7. charlee
SEVEN
charlee
I was about to get back into my car when the light flicked on in his tattoo parlor.
When I first got to Casa Bella Catering, Grunt Ink had been dark. Still not open yet, so I just assumed he wasn’t in there, but now the light beckoned me.
No, it did not.
Lucas had made it crystal clear two nights ago he wanted nothing to do with me. And despite my resolve to break down his barriers and explain the choke hold my parents had over me, my father especially, I would not do it. I’d not completely forgotten our time together. . . just the opposite, in fact. And wanted to tell him that.
However, giving someone permission to treat me poorly, which was exactly what I was doing here, wasn’t in my DNA. So, while I might understand his anger—I had broken up with him at the urging of my father—that was many years ago. If he couldn’t even come to the table. . .
I reached for the handle of my car, hesitating.
Two things were true at the same time here. Lucas was not making it easy to talk to him, and pushing it felt like asking to be punished. On the other hand, simply letting it go and pretending I hadn’t thought about him for all these years seemed. . . disingenuous.
Worst-case scenario?
I walked into his place, and he refused to talk to me. Again.
Or, I got into my car, drove away, and regretted not at least trying.
Minimizing regrets was the only way to make a decision. Too bad it didn’t seem to be working with the promotion my dad was trying to give me. Would I regret taking, or not taking, that job? I had no idea. But I did have an idea about Lucas.
The half-block walk to his shop felt more like a mile. I was pretty certain of the reception I was about to receive, but still my feet moved, one in front of the other.
Grunt Ink Tattoo Studio.
The sign hadn’t been there before. Now it was above the door and lettered in the window. Army green. Appropriate given the name. Closed blinds on the windows and a wooden door meant I couldn’t see inside. I tried the doorknob and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
Lifting my hand, I paused for a brief second. . . and then knocked.
I could hear my heartbeat pounding away in my ears. What was I doing? Lucas, if he did open the door, would probably just slam it shut when he saw me.
And just like that, the door was yanked open. The studio’s owner stared back at me with the exact expression I would expect. Impatience. Annoyance.
But maybe something else too.
“I was meeting a caterer and saw the light on,” I began, peering around him. It was almost exactly as I’d pictured a tattoo parlor owned by Lucas to look. Military themed, an American flag prominent above the counter. Behind it, a privacy wall where the actual tattooing took place, I assumed.
He stepped aside. Let me in.
I wandered over to one of the walls where black-and-white framed photos were hung. I recognized Tony Soprano and Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima and Ground Zero and Lucas’s favorite sports teams, intermingled with tattoo designs, but there was one I didn’t know.
“Who is this?” I asked.
Lucas moved toward me. I could feel him at my back but didn’t dare turn around.
“Pat Tillman?”
“Oh, yeah. I do know who he is. Didn’t recognize him.”
After I finished looking, I stood there, both wanting and not wanting to face him. Finally, I turned.
Lucas totally looked down at my chest.
My shirt wasn’t as revealing as some, but more so than others. Tasteful, but definitely one I wasn’t sorry to have worn for this chance meeting.
“You can’t avoid me forever,” I said when he caught my eye again.
It was barely a whisper, the words as straightforward as I could manage.
“Charlee. . .”
I loved hearing my name on his lips. “Lucas,” I countered, ready to win this battle at least, if not the war. “This is incredible,” I said, meaning it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a tattoo parlor before.”
Books of, presumably, tattoo ideas littered a table that seemed to serve as a design station.
“No, I wouldn’t imagine you would.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His own tattoo sleeve peeked out from under a T-shirt, and I dearly wanted to go up to him and take a closer look. Ask him to tell me what it all meant. Maybe touch them, run my finger up his arm. . .
His words belatedly penetrated.
“Meaning?”
“Never mind. So, are we doing this now or what?”
“Jesus, blunt much?”
“I’ve never been one to sugarcoat, Charlee. You know that.”
Without being invited, I sat down in the swivel chair at the design table.
“There’s sugarcoating and there’s. . .” I waved my hand at him. “Whatever you’re doing.”
“Doing? I’m not doing anything.”
“No? Just trying to push me away.”
His laugh was not the kind I remembered. “You do that all by yourself, bright eyes.”
It was what he’d called me back then—my eyes were one of the features Lucas liked best about me. I tried not to look surprised he used it now, but the intimacy of it was inescapable.
“I’m sorry, Lucas,” I said. “I was a fool to break up with you just because it’s what my father wanted. A fool,” I repeated for effect.
“Okay.”
That was it. I’d opened up, made myself vulnerable to him by admitting I’d made a colossal mistake, and his response was. . . okay?
One more try. “I thought about you—”
“Stop.”
“—while you were gone. Not just in the beginning, but the whole—”
“Stop, Charlee.”
So I was getting under his skin, was I?
“The whole time. I tried to keep track of your movements, but it was hard. There was a period when even your dad didn’t know where you were.”
His eyes narrowed. “My dad?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re not online anywhere, so it was the only way.”
“You talked to my dad? While I was gone?”
He seemed surprised by that. “I did. Many times.”
Still incredulous, it took him a few moments to apparently get over that fact. “Surprised you made your way to that side of town.”
I refused to let him get a rise out of me. “It’s not gonna work,” I informed him.
“No?”
“No. You can’t goad me, Lucas. I’m here to make amends, not fight you.”
He didn’t flinch. “I don’t fight.”
What the hell did that mean?
“I’ve tangled with some of the sorriest motherfuckers on the planet. A fight worth having. But with you? Nah.”
“What does that even mean? I don’t know anything about what you did while you were gone. Ten years, Lucas. Ten years and not a word from you. And now you’re back, opening up this? When did you even take an interest in tattooing? Where were you the whole time? Did you ever think of me?” I just couldn’t stop now. “Did you even consider looking me up on those rare occasions you did come home?”
He waited.
I chose not to continue.
“You done?”
I wasn’t sure I liked this version of Lucas. Raising my chin stubbornly, I refused to answer.
“It means I’ve been deployed twice, once to Iraq and once to Africa. Those were fights. Got my first tattoo while stationed at Camp Ederle in Italy and, as you can see, took a liking to it. Started sketching and found I had a knack for it. As to where I was the whole time? Tennessee, Georgia, Europe, Africa. . . take your pick.”
He said this all with the emotion of a fly, like he was reciting the phone book rather than reliving what must have been some very difficult days.
“Did I think of you? Did I consider looking you up? Those are questions best left unanswered.”
“You’re like a robot, Lucas. This isn’t you.”
“I can assure you,” he countered, “this is very much me.”
Something inside me just snapped. Simply. Snapped. I didn’t care for this Lucas.
“Fine, this is you,” I said, my voice rising. “Great talk. So glad to clear everything up. Have a good one.” Heart pounding, I stood up, intending to leave. But just as I passed him, Lucas’s arm shot out before I even saw him move, and he grabbed me by the wrist.
His grip was firm. Borderline too firm. My core clenched at the sheer strength of him.
“I don’t remember so much sass, Charlee.”
He still held my wrist. “No? It seems maybe we’ve both changed a bit.”
He made a sound deep in his throat. An annoyed, guttural, downright sexy-as-all-hell sound. What would it be like to kiss this Lucas? The other one was the best kisser of my life. This one?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
“Have you changed too? I hear you’re working for your father.”
I twisted my wrist, but he didn’t budge. “Bastard.”
He goaded me. Pressed the exact wrong buttons.
“What?” he asked innocently. “Am I wrong?”
Fuck him. I was done with this.
Never mind that the guy nearly made me come the second he grabbed my wrist. Never mind that the veins in his forearm were visible even beneath his tattoos. Or that the look on his face made me want to forget how he was treating me at this moment and screw the ever-loving shit out of him.
I was done. “Let go of me.”
In an instant, his hand was gone. My wrist, suddenly and unexpectedly felt bereft.
My chest rose and fell, my breathing, uneven. I remembered feeling breathless around him back when we dated. Back in high school. But never quite like this.
My feet wouldn’t move. A second ago, I’d wanted to run out of this shop. But now all I wanted was to fall into his arms.
Ever so slowly, the corners of his lips rose. It was the first time he’d smiled in my presence since returning. But it wasn’t a sweet or friendly smile. Instead, it was knowing. Taunting.
“And so,” he said, his voice low and deep. A voice to make a girl lose her shit. “We dance.”
I couldn’t process his meaning. I just had to get out of there.
I did. Ran like a baby out of that shop and into the street, where the air wasn’t so heavy and I could actually breathe. When it became clear he wasn’t going to come after me, I slowed my pace.
Walked toward my car.
Got in.
And sat there.