24. Ember
EMBER
At work and at home, the guys are doing their best to act normal, and for the most part they succeed, but the energy between us is still off.
Maybe I shouldn’t have confessed to Frank and Zeb how I feel about them; I just wanted everything out in the open. But putting it out there, then trying to pretend it doesn’t exist, is like trying to ignore a blaring fire alarm.
It would be so much easier if I wasn’t with them all day long. We gather in the kitchen in the morning for coffee, three of us ride into work together—Zeb always takes his Harley, unless it’s going to rain—we’re together in the same small space for work, and we share the same house at night.
In the evening, we all have our own activities that keep us busy separately, but I’m always aware of being under the same roof as them, and it makes me needy.
Right now, we’re at work, and I’m trying not to notice the hard angles of Zeb’s face as he focuses on the serpent he’s inking on a man’s leg. I wonder what it would be like to trace my fingers along the furrow in his brow.
When I shake myself out of that fantasy and avert my eyes, I end up looking in Griffin’s direction. He’s cleaning up his station and I’m treated to—I mean tortured by—a view of his backside wrapped in faded denim.
I force myself to look away and find Frank’s enthusiastic client Jennifer approaching the shop. She’s talking on her phone and hovers just outside the entrance, presumably to wrap up her call.
“Heads up. Your new girlfriend’s about to come in,” I call over to Frank, just loud enough for him to hear.
The look I receive in return makes me instantly regret my choice of words. It’s only a second or two before he looks away, but the man’s dark eyes are filled with a yearning that cuts me deep.
I’ve been assuming that the attraction we confessed is just lust on the men’s part. Would Frank really want me as his girlfriend?
Luckily, I don’t have time to think more about it before Jennifer comes in. As she greets me, her gaze travels the room, admiring the men just like I’d been doing.
“Hey, I don’t have an appointment, but I have some free time and was wondering if any of these gorgeous men would be able to fit me in?” A chirpy giggle follows her request.
“Let me check.” Griffin’s just finished with a client, and the calendar shows there’s a bit of time before his next one is due. “One of our artists has an hour available. He could do a small tattoo if it’s something fairly simple.”
Jennifer nods enthusiastically. “That would be perfect.”
Once I introduce her to Griffin, she tells him she’d like something on her chest. “I was thinking a pair of dice right here would be fun.” She pulls down the neck of her shirt, exposing some cleavage. “Right above the nipple.” More giggling follows.
Of course, it’s not uncommon for people to have intimate areas tattooed, but for some reason, her request makes me feel like someone’s reached into my stomach and squeezed something.
“All right. I can set up a privacy screen,” Griffin explains. “And since your shirt doesn’t have buttons, you’ll need to take it off, but we can use a cloth to cover your other half while I’m working.”
The woman waves a hand. “No worries, I’m not shy.”
Ignoring the fact that my face is suddenly hot, I get back to work while Griffin gets Jennifer set up. What I can’t ignore is the way the woman giggles and flirts her way through the next hour. From what I can hear, the flirtations don’t cross any lines, but they’re still enough to make my blood boil.
I keep imagining his hand on her bare breast, and every time, it hits me like a physical blow.
Meanwhile, Griffin sounds like his typical charming self. I know it’s just his normal demeanor, and he’s not actually flirting with her, but it still hurts. And I have no right to be hurt.
I’m still irritated—mostly at myself—when my boss Gage comes in later that day. He visits our location once a week or so, and usually he gives advance notice, but today he walks in unexpectedly.
“I was over on this side of town to pick up a particular little something for Lexy at the jewelry store up the road, and figured I’d stop in,” he explains.
He receives nods of greeting from the three artists, who are all busy with clients, and then he asks me to follow him back to the office.
It’s a room I’ve been spending as little time in as possible, because the combination of lust and guilt that I feel whenever I’m in there is not pleasant. Walking in with Gage dials the lust way back, but amps the guilt up to a thousand.
In my mind’s eye, I’m draped bare on the desk, Griffin is poised over me, and my boss is witnessing it all. My stomach churns the whole time we review inventory and sales reports.
I can’t go on like this.
That evening, I do my usual study session at the coffee shop, and when I get home, the house is quiet.
Zeb’s in the kitchen, making something that smells amazing, and I pause for a moment, watching his practiced movements, the muscles in his arms flexing, the same quiet confidence he brings to his work at the shop. The slightest sight of any of the men’s bodies gets me hot these days, but seeing their creativity in action is especially exciting.
When I finally move away from the kitchen, I pass by the sliding glass door to the back yard. Frank is there with his shirt off, working on one of his sculptures, dappled sunlight gleaming off his muscles. He looks like a work of art himself, the personification of male beauty, his body so strong and hard, and I’m nearly knocked over by the overwhelming impulse to go out and run my hands over every inch of him.
A large pair of wings, inked in black with touches of red, span his bare chest. I’ve gotten glimpses of the top of the design when he’s worn certain shirts, but now I have the chance to admire it in all its glory. Glorious is definitely an apt description.
I stand there gaping at him for far too long, and the more I watch his hands manipulate the clay, the more I want those hands on me. I don’t know how I’m going to move beyond my attraction to these men when I’m surrounded by them almost every waking hour. I’ve been scanning the roommate ads online, thinking I might be able to find another shared situation that would let me move sooner, but so far nothing has been suitable.
In the meantime, I need to spend some more quality time with my vibrator.
But after I go to my room and lock my door, I realize my toy is nowhere to be seen. I search the bedroom and bathroom, even though I know I haven’t misplaced it. It’s just … gone.
It takes me a moment, but then I remember that I know exactly who to blame when things disappear at work. Stomach tightening, I go into Griffin’s room. His bed, with its rumpled sheets, makes me quiver deep inside. I’m glad he’s out tonight.
His acoustic guitar sits on its stand in a corner. He often plays it in the evening, sometimes for all of us, sometimes alone in his room. I love listening to him, both his playing and his voice.
Reminding myself why I’m here, I look around. Sure enough, my vibrator is sitting upright on his nightstand.
With a mustache sticker attached to it right below the tip.
It makes it look like a silly little man, and I have to stifle a giggle, but then I’m annoyed with Griffin all over again. He shouldn’t be getting into my things, not to mention that it’s embarrassing that he knows I have a vibrator.
And how does he know, anyway? I don’t leave it sitting out. Oh god … did he hear me using it?
Snatching it up, I march back to my room, but once I’m in there I’m too distracted to make use of it. My mind keeps cycling back to our encounter in the office, every single explosive moment of it, and I know my battery-operated boyfriend will be no match for my frustration.
If Griffin’s going to steal my sex toys, maybe I should get myself a real, live one, like Hazel suggested. Burning off my sexual energy with another man would be the best way to distract myself from my ridiculously tempting housemates.
There’s a bar not far away. I’d rather go to a different one, since the closest one seems the most likely candidate for one of the men to visit, but since I’m on foot, it’s my best option.
Slipping out of the house, I cover the distance quickly. It’s not quite as fancy a place as Diamond Hearts, but it’s nice enough, not a dive. I sit at the bar and ask for a Long Island, and I’ve barely been there a minute when a man slides onto the stool next to me.
I flick a sideways glance his way. He’s good looking by general standards—tall, handsome, fit—and I feel nothing, no spark of attraction. When he smiles at me, I force myself to smile back. It’s what I’m here for, after all.
There’s a momentary pang of guilt that I’m only aiming to use him, or someone like him, but isn’t that his goal too? We’re both hunting for relief.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and the dance is underway.