Chapter 22 #2
“Seeing my things in your closet.”
“Having an anniversary of our own.”
“Being the woman who sits close to you in a booth and presses her hand to your lapel.”
“Sharing something between us, that only we can share.”
“Knowing you better than anyone else.”
Everything she saw for our future, the things she wanted, they were all so Juliette.
Longing for more of me, more of us, interweaving our new relationship with everything in our old lives, coming together, building new memories–if it weren’t for the sweet cunt flooding my tongue, her vision may have made me emotional.
After rolling her over and fucking her into the mattress for the fourth time in the span of a few hours, I let her doze as I order a handful of dresses, heels, and coats to the house.
Though I know I can’t ask her to move in one millisecond after we’ve started things, I also equally couldn’t fathom her leaving me right now.
Anyway, I’m going to spend the rest of my life ordering her all the things she was told she couldn’t wear, from Harry or any other idiot.
Juliette will have everything, and this is just the start.
“Is that Damien?” Juliette shouts in my ear, fighting to be heard over the rumble of bass and crowd of bar-goers.
A niggle of jealousy worms up my spine as I peer over the top of heads, spying the man behind the bar.
“Yes,” I confirm, though I already knew it was him.
Damien, as mentioned before, is the best, and he’s partially the best because bartending is his passion, not his income.
I invite him to every location, every opening, every party. He’s a good guy, and I trust him.
But when Juliette lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers at him, I don’t miss the expression that briefly washes over his face.
The desire that overcomes him. I curl my hand in my pocket, and smile at Juliette.
“That’s him. Yes. He’s my best bartender, we move him around locations for big events.
He’s great at managing the other bartenders. ”
She tugs her purse up her shoulder. “I’m going to go say hello. And hey, maybe he can introduce me to some staff so I’ll know more than two people here.”
I nod my head, and watch her untangle her fingers from mine before disappearing into the herd of folks.
When we first arrived, I introduced her to Magda as my girlfriend, and it’s been rolling off my tongue with ease ever since.
We went out back to see the fire breathers, we watched the burlesque dancers do their thing in the back private party room, and now, while waiting for Juliette to chat with Damien, I’m about to check up on the last activity.
I outstretch my hand as my favorite tattoo artist on the planet gets to his feet, tugging his purple glove off before slapping his palm to mine. “Trace, how are you, man?”
Trace Calhoun, the star of tattooing reality show Trace Tats, and the man revered as one of the most gifted tattoo artists ever.
A woman appears at his side, eyes lined in black, combat boots eating up her feet.
She tucks a piece of dark hair behind her ear, and I smile between the two of them.
“This must be Ivy,” I outstretch my hand to her, smiling while she glares at me.
“Yeah, this is my wife, Ivy. She’s an artist, too.
Better than me,” he says, twisting his gaze toward her.
He smiles, and her eyes smile though her lips remain in a flat line.
Ivy’s hand goes to her throat, where she runs her fingers over the grooved edge of a key on her necklace. “I’m not better. But I’m good.”
Peering behind them, I see the tattooing station has a line wrapping the wall out into a hallway.
My eyes veer to the person next in line, a man in his twenties, his smart phone out, waiting to tap to pay for his impromptu ink.
Leaning over the partition placed around the chair, I smile. “Mind if I cut in, quickly?”
The man rolls his eyes. “Wait in line like the rest of us, grandpa.”
I dig into my pocket, and retrieve my credit card, handing it to the woman with Trace and Ivy, who is likely their assistant. “Here, I’ll pay for his tattoo.” I cut my eyes to the man, who is stuffing his phone away, smiling. “Sure, go ahead. Thanks gra–man.”
I slide into the seat, and tell Trace and Ivy just what I want. When I’m done, they cover the new ink, and I slide my shirt back on, then pull each suspender on, one at a time.
The man next in line climbs into the chair, watching as I slide one arm in my suit jacket, adjusting the cufflink. “You got a lot of ink,” he comments. “Who did all those?”
I clamp my hand on the back of Trace’s neck. “This man right here.”
I say goodbye to Trace and his wife, happy they agreed to make the pilgrimage from their rural small town to the wild city.
I find Juliette, finally, in the crowd, talking to a man wearing a blue and white pinstripe suit that looks off the rack, and cheap.
I slip my hand into hers, and watch the disappointment fill his features as I kiss her knuckles and ask to be introduced.
We make our rounds that way, a few more times, and by the time we’re waiting for the valet to bring up my car, I’m rock hard and need her physical connection more than ever.
“Come home with me. I know you need things, but I can buy things for you until we figure out what makes sense.”
She giggles. “I have to go back. At some point. I have things there. Underwear. Makeup. Stuff.”
“I know, but tonight–” I’ve turned impossibly needy and possessive, and I can’t say that I hate it. “I’ve shared you enough. I want you all to myself.”
Juliette smiles. “Done.”