Chapter 8
Vaughn
I close my eyes for a second as her puke slides down my jacket, frustrations quickly replacing the unease I’ve been feeling. She mumbles, “Sorry,” as her head falls backward. I adjust her in my arms to support her neck then look behind me at Brad. “Where do you want her?”
He’s trying to hide his laughter and coughs, but it ends up squeaking, which makes him laugh harder. “Follow me.”
When I reach the room he leads me to, I deposit a nearly passed-out Rayne onto the top of the bed. She moans, which I’m sure is a direct result of feeling like absolute shit now.
I shut the light off, and Brad meets me in the hallway, handing me a hoodie. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to stay?”
My plans when we came here were unclear but seeing as how she completely ditched me shows me she really doesn’t give a shit. “No.”
After I had gone to see if she was ready the first time, I waited for a couple of hours before I went to check on her since I hadn’t heard from her. But when she wasn’t there, and her car was gone, I tried to call her. She didn’t answer. I knew she was upset, and I hate that I’m part of the reason for it, so Brad gave me her address since he could tell how worried I was when I called him. I drove to her place only to find it dark and empty through the windows.
I tend to care too much, and I couldn’t leave without knowing she was okay, so I stopped by the bar, thinking maybe she ended up there. Brad couldn’t get a hold of her or Kennedy, so we came here right away. I know Kenny is gay, but seeing her lying on top of him and laughing made me want to punch him in his pretty boy face. Instead of doing that, I didn’t even think before I yanked her off him even though I wasn’t sure what the objective was.
Following Brad, I step into the kitchen then toss my jacket and t-shirt into a garbage bag he holds out for me before putting on the hoodie. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
Nothing more needs to be said at this point. She’s obviously played me and more than it pisses me off, it brings up so much shit from the past that I’m just barely containing my rage.
“She needs you.” Just as I reach the door to leave, Kennedy’s slurred voice stops me.
I turn and cross my arms. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Rainey girl. She needs you.” He stands and on unsteady feet, walks closer to me. “She’ll never admit it to you, but since he—”
“That’s enough, Kennedy. Stay out of it,” Brad interrupts him.
“No. Tell me.” I raise my voice. “Fucking tell me what she won’t because I’m not playing these fucking games anymore.”
“He’s never com—”
“Kennedy!” Brad puts his hand over Kennedy’s mouth. “Stop. It’s not your place.”
Kenny struggles to get out of Brad’s grip then grabs his arm, so he doesn’t fall. “He deserves to know, and I know you. You know it, I mean.”
Brad rolls his eyes, and Kenny storms off as well as a drunk person can then slams the door to their bedroom.
“What is he talking about?” I ask him, hoping he’ll understand my frustration. “Nobody tells me anything, and I’m walking a really thin line with her, Brad.”
He sighs and tucks his hands in his back pockets. “Do you want me telling everyone about your personal shit?”
“I’m not asking you to tell everyone; I’m just asking you to tell me, the man who she’s playing like a goddamned puppet.”
“She’s not playing you, Vaughn. She’s confused.”
“Why the fuck are you picking her side? Is it because of the ro—”
“It has nothing to do with the past. She’s a sweet girl, Vaughn.”
“Dammit. Just tell me!”
He crosses his arms. “It’s not my place.”
“I’m done with this shit.” I walk out, but his voice stops me.
“You’d be okay with me telling her about your mom and stepdad?”
“You can’t compare the two. What happened with them doesn’t have any effect on my relationship with her.”
He nods. “I get it. I do. The only thing I can say is to give it time. I promise you; she’ll be worth the wait.”
“So I’m just supposed to wait, huh? For a girl who is not only unavailable, but who also puts another man in front of me? Sound familiar? Never again, Brad.” I do my best not to stomp away as I leave.
I crank up the radio in my truck, wishing this whole thing was just fucking easier. By the time I make it home, I’m actually exhausted. I hop in the shower before I get in bed, and the second my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep.
* * *
I’m sitting at the desk when she walks in. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes, and it pisses me off. “Here.” She holds out a dry cleaning bag with my jacket that I forgot at Brad and Kenny’s when I left the other night.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I puked on you.”
“It’s okay.”
When she turns to walk away, I hesitate to go after her. I shouldn’t. So I don’t. When four o’clock rolls around, I walk over to the restaurant, wait for her outside the door, and then walk her to her car. I ignore the tension, the anger, the desire . . . the fucking disappointment. She simply thanks me before shutting her car door. Those two words coming from her soft voice are the highlight of my day.
Weeks go by with no new revelations. Weeks of me asking why I’m doing this to myself again. Why I’m wasting my time on someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit about me. Why I’m still walking her to her car, protecting a woman who puts another man before me. Einstein said the definition of doing something over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. Guess that makes me insane then.
I want to ask where he is. What the fuck he’s doing allowing his girl to have another guy making sure she’s safe. What kind of man does that? Where the fuck has he been? Her parents got back last week, and since then, I haven’t bothered to walk her to her car since I saw them all walking out together. The perfect little family. The kind of parents I always wanted.
I’ve been dreading but looking forward to tattooing her forever, it seems. When she comes in for her appointment, I hand her a release waiver, have her sign it, and then motion for her to follow me. “I’ll need you to stand while I apply the outline first.”
“Okay.”
“Lift up your shirt and push your waistband down.”
I wait for her to bare her side to me, and when the pants aren’t low enough, I slide them down farther. The only reason I’m able to hold myself back from doing what I really want to do is because I’m a professional. I take my job very seriously and refuse to make her an exception. I carefully apply the stencil and rub it a little longer than necessary because even through the paper, she feels so damn good. After slowly peeling it away, I slide my stool back and examine it.
“Perfect.” I nod at the mirror. “Check it out. Let me know what you think. I don’t want bullshit about how you love it, when you really want to change something. Be honest because once it’s there, it ain’t coming off.”
She angles her body toward the mirror, and I watch her face in the reflection. After taking a quick glance, she turns back to me. “Looks great.”
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“I did. Please, just start.”
The only reason I even continue is because I know it’ll look amazing. I don’t do shitty work. Ever. “Fine. Hop up and lie on your side.” It’s hard to avoid talking to her when I want to ask her so many things. I want to see if she’s as miserable as I am. I want to know why she’s torturing me. I want to know if she’s ever going to let me in. But it’s for the best. She’s taken, and I refuse to be the second choice in any woman’s life ever again.
She jumps when the machine buzzes.
“Tell me if you need a break, okay?”
“Okay.”
The first press of the needle makes her suck in a breath.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
With as gentle of a touch as I can manage, I trace the outline. When small drops of blood form under the needle, it hits me square in the chest. I have to stop and pretend to be adjusting my machine to compose myself. I hate that I’m making her bleed . . . that’s the last thing I want to see.
She doesn’t flinch when I press the pedal this time, and I manage to continue, even though it’s killing me that I’m causing her pain right now. An hour goes by then two. I’ve asked if she needs a break multiple times, but she always says no. When I’m on hour three, the outline is complete, and I’ve even gotten a good start on the color. My back is killing me, but being able to touch her, even through the latex, makes the pain worth it. I’m about to switch needles when she finally speaks. “Are you done?”
“I can if you want me to be.”
“No, it’s fine. I just want you to finish it.”
“You want a break? Grab some water or something?”
“No.” I don’t know her well enough to diagnose her feelings based on one word, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s hurt. And that hurt has turned to anger.
Whatever. If she thinks she can take it, then I’ll finish. I lose myself once again, and an hour and a half hour later, I wipe away the excess one last time. “All done.”
“Can I get up?”
“Yeah, but be careful.”
She doesn’t listen and hops off the table. Her body sways, and she reaches out to steady herself on the table. “Shit.”
“Told ya.” I grab a bottled water from my mini fridge and hand it to her. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She slams half of it and then turns to look in the mirror.
Again, I watch her eyes. This time, they fill with tears, and she covers her mouth. “Holy shit.”
“Like it?”
“Vaughn, it’s amazing.” She touches it then pulls her hand away super-fast. “Shit. It’s sore.”
“Yeah, it will be for a couple of days. Here, let me cover it up.” I slide my stool over and apply ointment then some Saran wrap. I take off my gloves and rip a piece of tape. I never do that, but because it’s her and because I’ve been literally itching to feel her bare skin again with my own, I do it. When my fingers touch her skin, I almost lose my shit. She’s so damn soft. And smooth. “All done.”
She puts her clothes back in place and tries to discreetly rub her eyes. “How much do I owe you?”
I begin cleaning up. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Hell, no. I’m paying you. How much.”
I turn and cross my arms. “How many fuckin’ sandwiches have you given me and not taken my money?”
“Not enough to cover a tattoo.”
“I don’t want your money.” I want you.
“I saw that man give you a wad of cash for something way smaller than this. How much did you charge him?”
“One fifty an hour.” Her mouth drops, and I raise an eyebrow. “And that was a discount. Just keep giving me food, and we’re good.”
She grabs her purse and flinches when it rubs against her side. “I owe you sandwiches for life then.”
“I’m good with that.”
For the first time since she’s been here, she smiles at me. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Before she leaves, I turn to grab an instruction sheet. She takes it and walks away. I watch her on the monitor, and when she’s finally off the screen, I grab the first thing I see, which happens to be a metal replica of my truck, and throw it across the room, hitting a framed picture of the first magazine article featuring my work. When the glass crumbles down to the ground, I do the same.