Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RAINE
I f days could be labeled as perfect, this one would have the title. We spent the day outside in the snow before sharing a steamy hot shower. He insisted it was two degrees shy of Hell but stopped complaining after I grabbed his erection and turned the heat up until we were both coming. Afterward, we made chicken noodle soup. Now, he’s giving me a foot massage while I draw in my notebook as an NHL game plays on the television.
See? Perfect .
As my pencil scratches against the paper in a long, thin stroke, I feel Everett’s stare and stop moving. When my eyes flick over to him, I ask, “Is there a problem?”
“You move your lips when you draw.”
I frown. “I do?”
He nods gently. “Yeah. It’s cute as shit.”
I roll my eyes and start drawing again, but he squeezes my foot, demanding my attention.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Can I look?”
“You’ve looked before,” I remind him .
“Can I look again?”
Instead of offering him the notebook, I close the cover and hug it to my chest. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On why you want to look.”
“Someone’s protective of their work,” he notes.
Part of me feels like I should point out I’m only protective when I care about the person’s opinion, but I cough up the notebook anyway and offer it to him.
Gently, he takes it from me and carefully flips through the pages while I keep my feet in his lap and study the side of his face. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. The sharp edge I sit on whenever someone sees my work. The way I prepare myself for criticism or compliments, unsure which one I’ll receive. That’s the thing about art. How differently it can be taken. And putting something down on paper to open yourself up to criticism? It’s terrifying. But bottling it up isn’t any better. So, where does it leave me? On pins and needles, that’s where.
“Hmm,” Everett hums. The sound is low and throaty and makes me want to scoot closer as his gaze flits across the paper. “I like this one.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“The hawk.”
Relief shoots through me. “Of course, you like the hawk,” I tease. “LAU through and through, right?”
“It’s in my blood,” he agrees.
“Want to know something about him?”
He shifts the notebook a bit to the left, changing the angle as he continues staring at the hawk. “What?”
“I drew it the night we met.”
His gaze snaps to me. “No shit?”
I laugh. “It was during the game. You managed to grab my attention even then, Everett Taylor. ”
His smile softens, and he reaches for my wrist, tugging me to a seated position while keeping my feet in his lap and my notebook in his opposite hand. Once I’m hauled up, I rest my head on his shoulder, and he lets me go, continuing his perusal of my work.
“How long have you wanted to be a tattoo artist?” he asks.
“A while.”
“You don’t have any tattoos.”
“You noticed, huh?”
“Most tattoo artists I’ve seen look like your dad.”
My lips curve up as I nuzzle a little closer to his side. “Technically, I’m not an official tattoo artist yet, but yeah. My dad’s a sucker for tattoos.”
“And you aren’t?” he challenges.
Resting my chin on his shoulder, I peek up at him and hedge, “I am.”
“Yet you don’t have any,” he repeats.
“I’m, uh, I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
My cheeks heat. “I haven’t actually tattooed anybody.”
With a frown, he tilts his head. “What does that have to do with you getting one?”
It’s a good question, one I’m embarrassed to answer. No one knows this. Not my dad or mom. Not Drake. It’s a secret I’ve kept close to my chest for as long as I can remember. But for some reason I genuinely can’t explain, I’m tempted to tell him the truth, no matter how juvenile it might sound.
Shielding the side of my face with my hair, I look down at my feet in his lap and warn, “It’s weird.”
“You should tell me,” he pushes. “Please?”
Please.
Oh, what this man can make me say.
“Honestly?” I pause, hating how stupid my answer feels now that I’m about to actually voice it aloud. “I kind of want to, like…commemorate the first tattoo I give by getting a matching one. My first job with my first tattoo. Weird, right?”
He stays quiet, and I roll my eyes.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“It’s not a yes, just, uh, damn .” He turns back to the notebook and drags his fingers along a pair of hands sketched onto the paper.
“Damn?” I repeat. The familiar pang of shame and fear swirl together, leaving me on pins and needles as I study the side of his face.
“It’s a lot of trust in a random stranger.” He keeps perusing my work, slowly lifting the pages one after another. “What if they want you to tattoo a dick or something?”
I snort. “They’re not gonna ask for a dick.”
“You don’t know that,” he argues. “It could be anything. It’s their choice. All I’m saying is it’s a lot of trust in someone you don’t know.”
“Guess I’ll have to choose my first client wisely,” I concede.
It’s interesting. Watching him analyze my art. The way his tongue darts out between his lips and his eyes drag across the page. Seriously. It isn’t fair how handsome he is. And I don’t know if it’s because he actually cares about my work or if it’s because I’ve managed to slip past his asshole personality and see the ooey-gooey center he hides from the world, but I like it. I like him . Way more than I ever thought possible.
Oblivious to the heart pangs I get any time we’re in the same room together, he challenges, “What if it’s a girl’s name or an anniversary date or a heart tattoo with I love Mom in the middle?”
With a laugh, I lift one shoulder. “Hey, I love my mom as much as the next person, so…I guess it’s fine? ”
He looks up at me and quirks his brow, like I’m literally the craziest person he’s ever met.
“And will you please stop looking at me like I’ve grown a second head or whatever?” I add.
Hands raised in defeat, he concedes, “All right, all right. When do you get to do your first tattoo? Is there a checklist or something?”
“I mean, yes and no,” I hedge. “Technically, I have my own machine, so I could do it whenever, but…”
“But?”
Stalling, I wet my lips. “I don’t know. I guess I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
My lips bunch, and I lift my shoulder again, knowing I don’t have an answer, let alone one he’ll accept.
“So, you’re a coward,” he teases. And honestly, it’s surprising. Witnessing this side of Everett. The playful side. The softer side. The non-asshole Everett. Even if he did call me something offensive.
Biting back my amusement, I argue, “I’m not a coward, it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s a lot of pressure, okay?”
His laugh turns my insides into knots as he flips through my notebook at a quicker pace. “This is awesome. This is awesome.” He pauses at a picture of a bull with massive horns and a pierced nose. “Even this is awesome.” Slapping it closed, he gives me his full attention again. “You’re talented, Stormie. There’s no shame in that.”
My heart flutters in my chest, but I shake it off and reopen my notebook, attempting to see my hard work the same way he does. Without the mistakes or the erase marks or the tiny details driving me nuts, no matter how minute they are .
“See?” His warm, minty breath hits the side of my face. “Talented.”
“Let’s say you’re right.” I peek up at him again, my notebook forgotten. “Being talented on paper doesn’t mean I’m talented on skin.”
“And I think you need to give yourself a little more credit.” He folds his arms and settles back into the cushions. I know this look. I’ve seen it when he’s around his friends. His sister. It’s confidence. Confidence in me. My potential. My talent.
Ignoring the way it makes me want to squirm, I murmur, “I’ll work on it.”
“Good. And while you work on it, I’ll pick my tattoo.” He reopens the notebook, but I snag it from him and toss it onto the coffee table in front of us.
“You think you’re so funny,” I quip.
He smirks. “Not usually, but I’ll take it.”
I snort and loop my hands around his bicep, squeezing tenderly. “Speaking of tattoos, though.”
“Yeah?”
“My, uh, my brother’s coming into town for a concert, and…” I look down at my hands, unable to finish the sentence while simultaneously preparing for a fight.
“And your dad’s calling in that introduction,” Everett finishes for me. “Not sure if you remember, but he mentioned it when he almost ripped my head off.”
I asked Everett to sit in the car while waiting for me to finish my shifts. It’s probably the coward’s way out, but I can’t help it. My dad hates him. He didn’t even have to officially meet the guy, and he still hates him. The prospect of Everett meeting my brother on top of my dad makes me feel about as comfortable as getting a nipple piercing without numbing cream.
No, thank you .
“I’ve been putting it off,” I admit, “but with my brother coming into town, I don’t think I can push it off any longer. Not when you take me to and from work, and?—”
“Okay.”
I jolt back, surprised.
He gives in so easily. Like it isn’t a big deal. Meeting my family. I spent months trying to convince Drake to give my family the time of day. To give them one afternoon. One meeting. Yet here Everett is, complying without batting an eye.
I look up at him again and search his expression for any hint of frustration or annoyance, but I don’t find anything out of the ordinary. Nope. Just the unapologetic Everett I’ve grown accustomed to since moving in with him.
“You’re still okay meeting my family?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t…I don’t know?”
His warm hand envelops my calf once more, and he squeezes softly. “Before the fort, I’d say we might need to figure out a game plan or something, but now this is real, so I don’t see a problem with meeting your family. Do you?”
Damn, those baby blues. The way I swear they pierce every single protective layer I’ve woven around my heart with a single look. It leaves me vulnerable and…curious. What it would be like. To trust myself enough to let him in completely.
Don’t get me wrong. I have been letting him in. One day at a time. One positive interaction at a time. One homemade cookie or from scratch meal at a time. He’s a guy I’m proud of. A guy I want beside me. But Drake used to be that guy. What if I’m wrong again? What if my gut is…a bad judge of character?
I bite my bottom lip, unsure what to say because honestly? I don’t have a problem with Everett meeting my family for real, but I also don’t know how to handle Everett being so…easy about meeting my family for real when all Drake ever did was bitch and moan about the prospect alone.
“Is there a problem, Stormie?” Everett prods.
“They’re going to interrogate you,” I point out.
“Okay.”
“And they’re going to threaten you.”
He smirks. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“And they’ll follow through on it, too.”
“If Drew hurt Fin, I’d be the same way,” he volleys back.
I frown. “You’re really okay with this?”
“I said I was,” he reminds me. Crinkles of amusement line his eyes, but even then, I’m not sure what to say or do or…anything really. “Is this about Drake?” he prods.
His name hits like a baseball bat, but I try to hide the air as it whooshes from my lungs.
“No?” I offer.
The same soft smile toys at the edge of his lips. “You sure?”
“No?” I repeat hesitantly.
“I’m gonna go with yes, this is about Drake.” He squeezes my calf again. “With all the shit he put you through, I want you to know I get it. And I know you know this, but I’ll reiterate it anyway, all right? I’m not him.”
“I know you’re not.”
“Raine.” His touch is gentle as he grabs my chin and turns me toward him. “I’m. Not. Him.”
Nibbling the inside of my cheek, I nod, willing myself to believe him. “I know you’re not.”
He searches my eyes as if debating whether or not he believes me either. Dropping his hand, he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. The kiss is warm and sweet and innocent and only makes me fall for him more .
When he pulls away seconds later, Everett asks, “So, when do I meet the infamous Dodger Anders?”
I square my shoulders and prepare myself for the inevitable. Everett’s going to meet Dodge. And my dad.
Shit.
“In two weeks,” I force out.
“Two weeks.” He nods. “Got it. Which brings us to our next order of business.”
“What’s that?”
He pauses, and I swear I can feel the shift in the air, like he’s preparing himself for a kick to the crotch. “We, uh, we play the Grizzlies next weekend.”
My abs tighten on reflex, and I exhale slowly in an attempt to cover the flight or fight response flooding my system from the mere mention of Drake’s team, let alone the devil himself. Surprisingly, Drake isn’t a usual topic of conversation between me and Everett. Bringing him up twice in a two-minute span is more than I can handle.
My mouth feels like it’s been coated in cotton, but I force out, “Oh?”
“On their ice,” he adds.
My stomach bottoms out, and I stare at my hands, clicking my nails back and forth as I fight back the urge to yell at Everett when we both know he doesn’t deserve it. Still. The timeline makes sense. Why Everett’s been begging his coach to get back on the ice. He wants to play against Drake. To prove whatever shitshow Drake put him through a few weeks ago means nothing and he’s still the better player. The better man.
It shouldn't terrify me, but it does. The idea of them facing off. The idea of anything to do with Drake, in general. I wish I could take it back. Every moment with him. Wish I could erase it from everyone’s memory, including my own. Wish I could’ve been stronger. Could’ve seen who he really was.
“Stormie,” Everett murmurs.
The warmth in his voice cuts through the ice in my veins, and I peek up at him. “You’re going, I assume?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course I am.” He squeezes my calf again. “You think I’d stay away when I finally have a chance to legally beat the shit out of the guy?”
My expression falls. “Ev?—”
“Sorry, Stormie, but I wouldn’t miss this game for the world.” He leans forward and kisses me again, though I’m too frozen to reciprocate. “Have you heard from him lately?”
I shake my head. “Not since Spin the Bottle .”
“Do you want to come?” he prods.
My lips part on a staggered breath as I carefully consider showing up. Of facing him again. It’s stupid. He’s merely a person. A shitty person. A shitty person I want nothing to do with yet can’t seem to escape, no matter how much I try.
Do I want to see him again? No. No, I really don’t. But do I want to give him the power to keep me from attending a game my boyfriend’s playing? Not really. He’s already stolen enough moments from me. Adding this to the list feels…wrong. In a way, all of it does.
“Raine?” Everett prods. “Do you want to come?”
“I don’t…I don’t know,” I whisper.
It’s so weird. Talking about this. How easily Drake can completely taint a conversation, let alone a pretty awesome evening together.
“My parents are coming, too,” Everett adds.
“To the away game?”
He nods. “Yeah. You could sit with them. If you want.”
Sitting with his family? Why does it feel even more intimate than actually holding hands and snuggling on the couch with the guy ?
Because it’s the next step. The next phase. Making this even more real. More… more.
I never got this far with Drake. In a way, I’m not sure I ever wanted to, even though it was so easy to blame him for not being interested in crossing that particular bridge. The truth is, I’m not sure either of us wanted to cross it. To move our relationship to the next level. But with Ev? Am I crazy for considering it? Maybe.
“Is it a bad idea?” he asks. “You sitting with my family?”
“Do you want me to sit with your family?”
“Yeah, of course I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have invited you.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“You’re important to me, Storm. They’ll love you.”
“Then, no,” I answer. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“You sure?” he asks, throwing my own words back at me.
Am I sure?
My brows crease before I smile back at Ev. It’s small and weak, but I cling to it nonetheless. “Yeah. It’s actually…really sweet of you,” I decide. “Wanting me to meet your family.”
“I can be sweet.” He kisses my cheek, and I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his lips against my skin.
“You can be very sweet,” I agree.
He kisses my cheek again, this time closer to my lips. “I want you there.”
With a slow nod, I give in. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“That’s my girl.”