AMOS
At some point on highway I-5, the discomfort between us started to fade. I remained quiet for a while, even though I wanted to ask her a million questions.
I knew I couldn’t talk or even mention our kiss from years ago, although I couldn’t deny I thought about it from time to time. Maybe if things between us had been different, we could have laughed about it, but every time I was around her, the atmosphere was tense, almost electric.
Ever since that first night, I’d felt connected to her, and even though she’d rejected me, I always had the notion in my head that we should have been friends. Yes, I had been hurt by her refusal and kept my distance as a result, but I always hoped that at some point, things could change.
Unfortunately, any time I tried to make conversation with Lena, she would shut down. But, on occasion, I had seen how she could be when she let herself go. I loved that side of her.
I wished I could help her set herself free.
A few people at work thought Lena was just a cold-hearted bitch, and, granted, sometimes she could be, but there was so much more to her.
She was smart, and I knew she could be funny when she wanted to. I’d seen her in a couple of different situations, including once when she was buzzed and rapped a whole Drake song standing on top of a conference room table.
I was in awe of her talent; ever since I’d gotten hired at Paz Media I had been wanting to discuss her creative process. I loved her drawing style and was a secret admirer of her comic Switch—“secret” just because we didn’t really talk and I’d never had a chance to tell her.
I glanced her way as she sketched in her notebook. It was the same one she kept on her desk at work.
“You do that a lot. Do you sketch all the time?” I asked, tipping my chin up in her direction.
She let out a breath and frowned.
“Don’t you do that?” she asked, eyebrows raised in a curious look.
“Not as much as you seem to.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve been sketching since I was thirteen. I’m always sketching. I guess you could say it’s second nature to me.”
“Do you just sketch your own characters?”
I glanced briefly in her direction, trying to keep my eyes on the road.
“Not always. I draw a lot of things I like. You know, the usual—superheroes, manga or anime characters. Sometimes I draw a bit of fanfiction here and there.”
“Like what? Which comics do you draw fanfiction for?”
“Well, quite a few. I’ve done Captain America as a gay character going to a gay bar in the sixties and a racy storyline with the Hulk and Black Widow, but when I do fanfiction, I mostly write about Rika Ishikawa’s Aiko.”
“Aiko? Ishikawa’s unfinished manga?”
“The very same,” she said with a sigh.
“How many years has it been since she’s published anything new?”
“Seven.”
“Has anyone ever found out why she stopped publishing the comic or why she never finished it? Her publisher can’t be happy about that.”
“No one knows for sure. I’ve looked everywhere, on English sites, Japanese sites…although I have to admit, my Japanese has gotten worse in the last few years. I’ve stopped practicing, so now I can hardly remember any characters.”
“Violet told me you majored in art.”
She looked taken aback by my words.
“Yes, but I had a minor in Japanese language. I wanted to learn more about the culture, so I knew I needed to learn the language, even if only a little bit.”
“I tried, on my own,” I confessed. “I’m not very good at it.”
“It’s definitely not an easy language, but I find it fascinating.”
“So, you never found out why Ishikawa stopped publishing Aiko?”
“She was sick at some point. Then it was announced on her site that she’d gotten better, but I haven’t seen anything new being published in the last few years, not even in periodicals.”
“It’s too bad,” I admitted.
“I know. It’s my favorite manga ever. I started reading the comic when I was a student in Japan.”
“You were a student in Japan?”
“A long time ago. Just for a year.”
“I’ve never been. Always wanted to go, never found the right time,” I told her with a shrug. “So, how was it? Your year in Japan?”
“Best time of my life, worst time of my life,” she let out with a sigh.
“Worst time of your life? Why?”
She gave me a long look, pursing her lips together as if debating what to say next. She seemed on the verge to say something, but kept her lips in a tight line, her eyes focused on me. My eyes darted between the road and her cool-blue irises, questioning, but she sighed and looked away.
“What happened to you in Japan, Lena?”
“You’ll have to get me drunk before I can talk about that, Amos.” I could hear the tremor in her voice even as she turned her head to the right, looking out the window.
I was just about to ask her again when my eyes fell on the tattoo on her wrist. I didn’t know much Japanese, but I recognized the two characters, the ones for the number four and the number seven, which also symbolize death.
I exhaled a breath, feeling helpless. Whatever pain Lena carried, it was something she’d been harboring for a very long time.
I knew I had to let the subject go.
In time, maybe she’d tell me what I wanted to know.
LENA
I had been in Amos’ car for all of an hour and even though for a moment I’d felt less awkward around him, it had all vanished when he’d started asking about things I wasn’t ready to talk about.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and focus on something else—the road, the landscape, anything—but I couldn’t really do it. One of the reasons was that his scent was distracting, and since we were in his car, I was engulfed by it. He smelled so good, whatever the hell he was wearing—or not wearing. His scent was a mix of fresh and minty that hit my nostrils forcefully, awakening my senses.
The other reason I couldn’t relax was because of the music he was playing.
His choice in music was fascinating.
I would have never pegged Amos for a classic rock type of guy—and by classic rock, I didn’t mean Journey and all that. I meant the good stuff, the serious, hardcore ’70s rock—Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jefferson Airplane. “White Rabbit” came on the stereo and I found myself wanting to sing along, even though that song always had the power to make me feel unsettled.
I stared at my phone, pretending to be distracted by my Facebook feed.
Every once in a while I glanced in his direction, while he thankfully kept his eyes on the road. I couldn’t stop staring at his shoulders, his strong muscular arms. He’d taken his leather jacket off, and his dark Batgirl tee clung tight around his torso. I couldn’t help but think how beautiful he was.
I wanted to sketch him.
I forced myself to look at the road ahead, averting my eyes just in time.
The rest of the ride was quiet and uneventful.
We checked in at our hotel then went up to our rooms. Of course, our rooms were next to each other. I sighed, realizing there was no escaping Amos this weekend, no way to put some distance between us. We rode the elevator in silence, and I avoided glancing in his direction.
I hadn’t been that close to him in so long, and my mind was full of…ideas.
Ideas I shouldn’t have been pursuing. Something inside me told me if I got too close to him, I wouldn’t be able to shake him off. My stomach was in knots, as if I couldn’t trust myself. In a way, I already knew I couldn’t trust myself around him.
If I crossed the line with Amos St. Clair, I knew I was going to lose myself for good.
“Do you want to get something to eat? I saw a couple places around the hotel, or we could go to one of the restaurants from Alan and Stewart’s list,” Amos said, distracting me from my inner ramblings.
I paused for a moment before replying as I reached the door of my room.
“Where is that damn key and why did I put it away?” I asked myself as I patted my back pockets to find the key card. I inserted it into the slot just as the strap of my cross-body bag slid off my shoulder. The bag fell onto the floor just as the door unlocked, the contents spilling everywhere on the plush patterned hotel carpet. I opened the door of my room and put my luggage in front of it to keep it open.
I turned around to pick up what had fallen on the floor, but Amos had already beaten me to it. He was holding my pocket mirror and an apple in one hand…and my vibrator in the other.
Fuck.
Sure, my magic wand was small and discreet, concealed in a silky black pouch, but there was no mistaking the shape of it.
I went to take it from his hand, but he held it firmly.
I glanced up to look at him and saw the biggest smirk on his face, one corner of his lips tilted up.
Bastard.
Fine—if he wanted to play, we could play.
“What, Amos? Never held one before?” I asked, the tone of my voice flirty.
“Can’t say I have,” he replied jokingly.
I met his chocolate-brown eyes again, wide with surprise and a hint of mischief.
“Well, what can I say? A lady must always be prepared.”
A throaty laugh escaped his mouth, and my eyes fell on his full lips. I smiled despite feeling flustered to my core.
I took the black bag and stood up while he remained on his knees, at my feet. His eyes fell on the vibrator in my hand at first, and then he tilted his head up and stared at me. The dark look in his eyes caught me off guard. My heart sped up, beating faster, and a slight ache spread in my chest and my lower belly. The way he looked at me made me feel agitated and confused.
Every time I thought we were getting better at interacting, we seemed to take three steps backward. It felt like we could never completely let go of the electricity between us.
I let out a sigh and offered him my hand.
He seemed to snap out of whatever was going through his mind and offered an uneasy smile. He took my hand and I pulled him up. With the other hand, he brushed his hair across his forehead.
I looked at him questioningly and he frowned, confused.
“So, you were saying…dinner? I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” I smiled confidently and he laughed again.
I liked the sound of his laughter. When he laughed, his eyes brightened up. They almost looked a different color, like a caramel brown with a darker rim around it.
When he laughed like that, my heart did a little somersault. I recognized the sign.
I liked him, and I liked even more that I could make him smile.
Maybe it didn’t always have to be uncomfortable silences between us.
Maybe we could get better at this, whatever it was. Maybe we had a chance to become friends…but I feared I was already lying to myself.
I didn’t do friends. I did lovers.