3. Maya
Maya
Three years ago…
Summer before Freshman year
Sitting on my bed, I scroll through my phone, one video after another of a pair of sexy, veiny hands strumming an electric guitar. Dark red lighting fills the empty space around the muscular torso.
I’ve been stalking this guy’s page for the last fifteen minutes.
User7319764 is my newest internet hyper-fixation.
He never shows his face, only his delicious, muscular arms, chest, and abs, covered in tattoos.
He didn’t even change the auto-generated username on his account, as if he’s too cool to let the world know who he is.
Cocky bastard.
He’s got a gorgeous tattoo—lightning bolts and ominous, whirling clouds—that wraps over his left shoulder and down his pec, over his heart. Sometimes he wears a shirt, but more often than not, his videos are just skin and guitar, my preferred method of thirst trap.
The dark-hued lighting in his videos makes determining any defining feature about him difficult. I can’t see all of his tattoos, nor the shade of his skin. I can’t even distinguish what color the guitar is.
But none of that matters, because User7319764 is the hottest man on the planet, in my opinion, with or without a face.
He wears multiple rings on his fingers, accentuating his long, strong hands that I’ve imagined wrapped around my throat more than I care to admit. I’ve got a thing for hands.
And tattoos.
And perfect fucking abs.
What I wouldn’t give to find a man who looks like this in real life.
A swift knock on my door startles me from my thoughts, my face flushing as my dad peaks into my room, and I click off the screen of my phone before he can see what I was watching.
“Bug, are you sure you want to go to school where your dad works?” Dad asks, coming in and taking a seat on the edge of my bed.
Earlier tonight at dinner, I told him I think I want to get my degree in art, and asked if it would be okay for me to apply to Saint Augustine’s this late in the year.
High school graduation is in a few weeks, and I had been planning on taking a gap year, but I think I’ve changed my mind.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t really care where I go, at the end of the day. But I want to get a degree, learn more than I can teach myself. St. A’s art program is good. Besides, don’t you get an employee discount?” I ask, laughing.
Dad rolls his eyes. “I wish. Fill out the application, and I’ll talk to the Dean of Admissions and see if he’ll still let you in past the deadline,” he chuckles.
Then he pauses, contemplating before he speaks and scratching his chin.
“Are you going to be okay with potentially running into him on campus?”
Him.
Jamie.
Jameson Reyes, as I knew him growing up—now Jameson Booker—came to play for Saint Augustine’s hockey team this past year.
He tried out last summer, blowing my dad and the rest of the coaching staff out of the water. My dad came home and said he’d never seen an eighteen-year-old kid with that much talent, just like he’d said Jamie was a natural when we were young.
My dad also came home after those tryouts and downed nearly an entire fifth of whiskey. Why? Because he’s a—recovering—alcoholic, and the boy he had once regarded as a son hated his guts.
All my dad would tell me about his interaction with Jamie was that after tryouts, Jamie had ignored him, avoided talking to him one-on-one like the plague.
When my dad finally cornered him, Jamie politely told him that he was here for the scholarship and the hockey program, and he didn’t want to rekindle any sort of relationship with my father outside of Coach and Player.
For the last year, they’ve been just that. Jamie’s going to be a sophomore in the fall, I’ll hopefully be starting as a freshman, and the prospect of seeing him again makes me nauseous.
I think the hardest part about having him here is that my father never got any closure. He doesn’t know what caused Jamie’s hatred, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
For the last ten years, I’ve thought about that little boy who got dragged away from us at his mother’s graveside. I thought about what it would be like to see my best friend again, after all this time, and whether or not we’d hug or if it’d be a little awkward now that we’re all grown up.
When his name came across my father’s desk last year, we were elated.
Jamie had finally made his way home. No matter how hard we’d tried, my father nor the social worker could ever get in contact with Ross Booker.
We never got to visit, we never heard how Jamie was adjusting.
But, in the end, it didn’t matter, because Jamie was joining my father’s team. He’d decided to come back to us.
And instead of a happy reunion, all he brought with him from California was angst and anger.
Now my biggest fear is that Jamie might hate me, too.
My first run-in with him happens six months into the school year. In January, walking into my prerequisite math class, I see Jamie standing near the front of the room, talking with the professor by the podium.
Even if I hadn’t compulsively stalked his social media accounts over the years, I’d know him anywhere
He’s stunning.
Shaggy, messy, black waves hang around his ears like a dark halo. Even from the door, I can make out his thick lashes under strong brows, all accentuating those icy gray eyes.
My heart stops, throat closing up as he smiles at something the professor says. He’s tall—so tall—wearing a black hoodie and black shorts.
His gaze locks onto mine, registering my presence in the loud, crowded lecture hall, and his smile falls.
He’s a beautiful, starry, midnight sky, and I’m the cloud that smothers him.
Wrapping up his conversation with the teacher, Jamie exits through one of the other doors, avoiding me entirely, and, fuck, if it doesn’t hurt my soul.
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning for the remainder of the semester is the same. Jamie is in the class that takes place before mine, and he makes sure to never get caught in a situation where he’d have to interact with me. He goes out the side door, or he’s gone before I even arrive to class.
Little by little, my hurt turns to anger. What right does he have to hate us—my father and I—when we did nothing wrong?
Days turn into weeks, turn into months. Semesters pass by, and Jameson Booker remains a stranger to me.
Present…
October
The whir of the needle lulls me into a trance, fading out my thoughts as I focus on the design stenciled in front of me.
The pattern is complicated, involving lots of shading and attention to detail. Realism with a tattoo gun is so much more difficult than realism with a pencil.
Three hours later, I hold up the fake skin inspecting my work.
“Is she supposed to have a unibrow?” Derrick asks, walking up behind me.
Dropping my head, I let the piece of rubbery material fall back to the table. “It was supposed to be a shadow,” I mumble.
Derrick laughs, patting me on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you. It’ll get better, just keep practicing. This one looks good! Your proportions are perfect.”
I’ve been working at Ghostline, apprenticing under Derrick, for over two years, ever since I started at St. A’s as a freshman.
I have my own client base and my own style, but there will always be a market for realism, and I’ve never been a quitter.
Derrick’s next client shows up, and I lead the man back to his chair. Derrick is a tall and lean, dark-bearded, heavily tattooed ex-marine who opened this shop after he was injured on duty twenty years ago. The only part of him that isn’t covered in tattoos is his prosthetic leg.
The phone at the front desk rings as I finish getting the customer settled.
“Ghostline Tattoo,” I greet, sandwiching the phone between my ear and my shoulder.
“Hey, M-dog, it’s Rodney. How ya doing, kid?” Rodney, an artist from another shop downtown, answers.
“Oh, hey, Rod! I’m good, how are you?”
“Good! Listen, I’ve got a huge favor to ask.
I’ve got a new client here, and I accidentally double-booked him with a regular.
Not sure how I did it. But anyhow, I told him I could reschedule him for another day, but we just can’t seem to get our wires uncrossed.
I told him I had a buddy who had a shop across town, showed him some of yours and Derrick’s stuff, and he’s down for the switch.
I hate to lose a customer, but I figured his style was right up your alley. ”
“That sounds great! I can totally take him if he wants to come now. Derrick’s with someone, but if he’d rather book with him, I can try to schedule something out,” I offer.
Rodney’s sent a few customers my way over the years, usually college students, trying to help build my clientele. He’s good people.
“Lemme ask him,” Rod replies, pulling the phone away from his mouth. “He says he’s fine with coming now, and he’ll head over. He just walked out the door, so expect him in about fifteen minutes or so.”
“Great! Thanks, Rodney!”
“No problem at all, Maya Girl. Keep up the good work, kid.”
After hanging up the phone, I let Derrick know what’s up and start preparing my station for the walk-in.
The bell over the front door chimes, drawing my attention to—holy mother of God—the hottest pair of arms I’ve ever seen.
Actually, the arms in question are wrapped in a tight, black compression shirt that accentuates every swell of muscle, but I’d imagine they’d be just as hot if I could see skin.
My eyes rake over a broad chest and thick bronze thighs stretching a pair of athletic shorts. I’m definitely making an ass of myself, looking at every part of this man’s body before even looking up at his face.
And when I do, my heart sinks because it’s a face I recognize as if it were a piece of myself.
Jamie.