making it stick to my skin uncomfortably tight.
Hercule’s large, yellow eyes widen and then go to pinpoints as he looks over his little shoulder and makes a giant leap up into the old willow tree at the edge of the backyard on the steep hill.
Dammit.
Stoic Viking whistles between his teeth like he’s calling a cab or something.
“He’s a cat, not fucking Lassie,” I retort darkly over my shoulder.
“I’m just tryin’ to help ya, miss.” Stoic Viking holds his hands up and I catch a hint of a chuckle in his voice, smooth and low.
It irritates the hell out of me.
Here I am, petrified my one friend is leaving me forever, and this asshole is laughing about it?
I race to the giant tree and try in vain to get up into the branches as Hercule scrambles his little fluffy butt away from me and pretends to be deaf.
I swear, when I catch him, I’m going to kill him…and then revive him back from the dead, so I don’t die forever alone.
He’s climbed fucking high, too. Where’s a ten-foot ladder when you need one?
Suddenly, I realize I have the next best thing standing behind me, watching my panic and using up oxygen with no apparent purpose.
“Lift me up. I can’t get him.”
“Excuse me, miss?”
“You heard me.” I turn to look at Stoic Viking, really look at him.
He can’t be much older than me, but he’s built like the Great Wall of China and looks like he has enough agility to launch my noodle-thin body like a human rocket.
I can feel my hair run down and stick to my forehead in dark brown soupy waves. Grabbing my arms to my chest, I cross them in front of me, trying to hide the area his keen eyes hovered over and thought I didn’t notice.
Despite myself, my cheeks burn with the realization he’s the first man to see me like this since it…well…just since.
Since my body and life changed substantially and I’m a shadow of the woman I used to be.
“Yeah, yeah, enjoy the free wet T-shirt show, buddy. It’s your fault my cat got out.”
“My fault?” Stoic Viking laughs without joy. “Ye shouldn’t have left the door open if ye knew he was a darter—”
“I didn’t know, okay? Besides, I never have anyone over, so…yeah it is your fault, Mister ‘Maintenance’ man.”
Okay, maybe doing the whole air quotes was a bit far, but this guy is pissing me off.
My nose is prickling and I know I’m about to cry from desperation and cold as I’m soaked to the bone.
The man lets out a puff of air from his mouth that leaves a small cloud of warmth around his coat collar.
“Fine.” His lips tighten in a straight line, but not before he mutters out, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman.”
He adjusts his hat in the rain and I glimpse deep blue eyes rolling in exasperation as he bends down and picks me up with ease.
Oh.
I forgot what that felt like.
No, not being tossed around by a man, but…touched. By a human.
Despite myself, I stammer and point into the tree, suddenly finding some manners so he won’t throw me into the great beyond for being an asshole.
Amazing how fast I smarten up when I realize my life is currently in his larger-than-life hands, holding my legs to his solid chest. I point up.
“He’s over there. Think you can get me close?”
Hercule meows loudly and looks down at me from a Y in the branches expectantly.
He’s stuck. Greedy little bastard had one-too-many treats, and it’s finally caught up with the monster. If I wasn’t so mad at him, I’d laugh.
Stoic Viking man lifts me higher with a solid grunt, his hands on my ankles as he holds me up over his head. I didn’t realize how tall he is, but now that I’m eye-level with my cat, I realize he’s possibly one of the tallest men I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
I try really hard not to think about the way this man’s hands feel on my legs right now.
Or how the last bit of human touch I received was a hug from my sister last Christmas. I had stiffened up like a board and almost needed to go puke. That’s when I hit the Bacardi hard and went out to the patio to shake and breathe and wonder where it all went wrong.
I turn my focus back to Hercule. My heart is racing and I’m desperate to get to him. I try to cover the shaking of my voice as I call out to him, encouraging him to come closer.
“Come on, baby, yeah, got yourself in a right mess, huh? Not so much fun running away only to get stuck, you little jerk face.”
I grit my teeth as I extricate the wet ball of fluff from the tree and the man sets us both down gently on the ground.
I have Hercule gripped tightly in my arms to cover how sheer the sweater is.
I march back to the front door and go inside quickly, letting my fat cat down and scolding him.
“Bad boy! You scared me to death. Never again, do you hear me? After all I’ve done for you?”
Hercule runs a few feet onto the carpet and plops down indignantly to groom himself, giving me the death-glare for interrupting his impromptu excursion. I’ll admit, it’s the most excitement either of us has seen in a while.
“Erm…about that leak?”
I jump out of my skin.
For being so big, the man behind me is quiet. Like a hulking ninja, he’s trying his best not to drip water from his coat all over the floor and failing miserably at it.
“Jesus. Yes, yes, go look.”
I’ll have words with Beverly later…if I get up the courage to talk to her about it. For God’s sake, the woman could have given me a heads-up. It’s not like she doesn’t have a landline with my number for emergencies.
I know I don’t do much with my life but Jesus, Bev. I could have been dressing, out of the shower or worse, having one of my crying panic attacks on the kitchen floor. Give a girl some warning.
Stoic Viking closes the door behind him, eyeing Hercule with open disdain.
I go into the bathroom in the hall to change out of the soaked sweater and throw on an old button-down flannel shirt. Thank God my bra is hanging on the back of the doorknob. I quickly pop it on and shuffle my wet skin into the fresh shirt before coming back out again.
Stoic Viking man and I almost bump into each other in the foyer, causing me to jump.
Again.
How is he so quiet?
Maybe I should have asked for credentials. After all, I don’t know who this man is and—
As if reading my mind, he hands over a small, white business card to me from between his calloused fingers that appear to be permanently stained with motor oil.
“Looks good fer now, but it was quite the leak, ye ken. Here’s my card. Call me if ye notice anything later or tonight. I fixed the leak with Bev, but there could still be some damage that shows up later. S’an old building.”
He runs a hand through his hair before replacing the worn beanie over his head. I glimpse auburn waves and a flash of clear eyes, but in the dark, I can’t tell if they’re blue or green.
Before I’m able to retort anything, he clears his throat and makes his way over to the door.
“Oh, and sorry about the ‘cat,’ I didn’t ken ye had one.”
I open my mouth in indignation at his air quotes regarding my fur child, but then shut it again, because he closes the door and is gone. The hulking mass of a shadow makes his way down the walk, and I am alone.
To be fair, Hercule is a huge twelve-pound Maine Coon mix. Not many people have seen such a big cat in their life, but to me he’s my baby and likes to sit on my head all the time. Honestly, he looks more Wookiee than cat.
I snort in disgust.
Air quotes. Clearly a jab at me for “maintenance.”
Cocky bastard.
My heart is still beating quickly from the ordeal, and I pick my cat up with both arms and give him a squeeze. He yells at me in disapproval.
“Yeah, yeah, love you too, you little jerk.”
I rip off some paper towels and dry my hair, looking up at the ceiling of my kitchen as if to inspect his opinion on the leak. Nothing so far.
I look at the business card in my hands:
J. Mackay
Mackay Realty Investments
Underneath is a number and a brief note about him being licensed, bonded, and insured, along with some other details I don’t care about.
“Well, well, J. Mackay.”
His name is probably Jerry or John or Jimmy or something.
Jehoshaphat
Jah-hoe-see-fat. It even sounds good.
Yep. Definitely a Jehoshaphat.
All I know is, I better never fucking see him again.
“Guy’s an ‘asshole,’” I mumble, making a face and air quotes to Hercule as he cleans himself unceremoniously on my living room floor.
Joe: Hey Hey Hey
My phone lights up the nightstand in the black at 10:13 p.m. on Thursday.
I am fully embalmed in my serums and watching Wentworth on my television, completely engrossed in an especially good prison fight.
I glance over at my dark screen.
If it were anyone else, I’d let it go, but I haven’t heard from Joe in a while.
Josiah is the only person I’m still in contact with at our old firm.
If anyone on earth deserves the title of being my human best friend, it’s Joe.
He’s the only one who stood up for me when it happened.
It’s not every day a girl has her entire future decided for her behind closed doors during a super-secret bitchfest meeting that Joe wasn’t a part of. But when it happened, I thought it was the end of everything I’d worked for.
Anyway, another story for another time.
Joe showed up at my condo about a week later, asking if I’d had dinner, Thai takeout in hand and more than ready to ignore the state of my place, which looked almost Dickensian at how badly I had let it go. Miss Havisham, eat your heart out.
We sat on the couch on top of a pile of laundry as we talked shit and watched reality television together, debating on which strange addiction was worse, eating bleach or collecting toenails.
I could just “be” with Joe, and that’s big.
Like, really big.
Maybe it’s because he’s a gay Black man, but he really gets the whole outsider thing. That’s probably what makes him such a good defense attorney. He always goes up for the hard cases, the ones where they can’t always pay him, but he takes them anyway.
I love him.
Not in the “I’d fuck you” kinda way. Early in my legal career, Joe and I connected at a cocktail hour put on by the firm we worked for. We buzzed-rambled about our shared love of pinot and penises when we first met. I don’t know about you, but…well, conversations like those are ones I build the house of all my best friendships on. He’s been my go-to guy for everything since.
He loves me too, somehow. I’m Morticia Addams to his Elton John and we just click.
I miss our coffee runs, our court gossip, and general shenanigans.
That’s why I jump to answer his text.
Letti: Hey love, what’s up?
His reply comes back faster than I’m expecting it to. The little ellipses in the corner of my screen light up and I know he’s frantically typing back.
Joe: Not much. Hey, are you busy tomorrow night?
Ugh. I smell a social obligation.
Letti: Um...why?
Joe: Cause I need a hot date, and your fine ass came to mind, that’s why.
I snort.
Letti: In your dreams, Tipton. You and I both know I’m the last
person in that black book. So, what gives?
Joe: Oookay... So, I have this thing...
More ellipses
Letti: You might wanna get that looked at…
Joe: HAH. Not funny. Anyway, I’ll be doing this open mic thing at a bar and I’d love it if I knew one person in the audience wouldn’t boo me soooo waddaya say, Letti?
I roll my eyes and growl a little. He knows this is so not my scene.
Dammit, Letti. Come on. The least you can do for the guy is to show up and not be a dick.
I really, really want to say no and to everyone else I would, but it’s him.
More ellipses before a GIF of a woman holding up two plushy, smiling green peas with the caption, “Pretty Peas?” under it pops on my screen.
Ugh.
The only thing I can’t resist is a bad pun, and he knows it.
Son of a bitch.
Letti: Okay, fine, I’ll be there. What time?
My stomach is in knots all day.
I had to take an antacid with lunch just to make it through work without throwing up into my headset.
Is this old age? Am I that geriatric that I need medication to handle the tomato in my pre-portioned quinoa bowl?
God, that sounds so sad.
I don’t know if Josiah realizes this, but going out at all for me is a big fucking deal.
I have my maps pulled up on my phone to the bar he told me about, plotted out how to get there avoiding all highways, and mentally made a note of when I should leave home to get there with post-work traffic flow.
I’m a planner.
I like to plan things.
I laid out my little black cocktail dress and red flats the night before. Nothing fancy.
My fingers fumble as I pick out my favorite necklace, a simple string of gold with a small, square garnet in the middle.
I like to make an effort. I mean, it is the first time I’m going out in nearly two months.
This is a post-mental-breakdown outing. I should look nice. Right?
I breathe in and out deeply as I’m getting ready and try to remind myself of the mindfulness techniques I learned in therapy. Five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell…all that jazz that I roll my eyes at, but still do it.
I look at my thirty-something skin in the mirror and sigh in relief.
The witchcraft must work because I don’t look a day over twenty-two.
Bobbi Brown, don’t let me down, girl.
