Chapter 7
Flipping through the thick flower encyclopedia at my station, I stop on the Lady Slipper. Earlier, on my lunch break, when I was absolutely not spying on a certain chef at Dragonfly, I’d ducked into the bookstore and picked up this book. Real flowers, real reference. Good idea in theory.
My current sketch? Garbage.
I stare at the lopsided petals and crooked lines. “Shit-tastic,” I mutter, and crumple the page harder than necessary, channeling all my frustration into the throw.
It lands at my feet.
Of course it does.
I sigh. Ninth attempt. It’s supposed to be a simple wildflower piece—woven stems, clean symmetry—built from actual species instead of a “generic flower blob.” But the more I try to get it right, the more it looks like clip art that lost a fight.
“Your throw is shit,” someone observes.
I look up to see Jaxon filling the doorway, arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Wow,” I say. “So kind. So supportive.”
Jaxon gives me a cheesy-ass grin. “My pleasure.” He looks around, taking in all the other crumpled-up pieces of paper. Just like Taylor… lying there on the floor.
I lean back in my chair, raising an eyebrow at him. “What?”
Instead of answering, he pushes off the frame, grabs a busted stool, and drops onto it. It protests loudly.
“We need new chairs,” I mutter.
“So,” he says. “How long are you planning on sitting here brooding?”
I scoff. “What? I’m not…”
He reaches over and casually slides the flower book aside, revealing, unfortunately, a collection of doodles that look suspiciously like Lucas. With bug eyes. And devil horns.
I snatch one up, crumple it. “Whatever, did you see the guy at the carnival? He was all over Beckett, couldn’t keep his hands off his ass. What kind of person does that at a kids’ carnival, for Christ’s sake?”
Jaxon tries but fails to smother a laugh.
I glare. It has the same impact it’s had for the last decade: none.
“Umm, I believe he was helping Beckett get frosting off his jeans after he sat on a cupcake.”
“Yeah, well, his slimy friend could’ve sat it on his chair for that very reason,” I grumble, knowing full well that I’m being ridiculous as fuck… and an ass. I sigh.
“What is going on with you? Do I need to get him in here? Hey, Finn!” he yells.
I roll my eyes as Finn’s head pops around the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Please tell our dramatic friend that Beckett and Lucas are just friends,” Jaxon says.
Finn chuckles. “As far as I know, Lucas and Beckett are friends and have only ever been friends.”
I scoff. “Do you really even know the guy?”
Finn’s easygoing expression shifts. He steps in, shoulders squaring. “Yeah, Dom, I do. Lucas once drove three hours to pick Beckett up after he locked his keys in his car and couldn’t afford a tow. Didn’t ask for anything. Just showed up.”
That hits like a punch to the gut. Fuck! I’m an asshole.
Jaxon snorts. “Between Beckett and Olly, we could start a locksmith hotline.”
“Did someone say locksmith?” Jasper’s voice pipes up behind Finn, making me jump.
“When the fuck did you get here?” I ask.
He looks up from his phone. “What? After the last time Olly locked his keys in his car, I saved the tow company’s number.”
We all give him the same look.
He shrugs. “He feeds me cupcakes and toffee bars. It’s the least I can do.” Then he clears his throat. “Hey, boss, I’ve got another doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so I’ll be a little late.”
Jaxon gives Jasper the once-over. Ever since he passed out at work, hitting his head, we’ve all been worried.
I can only hope Olly will be there for him, giving him a shoulder to lean on…
or a dick to bounce on. But that last part is just pure speculation at this point.
I’ve seen the way they are with each other. They were pretty cozy at the carnival.
“Yeah, of course. Take all the time you need. I can have Mira push your appointments…”
“She already did,” Jasper says. “First one’s at two.”
“Perfect. Thanks for staying on top of it.”
Jasper nods and slips away.
My best friend works his ass off. He built Ink Me from the ground up, completely on his own. Ink Me exists because he made it exist. Which makes the knot in my chest twist tighter.
Because in the middle of all that loyalty and history, I went and kissed Beckett.
Worst part? It wasn’t the kiss that fucked it up. It was me running.
I scrub a hand over my face. “I screwed up.”
“You think?” Jaxon asks mildly.
“I—” The words stick. “He’s already been through so much shit. I was supposed to watch out for him, not…” I gesture vaguely, encompassing kissing, wanting, bolting. “Not confuse him more.”
“You’re being unfair,” Jaxon says, cutting through the noise in my head. “To him, and to yourself. Have you even tried to get to know Lucas?”
Jaxon was close with Beckett’s dad before he died, and he feels a great sense of honor toward him. Which, for Jaxon, means watching over his son as if he were his own.
So what do I go and do? Ugh, I fucked up.
“You’re the one who told me not to trust him,” I shoot back. “You asked me to keep an eye out.”
“I did,” Jaxon says. “And I stand by it. Keep your friends close, enemies closer. You don’t figure out which is which by glowering from a corner. I talked to him at the carnival, and Finn vouched for him. He sounds like a good friend to Beckett.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re right. I’m being an ass.”
“I’m always right,” he smirks. “Plus, maybe you should think more about why you’re so jealous of Lucas?
” Jaxon says as he pats me on the shoulder and heads to the door.
“I just need to know that he’s okay. But he’s a grown man, Dom.
He can sleep with whomever he wants.” And with those words of wisdom, my best friend walks out the door.
“Domenico, my sweet boy. It’s not Thursday. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“Ciao, Aunt Sofia. What, I can’t call my favorite aunt on any day that isn’t Thursday?”
“Not when he knows it’s my weekly card night.”
I chuckle. I do know this. Once a week, my aunt gets together with her girlfriends and plays Briscola, an old Italian card game, over a glass of wine. Ms. Brandy and Ms. Cook have the illicit wine hookup; I try not to think too hard about it.
“You don’t have to be there for another two hours.”
“A woman of my age does not simply arrive,” she sniffs. “She must prepare. These bones are not what they were.”
I grin and let out a chuckle. “Didn’t you run a marathon last year?”
“Yes, and I’m never doing that again.” We may tease, but I’m so freaking proud of her. She’s in her sixties, but still going off on adventures and always trying new things… like marathon running.
I sink onto the edge of my couch, rubbing a hand over my face.
I love my aunt Sofia. Growing up, my parents and I didn’t get along… at all. Factor in my coming out in my late teens, and our communication has now become nonexistent. Except for a once-a-month phone call from my asshole father.
“Tell me what is on your mind, caro,” she says, slipping into that soft Italian that always gets past my armor.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Always.”
“Was my dad ever a good man?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Domenico,” she says gently. “We have talked about this. You are not your father, and you never will be. Tu decidi la tua strada—you choose your path. When we were young, he had good parts, but—”
“But what if…”
“Your want to be in control is very different from your father’s need to be abusive at the top of every pyramid.
You place your trust in your partner just as your partner is placing their trust in you.
There is mutual love and respect. Your father did not love or respect anyone, which is why he’s sitting in prison.
Where the fucker rightfully belongs. Brother of mine or not. ”
I know she’s right, but it’s too late. I already kissed him and then ran away like a big giant baby. What does that make me?
I shake my head. Then I remember the conversation and with whom I’m having it.
My aunt Sofia is a very sex-positive woman.
Which is a good thing. There’s too much shame surrounding sex and sexual desires.
To me, sexuality plays a big role in what drives who we are.
All that being said, talking to her about my sex life is just… shudder.
“So, who’s the boy?”
“Why do you think there’s a boy?” I ask, even though she can absolutely hear the lie.
“You wouldn’t be asking about your father and your future if there weren’t.”
“It’s just a friend,” I say. The lie tastes thin. “And I might’ve screwed it up before it even started.”
The kiss. The run. The jealous bullshit at the carnival. A perfect trifecta.
I startle at the knock on my door. It’s after eight, and I’m not expecting anyone. With my hackles on the rise, I peer out the small window next to my door.
“Umm, Aunt Sofia, I’m going to have to let you go. I’ll call you next week. We can do dinner.”
“It’s the boy, isn’t it?”
Jesus, Mother of Mary. “Aunt Sofia!” I hiss.
“Fine. But Domenico…” Her tone softens again. “You must decide about the hearing. It’s next month.”
“I know. I just need a little more time.”
“And remember,” she says firmly. “You are nothing like your father. Let yourself love. Feel it. Your life is about to change, caro bambino. I can feel it.”
I give a noncommittal hum before hanging up the phone and opening the door. My heart rate kicks up, and I swallow thickly. “Beckett.”
He stands there, eyes blazing, chest heaving like he sprinted the whole way. He points a finger at me.
“Fuck you.”
My brows shoot up. “Okay.” Ohhh, he’s pissed.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, he pushes past me, knocking me into the door. I shut it and turn to find him pacing my living room, energy sparking off him in waves.
“Fuck you!”
“So you’ve said.”
He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get to act like you give a damn about me, kiss me like that, then walk away like a giant coward and follow it up by getting jealous. So yeah. Fuck you, Dom.”
Guilt punches clean through my chest. Yeah. I earned that.
“I’m sorry,” I start, taking a step toward him.
He stops, spins. “You’re sorry? For which part?” His voice cracks loudly in the quiet room.
All the air leaves my lungs as his arrow hits its intended target. I really, really fucked up.
“I don’t regret getting to know you,” I finally say. “Or giving a damn about what’s going on with you. A lot of people in this town care.”
“So you kissed me for what? To squeeze information out of me?” His eyes shine, furious. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you hovering. Real classy, Dom.”
“What? No. No. Is that what you think?” Panic snaps through me.
“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he yells, arms in the air.
“Wait,” I say, moving fast.
As he passes, I catch him around the waist and pull him back against me, desperate to ground both of us. His back hits my chest, solid and tense. For a second, he fights, muscles flexing under my grip.
“Let go.”
“Please,” I breathe against his ear. “Just… wait a second.”
He struggles once more, then stills, breathing sharply. I shouldn’t notice the way he fits against me. I shouldn’t breathe him in. Sandalwood, lavender, and something warm and undeniably him. Everything within me aches.
“Why did you have to play me, Dom? Just like him.” His voice is so quiet at the end, I almost miss it.
“Who played you, Beckett?”
He shakes his head, voice fraying. “I can’t. I can’t talk about it. Please, just…”
“Okay,” I say quickly. “Okay. I hear you.” I force myself to keep my hold steady, not trapping him, just there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run. I got spooked, and that’s on me.”
My hands slip under his shirt, gliding across the soft skin before finding his nipples.
“There’s a reason I don’t do relationships,” I admit, voice low. “I’m intense. I like control. I like knowing the person with me wants that from me. That they trust me with it.”
He draws a sharp breath.
“I watched my father use control to break people,” I say. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the opposite of that. So when I want someone this much, when I want to put my hands on him and call him mine…” I swallow. “I second-guess every instinct.”
His head tilts just enough that I catch the edge of his profile. His voice is quieter when he speaks. “You think you hurt me by wanting me?”
“I think I hurt you by kissing you and then making you doubt why,” I say. “I never, never wanted you to think you were an assignment. Or leverage. Or some puzzle for me to solve for Jaxon. You’re not.”
Beckett exhales shakily. “You are a boneheaded dick sometimes.”
“I know.” I dip my head, letting my mouth brush his temple, simple and soft. “I’m trying not to be.”
He turns then, inside my arms instead of out of them, looking up at me from too close. His eyes are wet and angry and stubborn and gorgeous.
His throat works as he swallows. “You like control.”
“With someone who chooses it,” I say. “Someone who can tell me to stop and knows I will. Who knows that if I ever say ‘mine,’ it’s about taking care of him, not owning him.”
The tension between us tightens, shifts—anger cooling into something hotter, sharper, more fragile.
“Beckett,” I murmur. “If you can’t trust that yet, I get it. If you walk out, I’ll deal. But don’t think for a second any of this was about using you.”
Finally, his fingers curl in my shirt. “Then don’t run again,” he says.
“Never. But I’ll worship your body at my pace.
I decide how you come and when.” I suck his skin.
“You’ll go to your knees for me simply because I ask you to.
I’m possessive. Like that little stunt you pulled at the carnival?
There will definitely be consequences for that. Do you think you can handle that?”