CHAPTER 8
Iwake before the sun, like always.
Eden’s apartment is dead silent, and I shuffle out from the futon, stepping straight onto the pair of slippers I bought for myself at Watersons’. I stare down at them, the fuzzy navy fabric already squashed down after wearing them for only two days at the shop before being told to leave.
I guess now they’re just a reminder of a job I never really had.
I scuff my way to the bathroom for a shower. I brush my teeth inside then dry myself off with my beach towel.
I boil some water for coffee and shove two pieces of bread under the oven’s grill.
Most of the time while I wait I look out the kitchen window into the backyards of the properties behind the apartment building.
I can’t see much with just moon light, but it’s more interesting than staring at the empty living room.
As soon as the toast is buttered and the instant coffee is in the mug, I carry them back to the spare room—nodding at the dead roach that’s still in the corner, as I walk by.
I don’t spend time in the living room or kitchen if I can help it, there’s no point. Apart from a few things in the pantry and the cheapest kettle I could find, I can't keep much else without a fridge.
I should probably get a cooler at least. That way I can keep milk for cereal.
If I decide to stay.
I’ve got no reason to, now.
Sat in the camping chair with the cartoon-covered folding table beside me, I eat, and drink, and feel sorry for myself.
My suitcase is still not unpacked on the floor, open with clothes spilling out of it—the ones that need washing strewn around the futon because I’ve been too lazy to wash anything yet.
My surfboard is propped up beside the closet and my skateboard is flat on its back next to it, wheels up. The only thing inside the closet is the paper bag with Tek's paint covered slippers.
I remember Tek’s face when I asked for more money.
The way his jaw clenched. The crack in his voice when he told me to leave.
My own voice was so high, so apologetic and shameless.
I’ve never been a push over, yet I’ve let him talk me into almost crying more than once, to only turn around and say sorry to him for it.
But what did I actually expect? That he’d change his personality for me? That he’d think I was special because I mop the floor and have a good phone manner? That he’d want to keep me around in spite of being his best friend's kid brother, not because of it?
I flex my toes inside the slippers. They don’t make me feel good anymore.
I flick my feet—kicking them across the room, hard. They hit the window with a thud and slide down between the end of the futon and the wall.
I try to ignore them, but I can’t, and within seconds I’m retrieving them from the crevasse and lining them up by the side of the futon before collapsing back onto it.
Wishing I could just go back to sleep, I squeeze my eyes shut but all I see is Tek’s unreadable face. Like he’s waiting for me to say something else. To put my foot in my mouth. To apologize, or fight back harder.
My chest aches so I roll over and grab the only distraction I have; my phone.
I start with Indeed, searching ‘Broadrock + part time’ and get exactly one hit: dishwashing at one of the cafes on Main Street.
They’re weekend shifts and the pay is dog shit.
The only other options are fast food in the next town over, or ‘assistant’ jobs that sound like pyramid schemes, and there’s no fucking way I’m going door to door.
I write in two group chats; one with friends from San Diego and the other from my time on The North Shore.
It’s still only six a.m. so I’m not sure who I expected to respond.
The only one who texts back is Carter from high school, and it’s just a blurry selfie of him in bed with a girl, plus the words, when u comin’ back brah. No question mark.
I check the bus schedule.
If I get myself to Seattle I can be back in So-Cal by tomorrow.
I imagine walking into my parent’s condo, sun blasting off the stucco and glass.
It looks like a dream but the reception would be colder than here.
My mother would look up from whatever book she’s reading and stare at me blankly for far too long before lowering her head again.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be home for Thanksgiving,” she’d say.
“I’m not cooking, Your father and I have a reservation at Teo’s. ”
“At least the ocean would want me there,” I say to the empty room. But it sounds so dumb out loud.
I click over to Facebook and it’s a wasteland of family posts and spam.
Instagram is better. The algorithm thinks all I care about is tattoos, surf vids, and thirst traps, which—at surface level—isn’t wrong.
I scroll past a reel of someone getting a snake wrapped around their arm in hyper-speed, then an ad for a wetsuit, then a girl in a bikini lying on black sand.
The light from my phone is harsh, and I rub my eyes with my free hand before turning the screen down.
I could text Tek. It likely wouldn’t help, but I should probably do it anyway.
I think about what I’d say: 'Sorry I’m a pain in the ass.' 'Can I come back?' 'I miss your grumpy face and the way you growl at me.' None of them are good.
I click to his profile, @TekInk, and look at the first pinned photo.
It’s from two years ago, a close-up of an almost finished chest piece, all color and geometry in his signature style.
Even if it wasn’t his profile I’d know that the hand in the photo, holding the tattoo gun, is Tek’s.
I know because I’ve spent too much time these past few days staring at the way his thumb bends, and those damn veins.
Fuck, I wanna lick them—
Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?
I slap my hand to my forehead.
I flip to my own profile. My last post was from a week ago at my farewell party in Bali.
My co-workers and I, along with some locals, are all piled into a group shot at a local bar in Kuta, our faces red from the heat and the beer.
But when staff come and go through a revolving door, you’re never really friends.
It’s always out of sight out of mind until we all slowly unfollow each other.
I switch to Safari and open a new browser. In the FlixBus website I load my details; Seattle to San Diego. If Tek pays me for the last two days I won’t have to dip into my Bali money.
I hover my thumb over the ‘purchase’ button, then let it go.
The phone drops onto my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open, my mind completely clear for a long time.
I roll over and try to go back to sleep, but I’m too on edge in spite of the numbness in my head.
So I end up back on my phone, cycling through the same apps.
On Instagram, I scroll through stories from the Bali crew.
There’s a clip of Kiki and Paolo doing shots on the staff patio.
I swipe through and hit on a story from Oliver, a new surf instructor from Australia that arrived a month ago.
He’s shirtless in a DJ booth covered in neon paint and sweat.
I wonder if he’s hooked up with anyone else?
He swore up and down that I was the first guy he’s ever kissed. But it only took five more minutes before my dick was in his mouth.
The next story is Lylah’s, from Barcelona.
Her long purple hair is whipping around her as she dances on the beach.
I hooked up with her, too, in the bathroom of the staff bar.
She tasted like spearmint gum and salt; her thighs chafed from running on the beach with the kids’ club all day.
The first time I blew a guy was in the same bathroom.
He was a bartender from New Zealand, Maori, and way taller than me with a tan line in a low stripe across his hips.
The memory’s fuzzy, but I remember he was huge, and so gentle.
I go back to scrolling.
I don’t want to move.
I want something to fill up the empty.
Soon enough I’m back on Tek’s profile like it’s second nature, because it is. I’ve been stalking it like a loser since I was fifteen.
I scroll down past the pinned posts but there’s nothing new. He’s not that active anymore since the shop took off, and I get why.
I pause on a photo of him with Eden, both of them in black t-shirts. Tek is half-smiling, his high cheek bones impossibly perfect. There are close-ups of the tattoos on his calves, and a few shots of him at the gym, shirtless, muscles thick but not bulky.
I double-tap a gym pic without meaning to.
Freak out.
Double-tap again to remove the like.
Then I stare at it.
My thumb goes slack and the screen goes black.
My hand falls to my chest.
I close my eyes, and I’m back in the shop, yesterday, with Tek yelling at me. Only what really happened, isn’t what I see.
I see him slamming me against the wall, eyes dark and possessive, one hand on my jaw, the other bunching my shirt into a fist.
I can still feel it: his breath in my face, and the way he looked down at me like I was something he needed to destroy.
I trace my lips with the tip of my finger, and lightly brush my Adam’s apple and collar bone before sliding my hand under the waistband of my sweats. My skin’s cold, but my dick is hard.
Tek’s voice is low and mean. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, and grabs me by the hair only to push me to my knees.
With my mouth level with his cock, he roughly unbuttons his jeans, not caring if his grip on me hurts.
With his dick free I open wide because there’s nothing else I can do.
An unexpected moan hits my ears and my eyes open in shock because—
This isn’t what I like.
I’m always the one in control.
I tug my sweats down and spit in my palm.
I know the real Tek, now. That's why I know this is how it has to happen.
It would never be like all the other times I imagined. There’d be no feeling. No emotion. That’s not how you hook up with someone you hate.
Hell, who am I kidding? He’d never touch me in a million years.
I close my eyes, anyway.
“Yeah, you like that, slut?” he taunts, but shoves his dick in my mouth before I can answer.
He’s still holding me, and I weave my own fingers into my hair, tugging tight to match the picture.
He uses me, and I let him. I shove down the ache in my gut that wants more, that needs so much more from him than what my imagination can give me.
I stroke myself, slow at first. The room is so quiet that I can hear the friction.
I imagine Tek’s words getting crueler. “You wanna be useful, kid? This is the only thing I can see you’re good for.” He pushes deeper, and I choke on it, eyes watering. I want to cry, but I want it more than anything.
My fantasy grows clearer, but meaner.
In my head, he pulls out and jerks himself off over my face, thumb digging into my open mouth until I can’t move. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn me, just comes, and I take it all.
I imagine the taste: bitter, hot, but still sweeter than I thought it’d be.
My hips snap up, and I bite down hard on my lip.
The futon creaks.
My hand is sticky with cum, but I don’t stop pumping, not even as my muscles cramp and my legs shake.
I hiss and curse out into the empty room.
I’m not submissive, but to be with Tek—just once—I know I’d take it however it came.
I relax back down, heart racing so fast I think I’ll pass out.
Sweat cools on my skin. It's so much colder than before. The AC must have switched off.
My phone vibrates on my chest, but I ignore it.
I stare at the ceiling still panting and hating myself for wanting something I can’t have.
That I’ll never have.
Tek is straight.
Tek is thirteen years older than me.
It will never happen.
I reach for the shirt I wore yesterday from the floor beside the futon. My phone falls to the ground, the screen lighting up, and as I finish wiping my hand I see a message notification from Tek.
WOOTEK: $20 an hour.
Tuesday and Wednesday only next week 8:30-5. The shop is closed on Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and Saturday.
Tuesday, Thursday & Saturday from the following week.
The shop closes from Christmas day to New Years day.
If by January 1st I haven't killed you, I’ll raise your pay to $22.50
I toss my phone to land in my open suitcase, refusing to reply.
What a mindfuck.
No sorry. No mention of what happened. No I was a total ass wipe but it’s only because I can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t know what to do with myself.
“Fucking idiot,” I berate myself. But, like a fool, I grab my slippers from the floor, curl into a ball, and hug them to my chest.
This is why I didn’t want to go to the shop when Eden asked me to. I knew I’d end up here, pining over the same man I have since I was fifteen, except now it’s up close and personal.
One step inside Teken Ink and I was totally fucked.