Page 9 of Patchwork
“It does. But hey, all their drama can’t take the music from my soul, right?”
“Hell yeah.”
Their most recent tour included Canada, so once he’s done complaining about his bandmates, he tells me about some of the cities they stopped in while we both finish eating. Onyx grabs the check as soon as the waitress drops it off, and I try not to grumble too much about letting him pay.
It’s still raining by the time we race back to the car. I was too focused on Onyx earlier to notice his guitar, a duffle bag, and a laundry basket with a few other odds and ends in it in his back seat, like he really does plan to stay for three months.
I’m not going to get my hopes up. If he stays the whole three months, great. If not, that’s cool too. I’ll do my best to keep my heart out of it so it doesn’t break when he goes. That’s really the only part of it that’s in my control.
ONYX
I can’t stop glancing over at Hero with a stupid smile on my face as he gives me directions to his place. Whether he realizes it or not, I’ve spent the last four years hoarding all the little details he’s given me about his life, and finally getting to see some ofthem firsthand feels like getting to take a tour behind the scenes of a movie set. We pass Wooley’s bar, where I know he likes to play pool with his buddies, and a coffee shop he mentioned liking a few times.
I’ve been back to Fall Crosse a couple times over the years to see him, but I haven’t driven around much beyond going to Ink Slingers. The town has changed so much since I left over ten years ago that I barely recognize some of it. Once we turn into his neighborhood though, things feel a lot more familiar. Even in the dark and the rain, a wave of nostalgia washes over me, the twang of an old song playing in my head as we pass houses where friends of mine used to live. Do their parents still live there? Or did they move somewhere warmer where they wouldn’t have to shovel snow in their golden years like mine did?
“It’s that one, up ahead on the right.” He points to his place, and I slow down so I can turn into the driveway.
His house looks just like I expected it to—a cute one-story with an attached garage. I can’t tell for sure in the dark, but I’d put money on it having pale yellow siding with white trim. I pull right up to the garage, and he shifts in his seat to fish his keys out of his pocket. I grab my guitar and my duffle bag. It’s not much, but it’s not like I need a lot anyway. A few changes of clothes, my notebook, and my guitar are all it really takes to keep me happy. Well, that and a stupidly hot tattoo artist.
The rain has finally started to slow down a little, but we jog up the sidewalk to the door anyway. I shake the water out of my hair again while Hero unlocks the door, and then I follow him inside. He flips on the light and we both toe off our shoes. There’s a faint smell of motor oil and something warmer and homier that I can’t put my finger on, but it weirdly makes me think of brown, the same color as Hero’s eyes. Fun with synesthesia, as my mom always loved to joke when I wasgrowing up and would tell her things like “dinner tastes like Tuesday.” And no, I could not elaborate on that.
There’s a faint jingling sound and the patter of little feet. I drop my bag next to the door and try not to gasptooloudly with excitement.
“Is that Diva? It has to be Diva, right?”
Hero chuckles. “That’s Diva,” he says, then he makes a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Come on, baby girl. Don’t be shy.”
It only takes a second before a little brown and white cat comes trotting into the foyer. He’s shown me pictures of her, but that doesn’t stop me from laughing with glee at how delightfully ugly-cute she is, with uneven bald patches, a squished face, and one of her ears scarred and crumpled. Hero told me he rescued her from a hoarding situation last year, and I can definitely see why she was the one he just had to take home.
“That’s so mean. You can’t laugh at her,” Hero scolds me, but he’s chuckling, so it’s hard to take the admonishment too seriously.
“Come here, Deevs, my pretty little girl.” He scoops her up into his arms and she immediately starts to purr loudly enough for me to hear, kneading her paws into his beard as he nuzzles the top of her head. “It took three rounds of treatment before we managed to cure her mange, but her vet, Porter, isn’t sure if the fur will grow back or not. There might be too much scarring in the follicles.”
“Aw, poor baby,” I coo, reaching over slowly to pet her. She gives me a grumpy glare but keeps nuzzling Hero’s beard. “The patchy hair is kind of rock and roll if you think about it.”
Hero chuckles, kisses her head one more time, then sets her back down to scamper away. I follow him down the short hallway into his living room, my eyes roaming greedily over everything along the way. Pictures of him and his friends withtheir Harleys hang on his walls, random tools and hasty sketches litter some of the surfaces, and the bookshelf is full of an eclectic mix of motorcycle mechanic manuals, sci-fi novels, and World War II books. I gobble it all up greedily.
“I told you, it’s not much.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks around his own living room sheepishly.
“Not much? I feel like I’m in a celebrity’s house or something.” I pick up the wrench on his coffee table, getting the familiar metallicsquinchin my ears from touching it.
He chuckles. “You’re really fucking weird, you know that?”
I set the wrench back down and put myself right in front of him with a smile stretching across my lips.
“Life’s more fun when you’re weird.” I shrug. “Oh, shit, that would make a great tattoo.” I twist my arms around, looking for leftover space where it might fit.
Hero tugs my shirt up an inch and drags his index finger along the skin just above the waistline of my jeans.
“I could tattoo it right here for you,” he offers.
I bobble my head in agreement. “Yeah. Tomorrow?”
He drops my shirt and slides his arms around me. My hands end up on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin through his damp shirt.
“Is that why you’re here? To see how many tattoos I can give you in three months?” A teasing grin dances on his lips, and he bumps the tip of his nose against mine.
“Yup. Tattoos and sex. Lots and lots of sex,” I purr.
