Page 4 of Knocked Up
Right. My hands clasp together and I get a sudden waft of stench coming from the garbage dumpster in the alley I pass.
Fortunately, MadInk is right ahead and before I can second-guess myself and run back home to call him instead, I lunge forward and grab the door handle.
I whisk it open and a bell jingles. I gasp, inhaling the crisp, cool air inside, and almost stumble to my knees before righting myself.
Getting to my feet, I rub my arms and glance around. The waiting area, a small section of metal and black leather chairs, is empty. In the middle of the chairs is a glass table, three-ring binders are spread out in a fan shape, some open to reveal small but intricate and colorful pieces of art. Tattoos, probably.
In the distance, the faint buzzing of needle guns is barely audible over the heavy metal music.
“Can I help you?”
I jump at the voice and the woman who’s entered the lobby area without making a sound. Walking behind a large desk filled with small pieces of glittering jewelry, she snaps her gum with boredom clear on her face. “Need some ink? We’re busy tonight but the head guy can fit you in if it’s a small piece.”
“No.” God no, is more like it. I have a perverse fear of needles. The sharp stinging pain. And how do people ever truly know they’re sterilized properly?
“So what can I do you for then?” Her eyes narrow, dip down and then up, trailing my body. “You don’t seem like the clientele we usually get. You lost?”
I wish. Southtown isn’t far from where I live, but two blocks into Southtown is an entirely different world from the Pearl District.
“No, I’m not. Is Braxton here?” As soon as I ask the question, my gaze lands on a portrait on the wall. My heart seizes. It’s not just any ocean, it’s his. The way he sees it. The way he’s imagined it. Startling blues with bright orange lighting the night as the moon rises, pinks and swishes of purples melding at the horizon. It seems and feels as if the water travels forever. Just like it appears in real life except the painting makes me hurt. Because he wants to see it and hasn’t.
I don’t know what possessed him to tell me all about it when we were together, but I’ll never forget the story or the ache in his voice as he mentioned his desire to see dolphins splash in bright teal waters.
I amsogoing to throw up.
Clearing my throat, I step toward the girl behind the counter. She’s sitting in a chair, bar height, feet kicked up onto the counter. Her feet, clad in rubber flip-flops despite it being only fifty degrees outside, wiggle to a beat of music. She has multiple facial piercings and ink covers the entirety of her arms until it disappears beneath cutoff sleeves of her tank top.
“Sweetie, listen, I’m not sure what you need—”
“I need Braxton,” I blurt.Get a grip,I tell myself. Just say what you came to say and leave. “I don’t have an appointment, but my friend Jenna said he should be here.”
She scans my body again, a piercing on the outer edge of her upper lip glimmering in the light as she presses her lips together. “So youdoneed to see the head guy.”
Her gaze makes me uncomfortable, like she’s inspecting me. “Yes. If he’s not busy.”
“Sure thing, sweetie.” Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches for a phone next to her and presses a singular button. “Yeah, B? Got a girl out here needs to talk to you.” Silence, then, “Don’t know. Seems like a Free People model if you ask me, but she’s asking for you.”
Free People? I’m not certain whether to be offended or flattered. I’m in my last remaining pair of “fat” jeans, barely able to squeeze my quickly growing backside into them and unable to button them at night when pregnancy bloat appears. My flowing tunic top is able to hide the small pudge in my front, and while I might be dressed more hipster-ish, I’m not sure she really cares.
“Don’t matter you don’t know Free People, B, just get your ass out here. Girl looks like she’s gonna puke.”
The phone snaps down and she grins. The Cheshire Cat comes to mind as she breaks out into a toothy smile. “He’ll be right here. You need a bucket?”
Is it that obvious to everyone that I’m constantly two point five seconds away from vomiting these days? I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“So how do you know Braxton?”
“Not sure that’s any of your business, Stell.”
His voice. It rumbles through me, flows like water and sends thrills down my spine. I’ve spent weeks trying to forget his voice, so hung up on that one night we spent together that I’ve been sure I had to be imagining him and all his deliciousness.
But nope. Hell no. No way in hell. Braxton is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking just as stunning, if not more so, than I remembered. I don’t know how it’s possible, but in the flesh—and sober—I go liquid.
Black cropped hair, dark as the night. Tanned, olive skin so beautifully perfect it makes a girl want to lick it right up like melted chocolate. And I’ve done that. Several times. I’ve had my hands and tongue and body all over this massive man who is currently staring at me like I’ve stolen something precious from him and he’ll stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to have it returned. I can’t peel my eyes away. He was breathtaking in a suit. In jeans currently hugging his large and muscled thighs and a plain white T-shirt, his muscles pop and with the way they’re currently crossed, holy hell, the tattoos…can anyone say “arm porn”?
Damn it. I should have run.
Be a better person. Be the girl I know you can be, the girl who’s deep down in your soul.
