Chapter 1 #3
Emily blinks at me. I’m not surprised. It’s always been an unshakeable boundary of mine that I never do out of hours appointments.
The one and only time I did, I had a flashback, and ended up hiding under my table shaking and puking on myself while the client stared helplessly.
Mortifying . Still, I haven’t done that in a long time, and I think I should be OK.
I mean, I very much doubt she’s going to bring a submachine gun to her appointment, or tie me to a chair and make me listen to Huey Lewis and the News.
Em’s a total champ and doesn’t give me away or grill me any further, though I can tell from the looks she gave me that I’m getting the third degree on the way home this evening. If you’re sure, no worries, she tells me, and I nod once.
Eli’s going to hear about this, too. And he’ll probably have his phone in his hand during all of Liaden’s appointments, waiting for my text that I’m OK or that I need help.
Liaden herself looks captivated, watching our hands as we talk. Professional curiosity, I guess. I give her an apologetic look; we’ve been holding a conversation that involves her, but excludes her entirely.
Em puts her professional hat on and takes over the situation. “So, we can offer you after hours appointments after six p.m, if that suits you? Or do you really need a daytime slot?” She flicks her eyes to me briefly.
“Oh, if evenings are available, that would actually be better for me,” Liaden replies, and I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. “Any night except Tuesdays are fine for me.”
I’m standing here like a lemon, and I decide to tap out before I slip up and make an ass of myself.
I give both of them a querying thumbs up as I walk backwards towards the door.
I don’t have to turn away for a few seconds; might as well make the most of them, I think, as she tucks her hair behind her ear and arranges appointment times. God, she really is gorgeous.
“Nice to meet you, Dean,” she says in a friendly sing-song voice before glancing back at me with a sparkly smile. I like the sound of my name in her voice. I like it a lot.
I point at her and then hold up two fingers, and she giggles, a warm, lovely sound that makes my innards flip.
I head towards my room, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face as I hear them talking.
It collapses when I get a brief flash of another face in my mind. Another beautiful girl, this one a teenager with long dark hair and smiling doe eyes I used to get happily lost in.
A girl whose head exploded like a burst watermelon all over me.
And another woman, cowering on the floor, hugging her pregnant belly in a futile attempt to protect her poor, doomed unborn baby as the gunman walks closer to her and lifts his gun for the millionth time that night…
After fifteen years I am long used to this particular auditory hallucination, so I don’t fall apart when I hear Mrs Oberman’s desperate, terrified cries, and then the loud, evil staccato of the M-16.
But it does tighten my throat and steal my breath for a moment and make my heart race for far less pleasurable reasons than when Liaden was in my studio.
Still, it’s done what was needed. I’ve been thoroughly and brutally reminded, same as always.
Almost without realising, I lift the left sleeve of my henley and look at the one tattoo I did on myself because everyone else refused without me explaining what it meant. The one that brands me and reminds me never to let myself get complacent. Or happy.
This scrap of life I’ve been left with is my punishment. I reacquaint myself with that core truth: I’m being punished by living, I deserve it, and I always will.
You know what you did, you worthless piece of shit.
Liaden
I wonder what his stubble would feel like rasping against my inner thigh.
Grinning at the thought, I avoid my fellow lunchtime rush pedestrians as best I can while clearing my smart watch and checking my emails on my phone.
Two questions from students, neither of which is an SOS-help-me-now.
One meeting request from the head of department’s PA.
One email from my mother enthusing about having booked a holiday to Tuscany to surprise my father for his birthday.
And one invitation to appear on a BBC documentary about Chaucer as the father of English vernacular.
No fires for me to put out, nothing that can’t wait until I get back to my office.
I flag each email with the correct colour coded tab and put my phone back in my bag so I can take the time to enjoy the walk back.
Foxton-on-Sea has a terrific beach, and it’s a big bonus of the job at the university that I get to stroll along the waterfront every day.
Pale sand, a clean ocean that glows vivid blue in the summer, and even now in winter is crystalline. It’s gorgeous, and it’s invigorating.
Invigorating . That’s what it was like meeting the scruffily handsome man who’s going to make my ink dreams come true, too.
It’d be fun to fuck Dean Gastright on this very beach, To roll around on the sand like in From Here to Eternity and let our bodies do the talking.
As languages are my jam, I never really saw the appeal of the strong, silent type before, but he could easily make a convert out of me.
Besides, an estimated seventy to ninety three percent of all communication is entirely nonverbal, and, with his expressive face, I didn’t feel like our meeting was at all stilted or difficult.
In many ways, he’s a world away from the men I usually go for, because they populate my life and men like Dean don’t, generally speaking.
I suppose it’s fair to say that my day to day life is conducted in somewhat of an ivory tower, with a dating pool consisting of bookish, heavily cerebral Colin Firth or James Purefoy types.
My mother calls them ‘thinking woman’s crumpet’, the sort who’ll quote long passages of obscure poetry to you while they finger you adequately to orgasm.
And then there’s the sexy, silent tattoo artist, seemingly very much my cup of tea after all.
Creative, obviously meticulous in his work - judging by the exquisite detail in his portfolio photos - and hot , in a rough-and-ready sort of way I’d never anticipate I’d enjoy so much.
He’s refreshing. And fascinatingly mysterious, with his enforced silence.
I wonder if he liked me, too. There were a few key indicators that he did, like the way his breath caught ever so slightly when I shamelessly ran my fingers over his inked up arm.
And I noticed the look in his eyes after I got him to zip up my dress.
There’s no disguising involuntary reflexes, large pupils, small microexpressions.
I laugh to myself; I was probably looking at him in much the same way.
I’ll have to see how our first appointment goes at six p.m. next Wednesday, and evaluate if this was a passing fancy or if this nascent attraction builds. But there are definite possibilities here.
What fun.
My penis fly trap flutters a little as I consider them all and contemplate what sort of lover he’d be.
Pure speculation at this stage, but I’m thinking he’d be gentle, yet very much in charge.
A surprise alpha, and if he tells you to drop your knickers and spread your legs, he means right this second and don’t keep him waiting.
I bite my lip as I start to tuck my hair into my collar to stop it blowing in my face.
That dirty little scenario will be fun to think about with my vibrating wand this evening.
Speaking of vibrating…
My smart watch buzzes on my wrist, and I roll my eyes when I see it’s Mitchell, the Deputy Dean of Linguistics. Fishing my phone out of my bag, I debate rejecting the call, but I’d never hear the end of it. This particular Dean is a lot less fun to think about than the one at Wishbone Tattoos.
“Hello,” I say cheerfully, because being antagonistic serves no purpose, even if I can’t stand the man. I was taught as a child that it’s not two faced to show good manners. And besides, I know it pisses him off royally.
“You’re not in your office. Where are you?”
He says it as though leaving your office is a criminal offence. “I’m on my designated lunch break, Mitchell. Walking back to campus now.” In a fit of pettiness, I stop walking. “I’d say I’m approximately ten minutes away.”
“You will be back in time for the AGM.” It’s not a question.
“The agenda pack has been left on your desk, since you weren’t there to receive it.
” Sniff. “Can I take it you are ready to deliver your update to the delegates?” I’m a Visiting Professor whose salary is funded by a high prestige Trust, and the trustees will be present today.
I’m required, under the terms of my contract, to give the department an update every quarter, and a longer, more in-depth one at the Annual General Meeting.
I’m well aware that being employed by this Trust is a huge honour, and that working for the University of Foxton - one of the top five universities in the country according to many lists - is an undeniable feather in my cap professionally speaking.
Having said that, given my qualifications, my employment background, my reputation, and the fact that hiring me was considered to be something of a coup for the School of Linguistics, I think he could reasonably be expected to speak to me with considerably more respect, and less like I’m an errant schoolgirl who forgot her homework.
Lynne, the actual Dean of my department, loves me.
Mitchell is simply obnoxious, with an over-inflated sense of his own importance.
And he’s just sore because I made it clear during my first week of employment that I’m not into self-regarding, unctuous, married eejits, and that his smarmy advances were unwelcome and doomed to fruitlessness.
“Yes.” I study words because I love them. I’m not wasting them on a man who would even try to insinuate, with a straight face, that I wouldn’t be prepared for a known obligation well in advance. My speech has been sitting ready for two weeks now.
“Good.” I can almost hear him scowling, trying to think of more to say to me, more pointless digs, but mercifully he hangs up instead. I tut and put my phone back, watching the foamy waves again to soothe my mood after speaking to that officious prick.
“Hey,” a voice says a few feet behind me, and I turn to see my friend, Tim Stewart, who recommended Wishbone Tattoos to me. He catches up to me, carrying a half eaten baguette and a carrier bag. That man always eats on the hoof, like he doesn’t have time to sit still.
“Hello!” Tim, our IT helpdesk manager, was one of the first friends I made at work when I moved here last year.
He has such kind eyes, and is the ‘gettable’ sort of attractive, like a hot Average Joe.
But we have friend chemistry without even a hint of sexual tension, so instead of the horizontal mambo, we just buy each other elaborate coffees and commiserate over which of our colleagues we hate the most.My pick is Mitchell, of course.
Tim’s is Peter, one of the lecturers in the School of Economics, who happens to be his twin sister’s boyfriend.
It’s a valid choice; Peter is insufferable.
“Guess what - fixed your printer.”
“You lifesaver . Did you have to call in the exorcists?”
He laughs. “Bloody nearly. I’ll put you in for a new one sooner rather than later.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” His friendly face is very welcome after Mitchell’s buzzkilling phonecall. “So, how did it go with Dean?”
I smile. That’s more like it; I’m happy to talk about him .
“Really well. I was so impressed, and I’ve got my first appointment next week.
” I think the way I grin at my shoes gives something away, because when I look back at him, he looks so amused.
“What? It’ll be fun to learn another language.
” That much is true; languages are my soulmate, and I’m genuinely looking forward to getting started on ASL.
“And you were right: his work is exemplary. Don’t think there’s a more perfect artist out there for what I want. ”
“Yeah, he’s awesome. And he’s one of Sadie’s best friends, so I happen to know for a fact he’s good people.” His eyes look at me teasingly.
I giggle. “What’s that look for?” I’m not sure I mind being rumbled about this.
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I’m saying nothing.”
I shake my head mock-sternly, but I can’t stop smiling. I nod to his paper carrier bag, which is from a local toy shop. “Moving swiftly on…what did you get?”
“It’s a sea monkeys kit.” He shrugs. “Eleanor’s friend got some, and of course she wants to give them a whirl, too.
Honestly, though, better these than the time she decided to keep stick insects.
” He shudders comically. Eleanor is his daughter.
“They just… Would. Not. Stop. Breeding . Couldn’t give enough of them away. ”
“Yikes.” Judging from the photos he’s showed me, his daughter is about ten years old or so.
Apparently, Tim was a young father. Extremely young, as in teenaged.
I think back to the way my life was when I was ten.
Aptitude tests. Exams. Television crews…
I hope her life is a little more settled and calm than mine was.
With Tim as her dad, it almost certainly is.
I can’t imagine he’d be anything but a loving and attentive father who lets his kid be a kid.
Case in point, spending his lunch hour seeking out the sea monkeys she wants.
And I doubt very much he’ll expect her to write an essay on the little critters’ habits and life cycle.
I’m really not as bitter as I sound, but I do wish I’d had more time to be a child back when I was one, with just a little more frivolous fun and slightly less obsessive focus on my educational stimulation.
But children like me always get treated differently.
It’s inevitable. It’s even understandable.
And I was loved and looked after, which is all that truly matters.
I’m happy to listen as my friend tells me more about his daughter, and how she’s doing in school. He lights up when he talks about her, so if anything it’s a pleasure to pass the rest of the walk back with him.
I must buy him a bottle of wine to say thanks for the recommendation of Wishbone Tattoos.
If I end up taking Dean to bed, I’ll make it champagne.