11. Maya
Maya
I never thought I’d be happy to go back to school, but after a Thanksgiving from hell, I’m grateful to be receiving lectures from my professors and not another one from my mom.
Chloe plops down in the chair across from me, startling me from my thoughts and my lunch.
She sets her tray down, organizing her food around as she begins speaking a million words a minute. “Did you hear about that girl? The one that’s missing? Apparently, she’s been gone since Halloween, which is crazy because that was, like, an entire month ago. But no one reported her missing—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Damn.” I wave my hand, signaling for her to back up. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You didn’t hear about that girl who disappeared?” Chloe asks, taking a huge bite of salad.
“No, I’ve been in Florida all week. Who is it?”
“I’m not sure. A freshman, I think. They released a statement saying she’s been missing since Halloween, but her little friends were too scared to say anything because they were all underage drinking and stuff. Stupid.”
“She’s been MIA for nearly a month, and they didn’t tell anyone?” I ask, appalled. “Those are some shitty friends.”
“No kidding. But get this: the last place anyone saw her? Ryan’s party.”
“No! You’re saying we could’ve seen her?”
“Girl, I know damn well neither one of us saw shit. I was wasted, and you were giving Jameson Booker googly eyes.”
I scoff. “I was not giving him googly eyes. I was trying to send him to the seventh circle of hell with my mind.”
“Mhhm,” Chloe hums, unimpressed. “He gave you a mind-melting orgasm and then moved on to someone else. Take the win for what it is. Guys like that don’t settle down, anyway.”
I sip my water to avoid responding. I told her about what happened in the bathroom and about the girl he had on his lap afterward, and Chloe seemed unperturbed by his actions.
Why wouldn’t she be? Jameson Booker is a hot-as-hell hockey player, son of a celebrity, can-have-whatever-he-wants type of guy.
I guess I need to get it into my thick skull that he’s not the same sweet boy I grew up with.
“Anyway,” Chloe continues, getting back on topic. “The investigation is open, and apparently the FBI is getting involved.”
My eyebrows raise. “Well, she’s been gone for a month…I don’t know what they expect to find.”
Chloe nods grimly. “It’s so sad. Poor girl.”
“Did you have a client booked for this afternoon?” Derrick asks me as I walk into the shop after class.
“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Someone called, asked if they could come see you. Apparently, they were recommended to you by a friend.”
“Oh, okay! Yeah, that’s fine. My schedule’s wide open.”
Thirty minutes later, a tall, tanned blond guy walks in with a mischievous grin plastered on his face.
“Hi there, Maya Winchester,” he says, walking straight over to my chair.
“Hello, Drew Mattingly,” I reply. While we’ve never been formally introduced, I know all of the guys on my dad’s team. He makes sure I can pick them out of a crowd, that way I know who to stay far away from in the way of romantic advances.
Tom Winchester is nothing if not overprotective.
“I heard you could set me up with a pretty sweet tattoo,” Drew says, hands in his pockets, still smirking.
I squint at him cautiously. “None of you guys have ever come to me for work before.” Except that day Jamie showed up by accident, but we aren’t going to talk about that.
“A mistake I’m rectifying now,” Drew retorts.
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
Pulling out his phone, Drew shows me an inspiration photo of a detailed snake wrapping around the model’s upper arm.
“Okay. I can do this. Do you want it exactly like the photo?” I ask.
“Feel free to take creative liberties,” he says, the mischievous grin never leaving his face. This man is trouble, and he fucking knows it.
I pat the chair for him to sit down while I get everything prepared. When I return with his stencil, he’s already stripped off his hoodie, gracing my eyes with his chiseled torso and corded arms.
Clearing my throat, I try not to stare too hard. These arrogant boys are too pretty for their own damn good. It isn’t fair.
From the brief glimpse I got, I didn’t see any other ink marking his skin. “Is this your first tattoo?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“No. I’ve got one other one. But I can’t show you,” he teases with an impish raise of his brows. “At least, not here.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Drew shrugs. As I’m applying the stencil to his left arm, he asks, “So, what happened with you and Book on Halloween?”
I jerk my head up to meet his eyes. The shock must be written plainly on my face because Drew laughs. “So something did happen.” He says it as a statement, not a question.
“He told you?” I ask, face aflame, going back to my task.
“Yeah, he did. But I wanted to see if you’d try to deny it.”
Cautiously, I ask, “What did he say?”
Drew looks around to see if there’s anyone else within earshot. There isn’t; the shop is empty, and Derrick is in his office doing paperwork.
“He was freaking the fuck out, honestly. Said you accidentally hooked up, and he ran when he realized it was you. But I know Booker, and he wouldn’t just fuck around and then leave without reason.”
“Well, you must not know him as well as you think,” is all I can think to say without revealing my history with Jamie. “Go look in the mirror and see if this is where you want it.”
Drew stands, his muscles rippling with motion as he flexes in the body mirror. “Yeah, that’s perfect,” he states, returning to his seat.
I begin the tattoo once he’s settled. Drew takes the opportunity to continue his original line of questioning.
“I know Booker. He’s not scared of your dad or whatever.
If he wanted to mess around with you, he would’ve, and then he would’ve asked you to keep it from Coach.
He didn’t run because of that.” Drew pins me with a knowing look.
“He freaked when he knew it was you under the mask, meaning the reason has to do with you specifically, as a person.”
Drew’s a lot smarter—more observant—than I think people give him credit for. I’ve heard rumors and gossip about all the hockey boys, and everyone paints Drew Mattingly out to be a ditsy, goofy, not-a-serious-bone-in-his-body guy.
I sigh, unable to think of a way out of this conversation.
“Ja—Booker doesn’t like me, okay? And after the stunt he pulled at that party, the feeling’s mutual.”
“Why doesn’t he like you?” Drew asks, ignoring the second half of my statement.
I shrug. “Don’t know,” I say, honestly. Jamie and I have a history, but not a bad one. I genuinely have no idea why he can’t stand to be in the same room as me. “I guess you’ll have to ask him.”
Drew goes silent for a moment, mulling over whatever chaotic thoughts are running through his head.
“You know, I remember you from when we were kids, right?” he asks, startling me again.
“I…I didn’t think you would. I didn’t want to mention it if you had no idea who I was.” I remember Drew was one of Jamie’s friends when we were in elementary school. I never spent much time around Jamie’s buddies then, except at his birthday party.
Drew nods. “I remember you from the arcade. And I remember Book talking about you occasionally. ‘Maya’s at her mom’s tonight, do you want to go to the park,’ or ‘Maya’s coming to our game tomorrow.’ Stuff like that.”
My throat goes dry, thinking about little Jamie, about how close we used to be. “I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t talk to him after he moved, either. I missed him, but I was nine years old. How was I supposed to talk to my friend on the other side of the country?” Drew asks, rhetorically.
I nod. “Look, Drew, I know you guys are close, but I really don’t know what his deal is, okay?
I hadn’t talked to him in over a decade, and then all of a sudden, he comes back, and he can’t even stand to look at me.
” I stop, choking over my words. I didn’t expect this conversation to make me emotional, but I guess this scab is too fresh for me to be picking at yet.
“I’m sorry,” Drew offers. “I’ll drop it. I was just curious. He hasn’t been acting like himself recently, and I thought you might have something to do with it.”
I want to ask what’s wrong with him, but it’s not my business. Jameson Booker is not my business.
Instead, I nod, focusing on my work. Drew changes gears, talking out of his ass the rest of the appointment. The man could probably hold a conversation with a brick wall.
“—and she called me an ‘incompetent nutbag!’ Hollered it down the street! I mean, who says that?”
I can confidently say a client has never made me laugh as hard as this one, and despite my warnings that he’s going to make me botch the tattoo, Drew continues to entertain me with absurd stories. I take it as his way of making up for overstepping earlier.
After four hours, I finish his tattoo, and he heads for the door with one last apology passing his lips.
Before he can leave, I ask, “So, why did you really come here? Just to interrogate me about Booker?”
Drew smiles—not a snarky one, but a real, genuine smile. “No. Because I’d mentioned I had been wanting a new tattoo, and Booker told me your work was good.”