Strelitzias in Spring

18. Serena

In my former life, I must have been a terrible person because that is the only reason why I felt compelled to agree to meet with Wolf the day after he pissed me off.

I worked in the tutoring center from nine until two, and following up my day spent correcting grammar and comma splices with Wolf’s shitty attitude seems like a unique form of torture. Truthfully, I’m not sure why I keep putting myself in this position, especially since he barely seems to tolerate my presence.

My phone vibrates in my cup holder, and I pick it up, smiling to myself when I see a notification for my group chat with Ava and CeCe, then frowning when I spot the text from Meg. Meg has reached out to me a few times since last weekend, but I’ve placated her questions with brief, vague answers that don’t do much except communicate, “Leave me alone.”

What happened last weekend isn’t her fault; hell, it’s no one’s fault except for Dylan’s. But I can’t help but associate her with the event since she’s so deeply ingrained in all of my sorority experiences. It makes me a really shitty friend.

Swiping her message, I read it quickly.

Meg: Hey, Little! Let’s get lunch next week? We have a lot to catch up on. I ran into Jack at the house this morning, and he mentioned that he had seen you. Is it okay to give him your number?

I bite down on my lower lip, considering her question. On the one hand, Jack is handsome, came to my defense, and seems to be genuinely interested in me. Glancing toward the tattoo shop, I think about how different it feels when I see Wolf, like a hoard of butterflies diving and dipping and dancing beneath my skin.

But whatever I feel for Wolf, whatever attraction there is, is misplaced.

Making a decision that I’m sure I’ll regret, I respond to Meg.

Serena: Hey, I’d love to get lunch next week. Yes, I ran into Jack; you can give him my number.

Swiping out of the conversation as soon as the message is sent, I open the group chat.

Ava: Serena, I have two questions. First and foremost, what are your thoughts on organ meat? A hard no or down to try? Secondly, when will you be home, and can I use your kitchen to test out a recipe for my international foods class? I’d try it at Grey’s house, but he’s pissing me off, and I may pull a Celeste if I have to suffer in his presence for another minute.

CeCe: Pull a Celeste?

Ava: You know, threaten to cause bodily harm to my boyfriend because he pissed me off. Not everyone can look like a cute Cabbage Patch kid when angered.

CeCe: Sod off.

Serena: C, are you watching Masterpiece Theatre again?

CeCe: I started watching a show on ITV. It’s bloody brilliant.

Ava: Good God, you are not British.

Serena: …Anyway, as long as you don’t make liver and onions, it’s fine. But just a disclaimer: I probably won’t eat it.

Ava: Fair enough. Does tomorrow work?

I confirm with Ava, letting both her and CeCe know that they could come at anytime tomorrow before shoving my phone in my bag and twisting my key to pull it out of the ignition. In the silence of the car, I give myself a mental pep talk that no, this will not result in another heated argument, and no, I will not let my temper ignite if Wolf says something stupid.

I correct myself; it’s not if he says something stupid, but when.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I mutter to myself and push open my door. I have a profound sense of déjà vu as I step out of my car and look at the front of the building. Each time I’ve been here, I’ve had to mentally corral my emotions, like I’m herding a bunch of cats out of a room with wallpaper.

I don’t dwell on those butterflies I’m feeling, nor do I call upon the residual anger I’m harboring from yesterday. Instead, I breathe in a deep breath and center myself, focusing on remaining calm before I start the walk across the parking lot to the entrance of the tattoo parlor.

I don’t pause when I reach the door. Yanking it open, I step over the threshold like I’ve been here plenty of times before—which, at this point, is true enough. Aubrey pauses in her assistance of a client and furrows her brow, looking at me with confusion. “Am I hallucinating right now? Weren’t you here yesterday?”

“Your boss made me come in again.”

Looking from me to the customer in front of her, she holds up her hand, telling them that she’ll be with them in one minute as she makes her way over to me. “So, you’re the reason why he’s had such a pissy attitude all day. It’s all starting to make so much sense.”

I shake my head, denying her words. “No, maybe he has indigestion or a stick lodged so firmly up his ass that he can’t sit properly. I think those are more plausible explanations for his attitude.”

“What was that about a stick up my ass, princess?”

Dammit.

“Nothing. I didn’t say that,” I respond before turning around and gasping at the split skin and swollenness surrounding his eye. “What happened to you?”

He arches an eyebrow and smirks his stupidly full lips. “What, you’re the only one who can wear bruises on your body?”

“Spare me. Seriously, are you okay?” I reach out to touch his face before remembering where we are and who we are and dropping it back to my side. I’m no detective, but he had no marred features last night when I saw him, so something had to have occurred sometime between the time I left the shop and before I arrived.

“I’m fine, Serena. I went to the gym this morning to help my coach train one of the guys, and he got a good hit on me,” he says with disgust in his voice, like he’s pissed someone dared to hit him while sparring.

“Fucking Gage,” Aubrey mutters behind me. “Was Kelly there again?”

“Aubrey,” Wolf lashes out, whipping her name out like a strike. “Don’t go there.”

“What? Don’t talk shit about the guy your girlfriend left you for, and your coach is forcing you to help train, even though you’re retiring. Don’t talk about that?”

My eyes widen at her words, and though shock must be stamped across my features, Wolf looks ready to throttle Aubrey. “Ex-girlfriend and Jedd is more than a coach, and you know it, so don’t talk shit about him, Aubs. Now, are you done airing my fucking secrets, or do you want to give Serena my social security number and blood type, too?”

He doesn’t wait for Aubrey to respond and instead starts walking toward the back of the shop, not bothering to pause when he shouts, “Let’s go, Serena,” over his shoulder.

I glance over at Aubrey and note her bemused expression, as though she finds it amusing that she got under Wolf’s skin enough to force him to flee her presence. “Told you he was in a pissy mood.”

“It’s safe to say I’m not the cause.” Shaking my head, I offer Aubrey a wave and follow Wolf’s path. When I enter the room, I stop just inside the door and cross my arms, waiting for him to look over to me.

“Are you going to come in or just stare at me from across the room?”

“Are you going to be nice to me, or should I walk back to the lobby to let you cool down?”

He rolls his eyes at my quip. “I’m always nice, princess. You just might not like what I have to say.”

Unfolding my arms, I let them hang by my side and mutter loud enough for him to hear, “Well, your delivery sucks.” I walk further into the room and stop by one of the oversized chairs, sinking until my back hits the chair.

“Whatever.” He moves past me and grabs the hidden handle of his pocket door, sliding it closed. My heart rate picks up at the solitude we’ve found ourselves in, though I shouldn’t be surprised. With the door open to the rest of the shop and its customers, I could pretend that my being here didn’t affect me and had no bearing on my mental state. But with that slide of the door, he’s wrecked that belief.

The worst part is that he has no idea that he’s set me so off-kilter if his calm expression is anything to go by.

“Okay, Serena, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt, lay face down on the tattoo bench, and show me your back. I want to take a closer look at how the skin is healing and if there’s going to be any problem areas with the cover-up. I didn’t get a good look at it yesterday.”

My mind stutters at the beginning of his statement, grasping onto his instruction to “take off your shirt.” That is the absolute last thing I should be doing right now.

“I could just bunch my shirt up like yesterday,” I say.

Before I finish my sentence, he’s shaking his head. I scowl.

“Sorry, princess, but I need a good look at your skin, and the shirt will slip, fall, and obstruct my ability to see everything we’re working with. I’ve seen plenty of backs, and I closed the door to give you some privacy.”

“Fine,” I sigh, standing up and quickly whipping the long-sleeved cotton shirt I’m wearing over my head, leaving myself in just a black lace demitasse bra, my jeans, and a pair of Air Forces.

Wolf’s throat clears, and I turn my attention to him. “I could have turned around first before you started stripping,” Wolf murmurs, running a hand over his face as he looks anywhere but at me.

“Right, shit. Sorry,” I apologize, mortified that my common sense also seems to have failed me.

“It’s fine, just… just get on the table,” Wolf nearly growls, still averting his eyes. I have the burning need to cover my chest with my hands, even though it’s irrational, and I’m as covered up, if not more, than a woman on the beach. Forcing myself to move at a slow pace, I walk to the flat table and lay down, turning my head toward Wolf’s form.

I watch as he takes long, deep breaths like he’s trying to rein himself in. Wiping his face with his hand, he clutches his throat and looks up toward the ceiling. Whatever prayer or internal monologue he says must do the trick because he finally drops his hand and settles his gaze on me. Our eyes meet, and a tight smile breaks out on his face. “Ready?” he asks, as though I haven’t been watching him have a silent freak-out for the last five minutes while I’ve been topless on his tattoo table.

“Mhmm.”

His eyes narrow, but instead of responding, he walks over to me and rolls his stool over to my right side. Seating himself on the rolling furniture that looks like it’ll snap under his weight, he reaches above me and turns on a spotlight, blinding me. I squint and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Stop moving,” Wolf orders, his command sharp and leaving no room for argument.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology. Just stop squirming.” Wolf says this as he places a hand on my back, lightly touching the tattoo and my surrounding skin. The moment his skin makes contact with mine, I feel my body shiver.

“Serena.” That’s it, just my name. Three goddamn syllables said in Wolf’s deep voice with a commanding tone, and I’m putty. No, I’m worse than moldable, malleable putty. I’m water, a fluid that will take the shape of anything Wolf wants to put me in.

Wolf’s hand continues to coast up and down my back, taking entirely too long for the task at hand. His fingers graze a sensitive spot, and I bite my lip to keep in the laughter that’s threatening to push past my lips.

“I forgot how ticklish you are,” Wolf whispers in a voice so low I’d think I imagined hearing it if it weren’t for the increased pressure he’s exerting on the spot that’s making me squirm.

“Wolf!” I shout and move to get out of his reach until I’ve shifted so much that I’m about to roll off the narrow table. Wolf’s arms band around me, pulling me back until I’m cradled in his arms and staring into his deep green eyes. He holds me to him, and I can’t help but stare at his perfectly flawed face: the slightly crooked nose, the dark red stubble that adorns his cheeks, the thick eyelashes that are unfairly blessed on his face. My heart pounds so hard in my chest that I imagine it looks like one of those cartoon hearts, beating so violently that it pops out of my chest cavity until my tendons suck it back in.

Wolf tightens his hold on my body for a moment. The move presses my semi-bare chest into his, and he studies me just as closely as I study him before he places me back down on the table. “Be careful, princess. I don’t need an insurance claim for a good deed.” I bristle at his words, as though I’m a charity case that requires his aid rather than a forced participant in this cover-up.

“I fully intend to pay for—”

“No. I’m not accepting your fucking money, so don’t bother offering it,” he cuts me off. He nudges my shoulder, silently encouraging me to lie on my stomach.

“You’re impossibly frustrating.”

“Thanks. Now, I need you to stay still. Your skin seems to be healing well enough, but I want to do a hand sketch on stencil paper of your back to see how a piece could lay to cover up the areas that need to be hidden.”

“Sloan’s not going to just fix the butterflies?”

“The flying cocks,” he emphasizes. “No one’s going to fix the flying cocks on your back. There’s no salvaging them. Besides, an artist never wants to correct someone else’s work; they’d rather cover it up and show how badass the piece can be without the shit that weighed it down.”

“Right. Okay. But what is Sloan thinking?”

Ignoring my question, he continues, “But I need you to stay still. One move, and you’ll move the marker, alter the linework, and change the entire piece. Do you understand?”

I nod as best I can while lying down and looking up at him.

“Let me hear you say it, princess.”

“Yes. I won’t move.” Much, I tack on in my head.

Seemingly satisfied, Wolf reaches behind him and pulls out a long sheet of paper and a sleeve of markers. Covering my back with the paper, he presses it down before taking a marker out. He puts it between his teeth before pulling the bottom out, revealing a black felt tip.

“If Sloan is doing the piece, why are you sketching?”

“Because I can’t fucking help myself,” he mumbles around the cap before putting it on the back of the marker. I’m not entirely sure about the sanitation protocols, but something seems off.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

“We’re not breaking any skin, and you have no open wounds on your back, just some redness and irritation. Besides, I’m not sketching on your skin, just tracing the shape of your back and the existing tattoo. We’re fine,” he mumbles, though I don’t miss the wince on his face at my observation.

Despite the thin paper that separates Wolf’s hand from my skin, I feel each move like a caress against my bare skin. Unlike the featherlight strokes of his finger earlier, the movement of the marker is sure and purposeful. There’s intention behind each lash, and my mind tries to piece together what all the lines would reveal once completed.

“What are you drawing? I ask after thirty minutes of silence.

“None of your business.”

“What?” I laugh out, surprised but also not by the gruffness of his answer.

“Fuck,” he mutters before raising his voice. “I need you to pull your pants down.”

“What?” I repeat, but this time with an entirely different tone. “First my shirt and now my pants? Jesus, Wolf, if you wanted me naked, you could have just stayed at my apartment on Friday.”

“For fuck’s sake, Serena. I need to continue the sketch lower, but the waistband of your jeans is blocking me. I have a sheet that you can put over yourself if you feel uncomfortable.”

I turn my head and consider him, taking in the slashes of his eyebrows and the stern set to his jaw.

“Fine, but hand me the sheet.” Putting my hands by my chest, I push up until I’m able to rest on my knees and pop the button on my straight-leg jeans. I silently curse myself that I didn’t wear leggings or sweatpants, where the waistband could have just been rolled down to accommodate Wolf’s demand.

Shimmying the denim down, I let the jeans rest against my thighs and grab the paper covering from Wolf’s outstretched hand. Like a misguided gentleman, Wolf’s eyes remain averted, giving me the semblance of privacy as I strip to near-indecency.

Laying back down, I drape the sheet over my lower back. “Is this from a gynecologist’s office? It feels like the coverings I use when I go for my annual check-up. I’m decent, by the way. You can look now.” I watch as Wolf turns his attention back to me, his eyes immediately catching on the sheet covering my lower half.

“Can I tuck this into your underwear? It’s still too high.”

“Fine.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Wolf’s hands are on me, rolling the edges of the sheet into the modest boy shorts I chose for today. In romance novels and movies, the women are always depicted in matching lingerie sets, perfect pairings that make them look like seductresses ready to pounce. Me? My black lace demitasse bra may be cute, but my boy shorts are covered in donuts with the words “Bite Me” across my ass.

“Nice panties,” Wolf chuckles.

“Shut up,” I mumble. Wolf’s low laughter fills the room as he continues to tuck the sheet inside my underwear.

“To answer your question, they’re from the hospital. I get them for the people who don’t want or aren’t comfortable with being fully exposed when getting a tattoo in a location that requires the removal of clothing or undergarments. Mostly women use these, but I’ve had a few men cover up their dicks when I give them an upper thigh tattoo,” Wolf explains. “I pick them up from my aunt, Celeste’s mom. She’s my mom’s sister, so we’ve always been pretty close.”

I absorb his words, silently touched by the care he shows his clients in preserving their modesty if they wish.

“Alright, you’re all set. I’m going to start drawing again, so just stay still, the same as before. Okay?” I don’t say anything, letting my silence act as an affirmative while he places the paper back on my skin. Shifting it around, I assume that he’s trying to match up the lines of the drawing before he resumes. His hands still, pressing down on my back before I feel one hand lift, replaced by the smooth caresses of the marker. I close my eyes, letting Wolf’s steady strokes and smell lull me into sleep.

—

“Fuck, it’s perfect.” I wake with a start at Wolf’s whispered words. “I see you’re up, but stay still for a minute, princess.”

Ignoring his directive, I glance at the clock and see that it’s after five, and I’ve been lying on this table for over two hours. My limbs ache with the need to stretch, and I’m in desperate need of a glass of water. I shift on the bench but halt my movements at Wolf’s growl.

“Serena, how many times do I have to ask you to stop moving?”

Gulping down my apology, I remain silent and fight the urge to continue moving. I pay attention to the flickers of pressure I feel as Wolf finishes mapping out whatever he needs on my back. I count the seconds until, finally, he eases back and caps his marker with a loud click. “Alright, I’m set.”

Clearing my throat, I nod my head into the black leather. “I just need a minute.”

“Take what you need. I’m going to get this cleaned up.” I can feel him getting up from his stool, and the loss of his body heat next to me. “My back is to you; you can get dressed.” Glancing toward the direction of his voice, I verify that he’s facing away before I get up to redress.

Drawing in a long breath, I reach down and grab the waist of my jeans, sliding them back up until they’re sitting on my hips and hiding the embarrassing panties Wolf commented on. Walking to my bag and coat, I grab my shirt as soon as I’m in proximity to my things. It takes no time to slip the fabric over my head and run a hand over my hair, hopefully smoothing it out to the point that it looks artfully messy and not chaotic.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out my cell phone and wince at the number of notifications that fill my screen. Unlocking the phone and reading through the messages and missed calls, my hold on the phone gradually tightens until I’m worried it’ll shatter in my palm. Seemingly endless messages and calls from my father are interwoven with texts from Marina and my friends.

Dad(3:56 PM): I will be calling you in thirty minutes. Be sure to answer your phone.

I check and see there’s a missed call from him at the exact time he said he’d call. Toggling back to my messages, I continue reading.

Dad(4:27 PM): Answer your phone. I’m calling again.

Dad(4:29 PM): This is unacceptable. Your continued tantrums are an embarrassment.

Dad(4:32 PM): Serena, when I tell you that I’m calling, answer your phone. Do we need to go through the exercise of shutting off your line again to get you to comply?

I roll my eyes at his statement. After the last time he threatened to turn my phone off, I transferred to my mother’s phone plan. He must have never realized his phone bill had changed because a line was dropped on his account.

Dad(5:09 PM): Fine, you want to be a child, I will treat you as such. The home I have provided to you for the last decade has been sold. Your mother will need to be out of the house by the end of March. I am disappointed in you, Serena, and the lack of respect you’ve continued to show me. If you cannot respect my wife and daughter, then you do not have a place in our lives. I don’t know what you were doing that has you too busy to pick up the phone for the man who provides you with your livelihood, but I will not stand for it. I am cutting you off.

Swiping out of his text thread, I click on the unread message from Marina.

Marina: Heard you’re homeless now. I’m sure all the guys you’re sleeping with wouldn’t have a problem paying you for your time.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair and gripping the short ends until I can pull on it. A myriad of emotions run through me: despair at the sale of the only real home my mother and I ever shared, anger at the callousness of my father and the stupidity of Marina, and disgust over his words and accusations. Not giving a thought to my surroundings, the time, or the company I’m in, I click on my dad’s name and bring the phone to my ear. The ringing on the phone mimics the ringing in my ear.

“Serena, are you okay?” I hear Wolf ask, but his voice sounds like it’s coming to me through a tunnel, and I hold up my hand, silencing him.

The call goes to voicemail, and I snap. “How could you be such an uncaring, cruel asshole? For nineteen years, I have done everything you have ever asked of me: graduated early, started college at sixteen, smiled, and looked like a pretty bauble for your business associates as you showed off your new family. I am done. You have taken the only thing that has ever mattered to me outside of my mother, and you have thrown it away. I am done pretending like I care about you. Even your mother despised you for what you did.

“The fact that you are so ignorant to think that I have taken a single penny from you, outside of the mandated child support you were required to give, is laughable. Turn off my phone? I have a plan with Mom. You have done nothing but break my fucking heart since you cheated on Mom. You want Marina to be your perfect daughter? Fine, you can keep her, keep Brandi, and keep the house that will collapse in on you from your hubris and self-importance. I am done.” I end the call and select Marina’s name, opening the conversation to respond.

Serena: Can you get a life instead of trying to steal mine? Don’t worry about who I’m with, where I live, or what I’m doing. It’s fucking weird.

I hit send and drop my hand, barely resisting the urge to throw my phone across the room and scream.

The sale of the house doesn’t come as a surprise; my mother told me that it was being listed and that she was looking for a new place, one that doesn’t bear the stench of my father’s influence. But seeing his words and listening to his voicemail cemented the truth: he has forced us out of our home. It doesn’t matter that I all but moved out once I started college; it was my home, my mother’s home.

With one final inhale and exhale, I grab the rest of my things and drape them over my arm before turning back to Wolf. Even in my haze of anger, it strikes me that it’s unfair for a person to be as outwardly handsome, artistically gifted, and physically strong as he is; it’s like all of his genes got together in utero and said, “You know Superman? Let’s see if we can one-up him.”

“Is everything okay, Serena?” Wolf repeats, drawing me out of my observation of his form.

“Yes. Great,” I lie. “But I’m going to, uh, go now.” I hold up my things, a visible sign that I’m leaving, and walk toward the pocket door. I reach out to unlatch the lock holding it shut when Wolf’s voice rings out behind me.

“Wait.” His hand shoots out, caging me in from behind. “I can’t let you drive when you’re visibly upset.”

“I’m fine, Wolf,” I sigh, the fight I just had in me draining, replaced by exhaustion and annoyance.

“You’re not fine, Serena. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’ve seen your car, and it looks like it’s held together with duct tape and chewing gum. I’ll be fucking sick with worry if you get behind that death trap right now. So just leave the car here, and I’ll bring you home.”

“Wolf,” I start, drawing out his name.

“Serena,” he responds, mimicking my tone. “You shouldn’t drive, not after what I just heard. I have a few more things I need to do around the shop, and then I’ll drive you to your apartment. Okay?”

He disguises his statement by tacking on a question at the end, giving the pretense that I have a say in the matter when, in reality, he’s dictating me. I shake my head, offering a compromise. “First, don’t talk about my car. I worked hard for her. You don’t need to bring me home, but I will wait for a minute before I drive.” I pull on the door, ignoring the hand holding it closed. I tug on the handle until Wolf finally moves his hand, letting the door slide open with a bang.

At almost six on a Saturday, the shop is busy, the hum of tattoo guns infiltrating the bubble Wolf and I found ourselves in for the last few hours. I walk across the shop floor, ignoring the eyes on me as I make my way toward Aubrey’s desk. Settling myself in one of the chairs against the windows, I drop my bag on the floor and lean back, getting comfortable while I wait for Wolf to finish whatever it is he needs to do and let me leave.

Aubrey walks through a hidden door, stopping short when she sees me. “Oh no. You need a drink.”

I shake my head, opening my mouth to deny the offer, but Aubrey holds up her hand. “Nope, don’t thank me. You need whiskey.”