33. Chloe
thirty-three
Justin shuts the door quietly behind me and wraps me in his arms, a slow, tender, deep embrace. He kisses my neck, and my center fires up, then he hoists me on his hips, our foreheads touching. I fist his hair, bringing his lips to mine, darting my tongue out. He kisses me back, a soft and slow kiss as he walks us into his apartment. Then he twirls me around and drops me on a countertop and leaves me slightly dizzy, a stupid happy smile on my wet lips.
“Mojito?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, craning my neck to follow his awesome body as he moves to make us drinks. He’s wearing washed-out jeans, a short-sleeved button-down that’s a very light shade of gray, has tiny stripes, molds to his muscles, and shows a good portion of his tats. He’s barefoot and I think to myself, He has great feet.
I have a little internal smile at my weird-ish observation, then I turn around to take in my surroundings.
Where Justin lives.
His apartment is right above the pub. We’re in a large open space with the kitchen area in one corner and sliding doors that open to a deck built on the pub’s roof. There’s no furniture outside, not even a single chair. Just railing all around it. Justin clearly doesn’t use the outdoor space.
I move my attention to the inside. The walls are exposed brick, the ceilings high with dark beams. The floor is wide wooden planks showing all kinds of wear and tear but sanded down and polished. A leather couch faces a huge flat-screen TV mounted over a fireplace, with a battered, dark coffee table in front of it. To the side, next to the row of windows facing The Green and between shelves filled with books, there’s a wood and metal dining table set for two.
My heart does a little thump as I take in the flowers in a small Mason jar, the tea light candles flickering, the napkins carefully folded over the plates.
Then I move my attention to the black-and-white pictures on the wall.
I hop down from the countertop and walk to the photographs.
The sound of a shaker fills the room, followed by drinks being poured, then Justin’s steps and his warmth next to me as I catch my breath.
The first photograph shows an old building, floor to ceiling openings, about two stories high, with men in leather aprons posing with their tools. The sign above their heads reads, Sal’s Forge.
The second photograph is the same building probably decades later. Some of the openings on the left side have been walled from the ground up, maybe to create large bay windows. It’s hard to tell because it’s boarded. A partial story has been added to the building, also on the left side.
The right side, about one third of the whole building, looks like it’s been rehabbed into a store, or maybe a restaurant, with its own entrance and windows and awnings.
The third photograph is clearer, and that’s the one that guts me.
It’s a more recent photo. Black and white. Not by artistic choice, I don’t think. The framing could have been better. Not a professional photographer. It’s more like it was printed in black and white by choice. Maybe to match the others.
The photograph shows the same building. The boards are gone and replaced with windows. There’re flower boxes now but with the picture being in black and white that’s kind of lost. The main entrance for the bulk of the building on the left side is now a wood and glass door with wrought iron details I’m familiar with. There’s a brand-new sign, The Lazy Salamander.
A group of people are assembled under the sign, ready for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. I recognize Chris, and Lynn and Craig, and Grace and Haley, Logan and Hunter, and Colton.
What breaks my heart is in the center. Justin, holding giant scissors, smiling tentatively at the camera. He’s nothing like the man I know now. He looks frail and almost stooped. A shadow of himself. Like he’s struggling to stand, struggling to hold the scissors, struggling and failing to really smile. But it’s him alright. Those locks framing his face, wilder than now. That piercing gaze, with that sadness that usually only comes in hints, captured entirely on paper.
I can’t take my eyes off the picture, even when he hands me my drink. “You okay?” he says.
I peel my eyes off the wall and look at him now, grinning, full of life, full of joy. What am I missing? How do I ask him?
He clinks his glass to mine. “Cheers.” We take a sip, his eyes boring into mine, mine into his, with a lot of questions. “You look good in my place,” he says, a glimmer of mischief in his eye.
“Your place is great.” I turn away from the photo wall, try to make small talk. “Very manly.” I smile. “Like a giant man cave.”
“At least you didn’t say it looks like a bachelor pad.”
The word makes me shiver. Does he bring a lot of girls here? I didn’t think he did, but what do I know?
He claims my waist in his free hand and brings me to him. “Hey, where’d your mind go, Clover.”
I need to grow up and get rid of my insecurities. Of course he’s had girls here. I mean, look at this place. Look at this man.
“Cave is the word,” he says softly. “I never have anyone here. No friends. No family. Mom came here a couple of times when I moved in, but not anymore, thank god. Been a while since I’ve needed help.”
I turn a questioning gaze at him.
He points to the photos with his drink. “When I opened the pub, I was still in rehab. Still had motion issues. She was worried for me.”
My gaze stops on his forearm, where the intricate tattoo designs artfully cover his scars. “You never really told me how bad your accident was.” I instinctively mold my body closer to his, but he shrugs, and his hold around my waist loosens. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Yeah, I kind of got that. “Then why the photos?”
“I don’t want to forget it either.”
Here we are.“So you’d rather keep it to yourself?”
His lips tighten in a forced smile. “I have some appetizers. Don’t like to drink on an empty stomach.” He lets go of me, goes to the fridge, pulls out a board, and sets it on the coffee table.
“So this place was a forge?” I ask once we’re seated on the couch, me at an angle, my bare feet on his lap. I pretend to forget he didn’t answer my question. I’ll get back to it.
He finger-feeds me a piece of prosciutto and nods. “Sal’s forge. When renovations were almost done and it was time to find a name for the pub, I played with incorporating his name. At the time I used to sit in the back a lot, get some sun, and there was this salamander that kept showing up that I thought was super friendly and weirdly slow. I thought The Lazy Salamander was a cool name for a pub.”
Right.So, after our cooking session, I did some research. Turns out, for the most part, salamanders are not a protected species, but, also for the most part, they’re poisonous to eat.
Also turns out, they have a strong symbolic meaning.
Not saying there wasn’t a friendly salamander keeping him company on his breaks. That could happen. But come on. I drain my mojito and play with the ice cubes, twirling them in the glass, wondering what will get him to open up to me. “Isn’t it cool the salamander also symbolizes rebirth and… the ability to survive fire?” I narrow my eyes on him.
“Very cool,” he says, unfazed.
“So, why lazy?”
“Even cooler,” he answers without missing a beat, his killer smile again freezing me in place while he goes for a slow kiss.
My center is mush and my throat tight. How can I get upset at him after he kisses me like that? Wanting to know more about him, wanting to someday know everything about him, for now I go to a safe topic. “You did a lot of renovations?”
He sets his empty glass on the floor and starts rubbing the soles of my feet. “Place was a dump. After the forge closed down, some dude bought the building with the idea of converting it, not sure to what. He added this apartment, then ran out of money. The whole King block and another property he had, the cottage you’re living in, were foreclosed on just at the right time for me.”
“The right time?”
His lips tighten again, but he answers this time. “After the accident, I got some money.” He looks bitter about it. “There’s things money can’t buy. But then there’s things money can actually get you.”
On instinct, I go for the safe question. “What made you want a pub?”
He doesn’t answer right away, instead he pulls me closer and starts trailing his hands up and down my legs, caressing my calves, my knees, stopping shy of the inside of my thighs. Then finally he says, “I wanted to stay in town, but I didn’t want to work on the farm.” His gaze wanders away from me, and my heart clenches as I listen to him trying to tone down what had to be the most difficult time in his life. “I didn’t think I could pull my weight, at least in the beginning, and I wanted my own thing. I was working on getting better, getting back to a hundred percent. I knew I wouldn’t get there if I lived at home. I didn’t want my parents or anyone pitying me.”
There are so many things I want to know about him, but I get that he’s just opening up about this. Some things take a while to come out. Sometimes they never do. Sometimes the people around you need to understand the words you’re not saying. “Were you in a lot of pain?”
His eyes swing back to me. “Mostly, yeah,” he says casually. “I needed to do my own thing,” he continues, “and I wanted to do it in this town. I got some money, saw this block in foreclosure, bought it, saw the town needed a pub, took a loan to make it a pub. The other space was already a restaurant, so I didn’t touch it.” I scoot closer to him, wanting to hold him, but he moves my feet to the floor, stands up, and mutters, “I wasn’t the running away type.”
Then he pulls me to my feet, and I land against the length of him. “Hungry?” he whispers, his hands at my back pressing me deep against him, his mouth dipping to my ear.
I tie my hands behind his nape. “Not for food yet.”
“Not for food?” His eyes are dancing, his smile is deep. He’s past the sadness, or maybe he’s learned to live with it and can chase it away whenever it shows up. He gives my lower back another pull, rubbing his erection against me. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Then do something about it.”
He growls and lifts me, one hand behind my butt so I’m straddling him. In a few long steps, we’re in his bedroom. The shades are drawn, the bed is a king and it takes the whole space.
He sets me down on the bed. “Don’t move,” he says as he yanks his shirt off, then shucks his jeans and underwear, never breaking eye contact with me.
He’s so intense, his gaze so hungry, that despite feeling a pull to look at him getting undressed for me, to look at his magnificent body I’ve reimagined so many times since Boston, my eyes stay locked to his. Then he drops his gaze to my body, and I squirm under his scrutiny. My center pulsates, and I reach for the hem of my dress.
“Keep it on,” he says as he lowers himself to the bed, trails his hands up my thighs, reaches my panties, and pulls them off. He growls as he watches them dangle off his fingers for a beat, then drops them and turns his attention back to my center. He nudges his face between my thighs, growling against me, then lets his tongue take over, swirling around my clit, driving me crazy.
“Justin, please,” I beg. His hands take a firm grasp of my waist, giving me a tug, then he growls and finally, finally hits my spot. I start moaning, my release building fast, and he pulls away.
“Not without me, babe,” he says as he grabs a condom.
I look at his magnificent body, so strong and full of life and ready to fill me, and all sorts of dirty thoughts run through my mind. “Hurry, baby,” I say just as my eyes narrow on a spot right where his heart is that last time had no ink but now has a…
Clover.
My heart ba-booms, and my center clenches but not in a sexual way.
In a primal, existential, scary way.
I grab his neck and pull him to me. “What is that?”
“Babe, what?”
“On your chest.”
His face softens, his lips dipping to mine.
Is he trying to avoid answering my question? “What is that new tattoo?”
“Clover…”
Why did he act that way with me when he had me tattooed on his heart?
“Tell me.”
He doesn’t tell me anything. His eyes go somewhere sad and deep again. He grabs me behind the knees and folds my legs up, bucks his hips and enters me hard, then lets go of my legs to cup my head. He leans his forehead against mine as I wrap my limbs around his body, pulling him against me, never letting him go. He’s relentless in his pounding.
“Tell me,” I beg, the words getting lost in my moans, my body betraying me.
He undoes the top buttons of my dress, slides a hand under my bra, flicks the pad of his thumb over my nipple and just growls, “Clover,” and I come undone under him, my orgasm still rippling through me when he comes inside me in long, hard jerks.
I pull his body to cover mine entirely, but he props himself on one elbow as he catches his breath, his locks of hair caressing my face, his exhales like feather kisses down my neck.
“Tell me,” I say.
“You’re angry.”
No. I’m freaked out. Okay, maybe a little angry too. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Why? First he didn’t want to take my name or number, then he yelled at me, then ignored me, then said we were friends, and for a large part of that time he had my name tattooed on his heart?
“Clover, you’re scaring me. Talk to me.”
I take a deep breath. “No, you talk to me. I wanna know everything. From the top.”
He rolls away from me and settles on his back, trying to pull me against his side.
My body hardens.
“From the top?” He sounds freaked out and reaches for me again.
“We got all night.”
He pinches the top of his nose. “Can we cuddle? I miss your cuddling.”
“No cuddling with liars.” I’m not as angry as I sound, but I do need to make a point.
He lifts himself halfway. “Liar? What did I lie about? I didn’t know I was supposed to disclose a new tattoo.”
It’s not just any new tattoo. I sit up and tuck the dress between my legs. “You lied about your feelings, Justin. You made me miserable because of that. You made yourself miserable.”
He drops a hand on my knee and caresses it gently. “I’m sorry,” he says in a low whisper, so genuine I almost crumble and climb him and cuddle against him.
“Kay,” I say. “Now we’re gonna talk.”
“Kay,” he says, repeating my word. “But can we talk over dinner? I’m starving. It’s either cuddle or eat. You won’t cuddle, I need to eat.”
I almost melt at his confession, but he doesn’t give me enough time to change my mind and nudge myself against him like I want to.
He ducks into the bathroom and leaves me feeling silly. He returns moments later. “It’s all yours,” he says and goes into the kitchen. I slide off the bed, clean up in his very manly, very dark, very stark yet quite awesome bathroom—mostly black tile and chrome.
I find him in the kitchen tossing a salad while something that smells awesome is in the oven.
“Can I do anything?” I’m annoyed at myself for the way I talked to him. Did I push him too fast, too far?
Did I push him away?
“You can come here.” His gravelly voice shoots straight to my lady parts. I make my way to him, relishing the look he gives me. He pulls me into him, one hand behind my back, the other playing with my hair. His gaze jumps from my lips to my temple to the top of my head. “I like you here, Clover. I like you in my arms, I like you in my place. I think I’m gonna like you in my life.”
My chest ba-booms again. “Justin,” I whisper, tilting my head back, angling it just so when he lowers his mouth to mine.
He gives me another of his full, deep, soulful kisses, then pulls back just enough to say, “I made a mistake in Boston. I told you, I was angry at myself. The one way I’m used to dealing with my wounds, is to cover them up in ink.”
My knees buckle at his confession. “Oh, Justin…”
He takes my mouth again, gives me another long, deep, awesome kiss. “But I should know. Even the deepest wounds eventually heal. Sometimes in surprising ways,” he adds, booping me.
We’re feasting on marinated grilled chicken and herbed new potatoes when he says, “After the accident, I had to have some skin grafts. After that, physical therapy. My PT became my best friend, so to speak. He’s an older dude, was in the military, then after his discharge, went back to school. He was exactly who I needed. Tough. Knew what I was going through. Knew what I could handle. Knew how to bring me back. All the way. Once I was completely healed, I just kept on going with training and shit.”
I can’t help but roam my eyes over his body. The training and shit definitely worked.
“Like what you see?” he asks, his foot under the table grazing my calf.
Heat creeps from my center to my chest. I don’t know why I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A smile is the only answer I can give him.
“You’re so darn cute when you check me out, Chloe.” He’s full-on grinning now.
I want to know more about what he went through. “How about pain?”
“What about it?”
“How did you deal with it?”
“As soon as I was out of the hospital, I tried to stay away from meds as much as I could. Did mental shit like meditation. CBD. Tried weed but didn’t like what it did to me. I wanted to feel fully in control. Having the pub gave me a purpose. Something to think about, worry about, that wasn’t me or my body.”
“It must have been hard.”
“I came out alive. I was the lucky one.”
Right. I almost forgot. How does he feel about that? Did he go to therapy? Does he still need help coping? There’s so much I want to know. “Do you often talk about the accident?”
He looks at me like he’s stunned. “No. Not going to. Thought I told you already.”
Oh. I clear my throat, stand up slowly and round the table, set my hand on his shoulder and push back a little. “I think it’s cuddle time,” I say, pushing harder so he’ll give me space to sit on his lap.
He doesn’t budge. “I don’t want your pity, Chloe.” His eyes are softer, but still, I can tell, he’s guarded.
“I don’t pity you, Justin.” I wiggle myself between the table and him and straddle him, running my fingers through his hair. “I just want to give you some love. That okay?” I add, bringing my forehead to his, my hair creating a curtain around us.
His hands come to my hips, up my butt cheeks, and he gives me a squeeze. “Yeah, Clover.” He kisses me softly, barely any tongue, then nests my head on his neck.
We stay there for a moment, quiet, eyes closed, until he carries me to his room again and makes sweet love to me.
This time, I examine his tattoos carefully, an intricate web of leaves and tree barks covering the uneven surface of his skin. There’s even a small salamander on his shoulder, and I give it a soft kiss before trailing down his chest and ending on the clover, which blends seamlessly with the leaves and flowers covering his ribs.
Then he brings us fresh berries and homemade ice cream in his bed, and after that, we fall asleep. When I wake up early in the morning, the bed is empty but not for long.
Justin brings me coffee and a warm croissant from Christopher’s bakery right across the green.
“You sure you have to go?” Justin says when I get up and start looking for my underwear.
“I can’t be wearing the same dress three days in a row. People’ll start talking.”
“They’re already talking.”
“Right. But not about my poor hygiene. Not yet.” I snap my panties and tug them on.
He laughs softly.
I find my bra under his bed. “Does it bother you that people are talking about us?”
“Why would it bother me?” He stands and walks with me to the main room.
You used to have one-night stands outside of town? Rumor is you never wanted to date anyone here?I stuff my bra in my handbag and slip my sandals on.
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. “I don’t care what people say. And anyway, people are probably just saying the truth for once. That I’m a lucky bastard.” Then he kisses me long and soft and lets me go.
I hesitate at the door, burning to ask, Do you want to come to my place tonight? But we’ve already spent two nights together. I don’t want to seem needy. I don’t want to be needy.
“You ever been in a 1956 Chevy Bel Air convertible?”
That would be a no, but I’m not sure why he’s asking, so I safely settle for “Um…”
“I’ll pick you up in two hours. Taking you to the lake.”