Chapter 12
REN
KC and I spent the rest of yesterday afternoon talking.
He asked how Oliver and I knew each other, and instead of answering, I distracted him with kisses.
In between the conversations, he gave me a couple of blowjobs.
There was nothing better than how KC gagged around my pierced cock so deliciously.
It was difficult not to tell him to stay on his knees forever.
He left with a few more mouth-fucking kisses and soft goodbyes, and it was nice to see him go.
His ass was inspirational in those gray sweatpants, and while I hadn’t fucked him, I had plans to remedy that in the very near future.
Oliver, on the other hand, was a different problem. One I had fun messing with. His anger was surprisingly a turn-on. While KC was a sweet puppy, Oliver was a vicious kitten who had his claws out. They were equally hot and my cock wanted both.
I’d told Oliver to stop by today, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to listen to my orders or not. He was an enigma, a person who had me unsure of what he’d do next. He wasn’t what I’d expected, and I was excited about the prospect of locking horns with him.
The morning sun glinted through the wide windows, spreading warmth across my bare arms. I sat back farther on my couch and pulled my phone from my jeans pocket. I found Oliver’s number, the same one Moyle had given me, and typed out a message before sending it.
Ren
I’m waiting.
I pressed my glasses higher up on my nose. While I didn’t always use them for my phone, it strained my eyes when I forgot.
A few moments later, he replied.
Oliver
Who is this?
Ren
You know who it is. Get your tight little ass over here.
For good measure—and because I’m an asshole—I unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, pulled out my half-hard cock, and took a photo. I sent the picture to him with another message.
Ren
Come get me hard. I know you like my cock. You took it like a champ.
I added a cat emoji next to his name with a smirk.
Oliver
Fuck you, asshole.
I laughed and scrubbed my palm over my face. Like I said, a vicious kitten with claws, and I fucking loved it. This was such a tasty turn of events. I sent KC the same picture I’d texted to Oliver, and I received a panting face in response. Their differing personalities made me chuckle.
A knock echoed through my apartment. I rose, half expecting Flint or Wylie, and paused when I came face-to-face with Oliver after I opened the door.
He glowered as I took the time to give him a very slow and pointed once-over.
While I’d told him to swing by, I hadn’t actually expected it to be first thing in the morning, but I certainly wasn’t complaining.
He was dressed to please, not the type of clothes I’d expected him to wear.
The black tank top plastered itself to his sinewy muscles, and the jeans hugged his hips.
He had a pair of military boots, black, with laces undone and the tongue yanked out to sit in front of the eyelets.
A necklace with his father’s Kings of Men ring hung around his neck.
Why didn’t he have it on his hand today?
He’d tucked his sketchbook under his arm.
My mouth twitched. Was he trying to match my style? Certainly seemed like it because that outfit was something I’d own.
“You wear glasses?” he asked, then shook his head sharply, brushing off his own question.
“Come in.” It wasn’t a request. I stepped out of the doorway, giving him room to make his way into my apartment. He hesitated for barely a second before doing as I’d ordered.
“I’m not taking off my shoes,” he grumbled, as though I’d be upset.
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing at his attempt at defiance.
He was clearly outside his wheelhouse. Despite being only a few years younger than me, he’d obviously been sheltered in a way I hadn’t since I was a kid.
The idea was amusing, considering he worked for Luke and regularly interacted with the Kings.
How did someone turn out this way with friends like that?
“Oh no,” I drawled, keeping my tone light and teasing. “You’re a real rebel without a cause. How could you do this to me? You’re going to break my heart.”
His glare narrowed farther and he huffed. “You’re a dick.”
“Yep, and I’ve also got a nice one.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Want to get on your knees and let me take a turn at using your mouth?”
His pale cheeks and neck flushed, red spreading down onto his chest and over his shoulders. I’d never seen a blush take up so much of someone’s upper body. It was cute.
“Shut up.” He shifted his sketchbook to his chest and hugged it like it was armor, as though I wouldn’t just rip it right out of his arms to get to him.
I held out my hand. “Pass it over.”
“No.” He tilted up his chin, eyes flashing in irritation. He alternated which foot he rested his weight on before he inched away from me.
I cocked an eyebrow and took a step forward, then another, bare feet padding across vinyl floor with the stealth of a hunting predator. He kept backing away until he hit a wall, and his shocked realization of being cornered gave me time to snatch the sketchbook out of his arms.
“Hey!” He attempted to reach for it again, but I held it over my head. I was a lot taller than him, and he had no chance, but that didn’t stop him from jumping and trying to steal it back.
“Enough,” I growled, using the tip of my pointer finger to shove the middle of his forehead, sending him backward again.
His glare intensified. “Why are you such an asshole?”
“You can thank my family,” I answered without missing a beat. “You need to come up with better insults than that, pretty kitty.”
His shoulders slumped as the fight left him, warping his face into frustration as he walked back until he met the wall again. He leaned against it, sighing. “Fuck you.”
I tsked with a smirk. “No, I fucked you.”
“Very original.” He rolled his eyes and waved his hand impatiently. “Fine, open it. That’s what you want, right? Do it. Tear me down like everyone else. Tell me how bad they are.”
I froze and took in his expression, his anger bleeding out as heartache and disappointment.
His shoulders slumped and his mouth pursed, and he curled in on himself again, an action I’d noticed when he was trying to hide from inevitable defeat.
How many people had crushed him over the years?
I’d learned a long time ago not to base my worth on other people’s opinions, but obviously that was a life skill Oliver hadn’t acquired yet.
I opened the cover of his sketchbook, coming face-to-face with a drawing that was okay but not great.
His rendering wasn’t quite right for his perceived light source and the perspective wasn’t perfect.
Little things were off all over the place.
As I flipped each page, I took note of his technique and the expertise he lacked.
Shit, it was easy to see why PD wouldn’t take him on.
While Oliver wasn’t terrible, he wasn’t at the level someone needed to be if they wanted to be a tattoo artist. Human skin was a different canvas, one that was irreversible.
Mastering composition and linework was a must before anyone picked up ink and needles.
Of course, these things were the reasons apprenticeships existed. There was never any shortage of people willing to volunteer to be guinea pigs for a free tattoo, no matter how bad it might be in the end.
Despite the easy to spot issues, his art was beautiful.
He’d poured his emotions into the sketches, the lines crafted with anger.
Longing. Desperation. Creative works were our outlets, filled with a humanity no machine could replicate.
In these sexy drawings of muscular men, I saw Oliver’s hunger.
His hopes. His dreams. His pain and pleasure.
And God, it wasn’t difficult to pick out Oliver’s influences. Red hair and muscles were everywhere. I stopped when I was staring at a muscled, redheaded lumberjack whose dick was about to bust out of his jeans. It didn’t take Freud to know what Oliver wanted to do with KC.
I licked my lips.
Poor Oliver with his sharp claws and broken heart.
He yearned for more, eager for the future of his choosing. Unfortunately, for now, his illustrations needed refining. But that was the human experience, too.
Practicing. Perfecting. Trying again and again to get what we want. Be who we want to be.
“Hmm.” I glanced up at him from under my lashes, taking in the nerves that flittered across his face and the stress in the way he held his shoulders close to his ears.
He chewed the corner of his lip, clenching his hands together until his knuckles turned white.
This version of Oliver was adorable, but I preferred it when he was spitting venom and hurling insults.
“I can tell by your drawings that you’re leaning toward realism or that 1950s lushness that isn’t quite reality.
You could probably work on a webtoon, something that it would be okay to get better over time with.
I can see that here. You’re good with color.
But your linework and perspective need to be refined.
You’ve only got one shot when the work is permanent.
You don’t want to be practicing these kinds of things on a person. Well, at least not someone paying.”
His entire body slumped against the wall, all his irritation bleeding out into complete and utter disappointment. I didn’t miss the wetness in his eyes or how he turned his chin in an attempt to inconspicuously wipe tears away.
“But you have raw talent and that’s rare.” I ignored the surprise that echoed through my brain.
Why was I being nice? It made no sense.