Page 27 of Patchwork
“Thank you. I think I can check my toes myself.”
“Are you sure?” Hero arches an eyebrow and makes a move like he’s about to kneel down and start inspecting my feet.
“I’m sure.” I stroke my fingers through his beard and lean in to claim his lips in a kiss, just as slow and sweet as the one we shared up on my hill earlier.
The feeling of his wet, slippery skin against mine as the water beats down on us has changed over the years. The frantic, horny rhythm in my ears now has a relaxing hum of an undertone that makes me think of home and the color green and warm blankets.
“It’s strange knowing you’re going to be here for a while. Like, we don’t have to try to fit everything in all at once,” Hero murmurs, nibbling on my chin before reaching for the shampoo on the shelf behind me. “Less urgency, you know?”
I nod, turn around, and tilt my head back, wordlessly asking him to pamper me a little and wash my hair for me. He doesn’t hesitate, filling his palm with soap and then massaging my scalp with a hum in his throat and his half-hard cock dragging against my ass cheek without any expectation or impatience.
“I know what you mean.” A relaxed smile tugs at my lips. “Do you usually sing in the shower?”
He huffs out a laugh in response that’s as good as a yes.
“Sing me something,” I say.
“You’re the professional, you should be the one singing.” I can hear a hint of shyness in his voice that makes my heart swell a little.
“Come on, I won’t judge if you’re out of tune. I just want to hear you sing.”
Hero sighs and then clears his throat. I wait quietly for a few seconds, and he starts to quietly sing a rusty rendition of Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me.” After the first chorus, I join in, and his voice grows in confidence, and we fall into a slightly off-key harmony together.
I know he doesn’t totally understand it yet, why I’m here, how I’m feeling, but I can’t imagine having a night like this in Seattle. I can’t picture singing in my shower with him or sitting on the kitchen floor in our underwear to wait for the pizza to cook. I don’t have a cat to play with, because I’m not home enough to get one. I don’t have friends to get a beer with or a favorite coffee shop. I haven’t read most of the books on my bookshelf. They’re there because a decorator put them there. Nothing about my life there feels real the way this moment does.
I stop singing and look over my shoulder at Hero.
He clears his throat again and gives me a wry, apologetic smile. “That bad, huh?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, it was perfect.”
I brush my lips against his in another syrupy slow kiss, letting the water beat down on us and his arms wrap around me. And there’s nothing fake about it at all.
Chapter 13
3 YEARS AGO
HERO
“I’mjustsaying,Ifucked my way into this mess, and I’ll fuck my way out of it,” Jag declares loudly over the music and the buzz of multiple tattoo machines. I lift my needle off my client’s skin just in time for her to jerk with laughter.
“What does that even mean?” she asks me in a low voice.
“With Jag, it’s usually best to not even ask,” I say, shaking my head, then returning the needle to her skin to finish putting the final touches on a few spots of shading.
My mind wanders a little while I work, straight to the same place it’s been going during every free moment I’ve had for the past year.Onyx Hart. After the weekend in Chicago, I saw him again a few months later in Ohio for more of the same. Holing up in a hotel room and making each other cum over and over, then tattooing him for hours once we were too tired to fuck anymore. It’s easy and fun, and if I could stop obsessing about him every second during the months in between, it would be perfect.
I wipe the blood and excess ink off of the tattoo.
“Let that settle for a few minutes, then I’ll get some pictures and wrap it.”
I stand up to stretch my shoulders and neck, and she pulls out her phone to snap a few of her own pictures of her new ink. I pull off my gloves, toss them in the trash, then make my way over to the water cooler at the front of the shop to get a drink. An older model Mustang that looks like it’s seen better days pulls into the parking lot while I’m filling up a cup. There’s a large dent in the front bumper and some rust around the wheels. If whoever owns it is planning to come in here for a tattoo, I might have to suggest they spend their money on a new car instead.
The car pulls into a spot right in front of the shop, and I sip my water, only vaguely interested to see what kind of person might get out of that monstrosity. The driver’s door swings open, and I inhale sharply, sucking my mouthful of water down the wrong pipe. It burns my throat and nose as I cough it back into the cup and then keep coughing to clear my lungs. My eyes water as I try to get it under control. Arrow appears beside me and thumps me on the back helpfully.
“Hey, is that…?”
The bell above the door chimes, and the rockstar who’s been the star of every wet dream and fantasy I’ve had in the last year steps inside. Onyx shakes his hair out of his eyes and looks around until his attention lands on me, still red in the face from nearly drowning myself, my heart racing from his unexpected arrival.
