He's all hardness and rough edges.
Fuck, I'm losing track of my point.
My heart is still heavy. My blood is still surging. I need to do something to ease the fury racing through me.
I can booty call an ex. I can beg Oliver to distract me. I can march home, break glasses, call Mom all sorts of things I can't take back.
That isn't it.
Even pissed as hell I know better.
Which leaves Oliver.
No. I can't. That's going to ruin everything outside my house.
I have to think about something else.
Anything else.
Not his cock.
I am not thinking about Oliver Flynn's cock.
That's possible.
Totally and completely possible.
Chapter Three
Oliver
For a while, I give Luna space.
She sits on the couch, watching reality TV, her attention somewhere else.
Through my headphones, Kurt Cobain whines about his emptiness. The lithium or the heroin or some other drug of choice?
Why is it shrinks complain about self-medicating then prescribe something else to numb the pain? Is bourbon really so much worse than sertraline?
At least bourbon is fun.
As usual, my thoughts scatter. I try to pull them back with another mock-up. That Latin quote from The Handmaid's Tale—it's all the rage with smart women—surrounded by curving red fabric.
It's a nice idea. Applicable to any situation, really.
Don't let the bastards grind you down.
It's not glory fades or I came, I saw, I conquered. But it's solid.
I trace the lines on my forearm.
ex favilla nos resurgemus
From the ashes, we rise.
One of my first.
I still remember the day I got it. The rush of adrenaline. The one thought racing through my brain I can't believe I did this.
This job used to be everything. I used to sit outside Blacklist, waiting for one of the artists to take pity on me. Show me something, anything.
I've wanted to be a tattoo artist since I could remember.
I only graduated from apprenticing a year ago. I have so far to go. So much to learn.
But it's not the same now. Something is missing. Something I can't find.
ex favilla nos resurgemus
From the ashes, we rise.
At the time, it sounded badass. Optimistic in a twisted way.
Now—
Is it better to burn my life to the ground and start over?
Or hold on to what matters?
I don't know. But I can't keep thinking about it.
I give up on work. Stand. Move downstairs.
Luna barely looks up from her cell. She's staring at the thing like she's trying to destroy it with her glare.
"You talk to Daisy?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "I guess I should, huh?" She wipes her eye. Not a tear, but something close.
"I won't say anything. If that's what you want."
"Really?"
"Do I look like a narc?"
Her eyes meet mine. "Your loyalty is with her, isn't it?"
Yeah, but I have principles. Not snitching is one of them. "I won't." I release her gaze. Move into the kitchen. "You hungry?" It's still early. Dad isn't due home for another hour. But I need something to occupy my hands and my mind.
"I could eat."
"Pasta?"
"What kind of psycho would say no to pasta?" She half-smiles.
"Lots of girls are watching their figure."
She laughs. "Is that really what they say? 'I'm watching my figure.'"
I shrug. "Sometimes. It's Southern California. I don't question. Everyone is on some diet." It's none of my business. And I know better. Pushing people who have a problem. That does more harm than good.
"Pasta is good. With a lot of garlic." This time, she offers a full smile. It's not as bright as her usual smile. There's a strain to it. "And spicy. As long as you're taking requests."
I flip her off.
"Please."
I shoot her a really.
"Pretty please."
"Shit, that's the magic word. Gotta do it now."
She laughs you're ridiculous. "You know you love garlic."
And spicy too. I want to give her shit for trying to boss me around, but I don't mind it. Hell, I love it.
Luna tells me what she wants. That makes it easier to give her what she wants.
She's like family. I want to take care of her. To make sure she's safe, fed, happy.
Her expression darkens and it overwhelms me—this desire to comfort her.
It's not like me. I stay out of things. I don't comfort people. Only Daisy.
But Luna…
She's different. My friend. Maybe the only friend I want to see at the moment.
"Are you going to help?" I ask.
"Wouldn't it be more fun if I ordered you around?"
Yeah, order me to take off your pants and dive between your legs. Say my name when you come on my face, baby. Fuck. Maybe I should tell her I've got it handled. Better to have the fifteen feet between us. "You can help. Or you can take whatever I make."
"Okay." She stands. Slips her cell into the back pocket of her jeans. Moves into the kitchen. Into my space.
She's three feet away. In front of the fridge. I'm in front of the stove. Close enough to touch.
Close enough, I can make all those fantasies come true.
Close enough, I feel something.
That surge of lust. And something else. A flutter in my stomach. A thump of my heart.
A craving.
For her touch, her kiss, her fuck.
And her smile, her laugh, her love.
It's strange. Unfamiliar. But it's something. It's not the endless grey of sobriety. Anything is better than that.
"You want an apron?" I motion to her light top. It's sexy as fuck—tight around her lush tits—and easily stained.
"Are we doing tomato sauce?"
"Nah. Pasta aglio e olio."
"Oil and garlic?" she asks.
I nod. "Oil can stain."
"I'll live." She doesn't wait for instruction. She turns to the fridge. Pulls it open. Grabs tomatoes, fresh pasta, arugula, Parmesan. "You have good shit here."
"Yeah."
"Usually it's all TV dinners and dried pasta."
"I'm an excellent cook," I say.
"You are. But you're usually… more efficient."
I shrug. "I have time now."
"With Daisy in Berkeley?" She tosses it out as a possible explanation. Half statement. Half question.
"Yeah." That's part of it.
"That's funny. I don't usually cook for myself. It's so much effort for one."
"Dad too."
"Still." She bites her lip. "You two aren't exactly…"
Not going there. I pull out a cutting board. Motion to the knife.
She nods. Gathers the ingredients. Starts slicing tomatoes.
I put a pot of water on the stove. Find the garlic. The other cutting board. The mincer.
She watches closely as I peel. When she catches me watching her, she raises a brow. Really? "Fresh garlic."
"And?"