CHAPTER SEVEN
“I do not like that guy,” Patrick says, as soon as we get into the cab. ”But my sister can handle herself.”
“For some reason, I find that very easy to believe,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you’re raised by a lawyer and a cop.”
“Your dad was a cop?”
“No, my mother. She arrested them, he put them away.”
“Wow,” I say, “talk about a power couple.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you can say that.”
“So how did the son of a cop and a lawyer come to own a tattoo parlor?”
“Hard work,” he says.
We laugh. “Obviously,” I say.
There’s a sexual intensity that makes me want to rip his clothes off in the back of the cab. Our legs brush against each other during the ride, too forceful to be accidental.
“So tell me about your tats,” I say to Patrick. He rolls up his sleeve and starts talking.
The conversation has somehow shifted to my tattoos. I’m about to tell him about one when he stops me.
“You already told me about that one,” he says, “the other night.”
This is one of the worst parts about having too much to drink. “Can I be honest?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “lie to me.”
We both laugh.
“I don’t remember much about the night we met.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you said that would happen. You also warned me that you’d probably get sick.”
I’m flush with embarrassment.
“You asked to use the bathroom and I found you in the tub. You puked all over yourself and clothes.”
“I’m really sorry about that,” I say. I’m truly mortified.
“Not to worry,” he says. “You were apologetic and entertaining. And you clearly don’t remember me saying that I’m not the least bit judgmental. I assured you when you showed me your first tattoo.”
“I showed you that?” It’s a happy face that looks like it suffered a stroke.
“And I’m sure you don’t remember explaining what that sleeve is about, do you?”
I smile. “Did we talk about that?”
“You talked, I listened,” he says. “You talked about a lot.”
I’m too embarrassed to ask for the details, though I’m dying to know what I said.
“You also talked about being stressed at work and everything being on the line. You were going to try to go back home but I wouldn’t let you, mainly because you couldn’t tell me where you lived. And you threw up on yourself.
“You made me promise that I’d wake you and get you to work on time. I hope you did, by the way.”
I’m still confused as to how I even got to wherever we met, but I refuse to ask and hope he’ll just bring it up. We pull up to the tattoo shop before he has a chance to do so.
We make our way from the cab to the shop.
“Was it here the entire time?” I ask.
“That would make my sister a withholding bitch. She can be a bitch, but not that kind,” Patrick says.
“Ouch,” I say, “she lets you get away with calling her that?” I ask.
“Ask her about that when you see her again,” he says.
It dawns on me that I may not see her again at all. Or him. The phone has been the MacGuffin driving us together. “Will I see her again?” I ask.
He looks me in the eye. “Depends,” he says. “I don’t think she likes you, so I don’t think you’ll be best friends. She likes who I like, though,” he says. “Or at least tolerates on my behalf,” he adds.
I smile. “Tolerance must run in the family,” I say, thinking of how extremely tolerant he must have been the night we met.
“Faults and virtues, who are we without them?” He says.
We both laugh.
“Anyway,” he says, “dropped it off here in case you came back and I was gone. I’m in and out of town all the time.”
“I’ve got a trip coming up myself,” I say.
“Hence the urgency, I guess,” he says.
We make our way into the shop. He goes behind the counter and pulls it out. “Voila,” he says.
I’m filled with relief and a tinge of…despair? Worry? I’m not sure what. It’s something new, that’s for sure.
“Sooo,” he says, “you gonna put my number in there or just show up again in the middle of the night?”
I smile with a wave of relief. I go to turn on the phone. “It’s dead,” I say.
“I have a charger,” he says. “But it’s upstairs.” He points to the building across the street.
“Let’s go get it,” I say.
Tuesday morning is full of surprises. The biggest being that I arrived to work today to learn that I now have my own office.
Rachel pretends to do something official while I unpack and tell her what happened last night.
“So he lived across the street the entire time?” Rachel asks. “How did you not know that?”
“It’s tragic,” I say.
“So what happened?” She asks.
“Well, the phone had to charge for a bit,” I say. “He gave me a tour of the place in the meantime”
“And? Jump to the good part,” she demands.
“Well…”
***
We got into the apartment. It looked even more impressive with the floors and walls not spinning. We plugged in the phone then into each other.
His hands were strong, feeling me up with an aggressiveness that we both shared. We stood in the hall, each taking turns being the one pinned to the wall while the other took the lead in exploring the other’s body.
“I have to confess something,” I’d said to him, catching a breath from the lip locked commotion. “Cuddles.”
He stopped kissing me and looked me in the eyes. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“She’s already dead,” I told him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
His caring compassion and interest made me even more turned on.
“I mean, she’s been dead for a long time. Years. Devante said it to get you over. I didn’t put him up to it. He just did it.”
He looked me in the eye, the look unreadable for a moment, filling me with a dread and fear. Then he laughs.
“I’ve killed Brutus off a time or two, too,” he says. “Thanks for telling me,” he says. “Honesty is a turn on.”
***
“And?” Rachel asks. She really just wants to know if we had sex.
“He’s…a gentleman,” I say. “An aggressive one.”
“A what?” Rachel says, laughing.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But it was really hot. I wanted him so bad but we ended up just making out and exchanging numbers. I don’t know, maybe this is old fashioned or something. He’s over 30, you know.”
We don’t have time to make any more fantasy or sense of it. Matthews burst in, bringing the excitement in the room and my pants down.
“That was a fun night,” he says. “Too bad the blue haired bitch turned out to be just that. Should have known. Blue hair, blue balls.”
I could have hit him right then, but that wouldn’t come until after the meeting.
“They can’t all be awesome,” he says. “Am I right?” He says to Rachel and me his hand up in a high-five. We leave him hanging.
“Things must have gone well with the brother then,” he says. “Too bad I’m not into cock. Maybe she wasn’t either. Maybe gay runs in the family.”
“Maybe you should shut the hell up,” I say.
He looks at me for a moment, then Rachel. “Oops,” he says, “sorry HR.”
“You being sorry is probably the only thing we can all agree on,” Rachel says.
“Ouch,” he says. “Or is that your way of flirting?”
Rachel takes off. She’s a fight or flight person, either one can happen in an instant. Had she not left she’d have probably been arrested for assault.
“Chicks,” he says when she leaves. “The work one has to put in for pussy.”
The rest of the meeting deteriorates from there.
“So,” he says, are you picking up on the pattern yet?”
“What pattern?” I asked
“Notice anything about all of your clients? Seeing any pussy to cock ratio emerging?”
I do start to see a pattern. My targets or all man, he is mostly women.
“It gets better,” he said, “I researched them all over the weekend, yours are into cock.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I barely get the words out. Even at this company, which is decades behind in things socially acceptable and politically correct, where you’re not likely to get through a day without being cursed at or cursing at someone at least once. Even here there are limits to the indecency. This has far exceeded both that level and my tolerance.
“You really need to watch your mouth,” I tell him. “And we have to rethink this strategy.”
“Seriously?”
I can tell by the look on his face that he’s honestly surprised.
“You do realize this is the best strategy. And you realize we have to close all of these deals. Women use pussy to get what they want all the time. What is it gender equalness or whatever? Use what you got,” he says.
“Dude—” I begin to say, but can’t articulate anything else.
“Come on man, are you seriously upset about this. Don’t act like a pussy.” He tilts his head to the side and squints his eye. “I know you’re not completely against the idea,” he says, “at least that’s not what I hear, anyway.”
“Get out of my office,” I tell him. “Now.” I’m already standing on my feet, and my fists are clenched.
“Calm down,” he says, “this isn’t the cock fight you’re looking for. Though maybe it is.” He starts fiddling with his zipper and pulls out his cock, then winks.
I don’t remember hitting him just the commotion afterward.