18. Charlie
Charlie
I’m chewing so hard on my gum I accidentally bite the tip of my tongue.
I close my car door clutching onto my purse as I climb up the porch steps to the address Noah sent me.
He’s standing there in a plain white shirt, and casual black cargo pants.
Oh lord, another beanie with his hair all over the place.
“Hey, you here to cause some trouble?” he asks, putting his hands in his pockets.
“If you really want me to, I can.” I tilt my head and give him a smile. He holds the door open, ushering me in.
There are maybe twenty people in the house, it looks like a handful of friends.
There are a few girls sitting on the couch, talking quietly with Tony who is strumming an acoustic guitar.
They seem star struck, giggling as they sip on their white claws.
There are people outside in the backyard by a firepit, and some laughter and splashing as well.
More girls come in wearing bathing suits dripping head to toe and Vince comes in. I grip my purse a little tighter, chewing on my gum. I follow Noah down a hallway leading to the kitchen. He rounds the wooden bar and to the fridge, prying it open.
“Here,” Noah hands me over a white claw. “Figured you’d like something to drink.” The fridge seals shut.
I pop the can open, it starts to fizzle. “Thanks.” I sip.
“I’m letting Omen tattoo me real quick. He has his own little studio down here.” He dips his head.
“You’re getting another tattoo?” I ask trailing behind him down the hallway into a room lit up in blood-red light. There are LED lights illuminating the artwork framed along the walls.
“Yeah, he's almost done. It’s just a little star on my finger.”
There are a few girls in here too, one of them a blonde, and the other girl looks oddly familiar.
I think she’s the one that was sucking Noah off, but I could be wrong.
She gives me a nasty look before she turns and giggles with the other girl.
Noah sits back down on the leather seat, where his hand goes underneath a light ring.
“I shouldn’t even be giving you this tattoo right now. You’ve been drinking.”
“It’s just a star, it's barely the size of a quarter.”
“If you get a fucking infection it’s on you,” Omen spits out as he takes Noah’s hand, resting it on a small table underneath a folded towel. The girls mosey out of the room, continuing to laugh down the hallway. “Hold still,” Omen mutters and the gun buzzes.
I hover, sipping the white claw. It’s pineapple, one of my favorites. My attention is fixed on them, on Noah, more specifically. His fingers are stretched out, knuckles tense, the muscles in his arm flexing every few seconds when the needle hits his bone. I flinched just watching it.
“How can you tolerate that?” I ask. “I mean doesn’t it hurt?”
“Depends.” He glances up, a little crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “You get used to it. It’s honestly a bad addiction once you get into it. I can’t fucking stop.”
“I feel like I’d cry halfway through,” I admit, sliding into the stool next to him. “I can barely handle getting a flu shot. I sob every time.”
He laughs a bit, eyes flicking to me before going back to his hand. “Well, maybe Omen can convince you otherwise. Forearms aren’t bad, or your thighs. Your ankles would hurt like hell.”
Omen doesn’t say anything, the needle just keeps dancing over Noah’s skin.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask.
He pauses, his brown eyes closing tightly as he thinks. “I was fifteen, sixteen, maybe. I’m not really sure. I kinda stop paying attention after a while.”
“You’ve been getting them that long? How? Don’t you need to be eighteen?”
“Yeah. I used to find new artists all the time when I was touring with my previous band. People wanted someone to practice on and if I liked their current work I’d just ask,” he shrugs.
Noah flexes his fingers as Omen wipes away excess ink. The dark star gleams wetly under the light. “Okay I'm done. Fucking wrap that shit up. I swear to fucking god, lay off the drinking. I’m not dealing with having your finger cut off because it got infected.”
“Calm down,” Noah laughs. Omen scoots out of the chair, before he leaves the room.
“Okay, so show me your first tattoo ever,” I say as Noah wraps a transparent film over his finger.
Then he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.
The room fades around me for a second. He turns, showing me his back.
He’s broad and lean, his entire back painted in color and shadow.
“My first real one was this.” The tattoo sits low on his back, a crucifix framed in crimson and gold flowers, the figure of Christ detailed but not overly ornate.
“Holy shit that’s beautiful.”
He flashes me a half smile. “Thanks.”
“Why did you pick that one?” I ask. Noah glances away, reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head throwing his hands through the sleeves.
“I just wanted a religious piece. My grandfather dragged me to church as a kid, he was a deacon and at the time, I thought it would be the only thing to keep me from rotting on the inside.”
“Oh? So you were touring at fifteen?”
“Yeah, I’ve been in the music scene for most of my life.”
“Were you a drop out because you were touring?” His eyes soften a bit as he looks at me and I watch him swallow.
“Umm…” he says in a quieter tone. “The opportunity popped up so I just went... but uhh yeah, shit didn’t quite work out so I’m back here.”
I’ve asked him before and his eyes are telling me the same thing. It’s not something he’s willing to open up about and I might be crossing a line if I press any further. I sip on my drink, while also drinking in his dark eyes gazing into mine.
“Let’s go outside and hang out for a bit,” he says, dipping his head out of the room.
“Okay.”
He gets out of the chair and guides me down the hallway and outside to the fire pit.
The night stretches in an easy blur. I end up sitting next to Noah on a patio couch with my legs tucked under me.
We talk about nothing and everything. Music we both listen to, movies we like, and all the crazy girls he comes across at concerts.
Every time he lifts his beer to his lips, I can’t help but stare.
No matter how much I try to shake it, my mind keeps going back to kissing him.
The taste of him. The way his hands grasped my hips, how they were eager to touch every square inch of me.
I feel heat crawl up my neck just thinking about it.
Now I can barely look at him without my thoughts catching fire.
He laughs at something Tony says across the fire pit, his head tipping back, throat exposed.
He doesn’t notice me watching, or maybe he does and just won’t let on.
When he glances over, my heart stumbles.
I know my face gives it away. I can feel it in the way he swallows, then smiles.
I think he knows exactly what’s running through my head.
Normally, I’m good at this part. A bite of the lip, a flutter of my lashes, a tilt of my head.
Little tricks that always worked before.
But with him, nothing lands. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t take the bait.
Just sits there, calm and infuriatingly unreadable.
The most he does is pat my knee when he asks if I want another drink. His hand is warm. But it leaves a trail of heat radiating all over me that lingers long after he pulls away.
Once it’s midnight we head inside. Noah lays on the sectional with a throw pillow under his head, his eyes half-lidded and clouded. There’s a small, lazy smile on his lips.
“I think I’m a little too gone to drive,” he says. “How’re you feeling?”
I laugh, popping a stick of gum in my mouth. I stumble a little as I try to sit on the other end of the couch. “Probably about the same.” I blew out a pink bubble. He doesn’t hesitate to jab a finger into the bubble popping it. “Rude!” I gather it back into my mouth.
“You shouldn’t drive. You can crash here if you want. There’s a spare room down the hall.” He points a finger to it before his arms fall limp and hangs over the couch.
“No. I wanna stay here.” I lay back with a plop.
“Here?”
“Next to you.”
He chuckles, rubbing his hand over his face. “Why?”
“Because you’re cute.”
That earns me some brownie points as his cheeks redden and I watch him swallow. “I’m cute huh? You’re something else,” he says. Then, softer, “I’m not gonna take advantage of you. We should just sleep it off.”
I crawl over to him, placing a hand on his chest, and nuzzling myself into the crease of his neck. I feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and I inhale the scent of his clothes. They smell so utterly clean like they just came out of the dryer.
I inhale too loud, and that gets him to laugh out, “What the hell are you doing?”
“You smell so good.”
“Yeah... you think so?” When I glance up at him, I sit up only slightly, my hand sinking into the cushions, and hover inches from his face.
I tremble, holding my composure as Noah leans up.
His breath is on my lips, his eyes scan my face, and before I can even think, I lean down to break that small distance and kiss him.
It’s not a hurried kiss, just our lips brushing together.
His lips are so soft, his mouth cold. The warmth of his body sinks into me, and I can taste the faint bitterness of beer on his lips.
When he cups the side of my face my heart starts pounding.
His fingers are gentle, tracing my cheek, his thumb grazing back and forth.
I breathe harshly into his mouth when he pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb moves against my bottom lip. His eyes are heavy but are searching mine.
“We should sleep,” he murmurs.