BOSSY BROTHERS: TONY Page 8

  She crosses the street, heading towards the theater coffee shop, but then spies me in the alley and heads my way, grinning.

  “I take it you got lucky,” I call to her once she’s close enough to hear.

  She runs to me, eyes bright and mouth smiling. She grabs the sleeve of my jacket and spins me around with her. “Oh, my God!” she yells. “I cannot believe that just happened!”

  “What? What happened?” She’s practically jumping up and down and her happiness is contagious, so I get caught up in her excitement.

  She calms down a little and steps closer to me, still clutching my jacket. She looks over her shoulder with a gleam in her eye, then up at me. “He fucked me.”

  “Damn, girl. You have skills.”

  She giggles. “Right in his studio. And the best part? Oh, my God. The best part is that Belinda caught us.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. She came in just as we were finishing, and saw me come. I was looking right at her when it happened.”

  “Fuck. What did she do?”

  “She bolted. I think she locked herself in the bathroom.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Did you get lucky?” She practically squeals these words.

  “I did. I fucked her in the alley behind the shop. Came all over her leg.”

  Soshee slaps my arm playfully. “Gross!”

  I narrow my eyes a little. “You didn’t let Vann come inside you, did you?”

  “He didn’t get a chance!” I almost howl with laughter. “Vic caught us. And then… chaos. Vann pushed me out the front door and”—she shrugs with her hands—“here I am.”

  “So… this was good?” I ask.

  “Good enough,” she says. “I mean, fuck Belinda, right? I don’t even care that she saw us. Vann wanted me. He was all talking dirty and enjoying himself. And it’s kismet that you and I”—she points to herself, then me—“we’re both getting a quickie from these two people at the same time.”

  “Kismet, huh?”

  “Yes. Vann wants Belinda and she was with you. I think it’s perfect.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Do you really like him?”

  “Are you kidding? He and I are soulmates. He just doesn’t know it yet.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like your type. And I’m not sure you’re going about this the right way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Vann? He’s into big trucks with huge tires. Mirrored sunglasses and hoodies. I bet he snowboards, right?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Back in school he used to disappear all the time with his friends to hit Vail. They barely let him graduate he missed so many days.”

  “Do you snowboard?”

  She laughs. “I don’t even ski. I hate it. All those people… ugggh. Tourists? No, thank you. I can’t deal with dumbasses.”

  “That’s kind of my point. You’re one of those free-thinking, go-with-the-flow girls. You’re a local, I-eat-organic-and-my-mother’s-a-fortune-teller kind of girl. He’s… not.”

  “He is.”

  “He’s so not. Vann Vaughn is all about appearances. He has no depth. He’s a walking tattoo-artist cliché.”

  “You don’t really know him, Tony.”

  “Like I said, I know his type. I’ve met hundreds of guys like Vann Vaughn back in Key West. Blond, tanned, built. Charming. But underneath it all, they’re just douchebags looking to get laid.”

  “Like you?” She winks at me.

  “Kinda like me. But I’m not actually a douche. I’ve got purpose.”

  She links her arm in mine and starts tugging me towards the coffee shop. “What purpose?”

  “Just… you know. A long-term plan. And I do good works.”

  “You do?” She snorts. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t come off as the good works kind of guy.”

  “No?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “So how do I come off? From your stranger’s perspective?”

  “Are we still strangers?” Soshee cocks her head to the side as we walk across the street.

  “Aren’t we?”

  She stops walking in front of the Fort Collins Theater and plants her hands on her hips. “Do you want to come up and eat dinner with me?”

  “Up?”

  “I live here.” She nods her head to the old brick building that houses the theatre. “They have shitty lofts on the top floors. They’re going to remodel the whole thing in a few months, so my time here is limited. But—”

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand to stop her so I can laugh. “I live here too.”

  “What?” She slaps my chest playfully. “No way!”

  “I swear. I got one of those B&B things for the week. It’s on the third floor.”

  She tsks her tongue. “That’s one floor below me!” She slaps me again. “Now that is kismet, my friend!”

  The next thing I know she’s got me by the hand and she’s dragging me into the theater. She weaves her way through the coffee shop towards the stairs and holds my hand the entire jog up to the fourth floor. Doesn’t drop it until we’re standing in front of an old, battered steel door.

  She produces a set of keys from her bra—I die with delight when she does that—winks at me, and then throws the hulking door open, pulls me inside, and slams it closed behind us.

  Soshee Ameci is, in a word, wonderful. And so is her place.

  I look around and find that my eyes cannot stay in one spot for too long. There’s so much to see. So many beautiful, interesting things in front of me.

  I’m not any kind of expert in design, but I’ve seen this type of style before. Mostly in chic coffee houses on TV. She’s got overstuffed velvet couches in a shade of blue that hints towards gray and mustard-colored throw pillows with blue paisley accents. The entire loft is surrounded in paned windows, but she doesn’t have traditional curtains. She has strings of brightly colored blue and yellow beads hanging in front of the windows. And right now they catch the fading gold light of the sunset hovering over the mountains in the west and send sparkles twinkling on the high, pitched ceiling.

  On the raw-edged wooden coffee table in front of the couch there sits a tea set. Like… a full-on fucking tea set. Cups and saucers. Two pots. Little spoons on a tray. And all the patterns on the china are mismatched. Not in a busy way though. In an eclectic way that conjures up feelings of home, even though my mother doesn’t drink tea and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even own a tea pot. Still, I get this feeling of nostalgia and a vague, undefined longing for the good old days.

  Sitting on top of a dresser with many drawers of different colors there is something that might be a… shrine? If one were praying to the Lord of Suns. Because she has a collection of round, glass orbs in every shade and tone of orange, yellow, and red you can image. Paperweights, maybe? Crystal balls? I’m not really sure. I don’t really care. They are stunning. And behind them are candles in every variety. One very tall, elaborate candelabra that must hold more than a dozen candlesticks sits in the back, the Lord of Suns himself, presiding over his court of stars. And then lots of pillars, and tea lights, and votives scattered around the orbs.

  I suddenly want it to be dark. I want her to light every single candle in this room just so I can stand in the middle of it and become part of the fantasy she has conjured up in my imagination.

  I let out a breath, realizing I was holding it in. “Damn, woman. This place is kind of amazing.”

  “Really?”

  I look over at her. She’s got her head cocked at me in confusion. “Yeah. I fucking love it. My place at home is like… well.” I chuckle. “The fucking rental downstairs.”

  “Boring?”

  “Yes.”

  “Minimalistic?”

  “Definitely. I’m not sure what that look is called, but it’s certainly not this.”

  Soshee chuckles. “It’s called…” She thinks for a mo
ment. “Clean slate.”

  I laugh and agree with a nod. “Yeah. That about sums it up. But this place?” I look around again. “It’s pretty spectacular.”

  “Most people tell me it’s way over the top. And all of this stuff came from my mother.” She huffs a laugh. “It’s all second-hand. She used to have a consignment shop a couple years ago. Before she moved down to Boulder to tell fortunes full time.”

  “Well, that explains the vintage feeling of nostalgia.”

  Soshee laughs again. “Well…” She seems speechless. “Wow. I think I just fell in love with you, Tony Dumas. Thank you.”

  “People don’t really think this is over the top, do they?”

  She sighs. “They really do.” Then she looks around at her home and her shoulders slump a little. “All the kids from high school?” She glances at me. “They used to call me the gypsy’s daughter. And not in a good way. I made the mistake of bringing a friend home in seventh grade. My mother and I lived in this crappy trailer on the north edge of town back then. And even though she didn’t say anything while she was there, the next day in school I got the nickname. Everyone made crosses with their fingers and spread rumors that we were Satan-worshippers. Most of this stuff is left over from that trailer. I couldn’t afford all new furniture and anyway, I like my style. People can fuck off, ya know? But the nickname faded over the years, and I don’t want to encourage a revival, so I don’t usually bring people here.”

  “You brought me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re just a visitor. You’ll be here for a day or two more and then you’ll go home and I’ll probably never see you again. I guess I didn’t really care what you thought.”

  I stare at her for a moment. Really see her.

  She’s pretty. Beautiful, actually. But in a way that says I-work-hard-for-this-look. Her eyes are dark with smoky makeup, her lips painted up a shade of red that accentuates her almost maroon hair, and her skin is smooth and pale, but still maintains a glow.

  I find myself wondering what she looks like after a shower. After all the embellishments have been washed away and the only thing left is the real person underneath.

  I bet she’d be more than beautiful like that. She would be stunning, I think.

  “Well, those people are stupid,” I say, realizing that I’m staring at her and she’s starting to feel uncomfortable. “Your place is like a… a tribute to Pottery Barn back when Pottery Barn felt vintage and cool.”

  She laughs. Loudly. “Oh, my God. That’s it. You’re totally moving in with me. I need your kind words surrounding me at all times. You can be my very own walking, talking suit of armor, Tony.”

  “Hmm,” I murmur, liking her description of me. When Belinda is around I lose sight of myself. She changes me into this… asshole I am right now. I put up walls, and morph into the angrier, darker boy I used to be.

  I’m not really that guy. I was. Once. When I was young and stupid. When the weight of family expectations was first set upon my shoulders. But I haven’t been that guy for a long time now. I’m fine with the secret things my brother and I do. I actually look forward to the sneaking, and plotting, and planning these days.

  But when Belinda came back—Rosalie. No. Rosalinda. This weird amalgamation of the two girls. The one I once knew and the one I don’t know at all—when she came back it was like all that long-forgotten rage came with her.

  “Well… do you want a drink?”

  I look over at Soshee and in that same moment I forget about Rosalinda. I almost forget how I got here. “Yeah. I think I do.”

  I join her in the kitchen as she pours us each a glass of wine. Soon we’re chatting and talking like old friends instead of new ones. We order dinner from the theatre restaurant downstairs. And when the food comes, the sun has set, and I help Soshee light every single candle in her loft.

  Then I just stand there, in the middle of the space, and let myself fall into the enchantment.

  Forgetting all about a girl called Rosalie who is now called Belinda.

  And remembering what it’s like to fall for a stranger.

  CHAPTER TEN - BELINDA

  At first, tattooing with Vic is nerve-wracking on many levels. His client is a guy around my age with a lean, muscular body. He eyes me with fierce suspicion when Vic brings me into his studio and tells him I’ll be helping out with filler on the right side of his back while Vic works on the new tattoo on his left shoulder.

  I expect him to object. Not because of me, specifically. But because two artists working at once? On the same body? I’m not much of a tattoo collector myself, but I have a couple. And there is no way I’d let two people work on me at once.

  But that’s not his objection.

  It really is me.

  “I thought you said Vann could do it?” Army dude, who is called Trev, says.

  “Vann has a client tonight. If you want this done before you leave, it’s gotta be Belinda. She’s my up-and-coming protégée. Trust me, she will amaze you.”

  I smile sheepishly at Trev. Vic is lying to him about all those things. Vann does have a client tonight, but that appointment isn’t for a couple hours, at least. And the part about me being his protégée—I think I would know about that, if it were the case. Also, I’m fairly certain he doesn’t think I’m about to amaze anyone. Vic thinks I have potential. But the last thing a person about to let you carve up their skin with ink wants to hear is that their artist has potential.

  Vic pulls a stool out from under the counter and slides it over to my side of Trev’s prone body in the chair. I glove up, listen as Vic explains the design to me. I’m doing some pretty typical filler. Flames and smoke and possibly—Vic says we’ll see how things go—some hand lettering.

  Then we settle in. Trev is a talker. He chats almost non-stop to Vic. I didn’t check him in—I was getting food when he arrived. But I’ve seen his name on the schedule several times since I started working here. He’s a regular, of sorts. And he and Vic seem to go back a long way.

  I only half-listen to their conversation about parties, and girls, and motorcycles—hey, at least the elder Sick Boy is on theme, right? Instead, I concentrate on doing the best job I can on the filler flames. Vic’s artistic style borders on photorealistic. So I take my time trying to make my flames match Vic’s already present design.

  It would be nice to be able to do my own style and my own designs, but this is not my client. And Vic’s work on Trev’s back is spectacular. The last thing I want to be known for is fucking it up with filler.

  I’m facing the door—which is open—so it’s hard not to notice Vann walking by every few minutes so he can look at me.

  I’m not interested. I’m one hundred percent not going to talk to Vann ever again.

  Not because he fucked Soshee Ameci in his studio and I caught them, either. That’s so not why. It’s because I’m totally embarrassed about how I reacted. Or… really… overreacted.

  He probably thinks I’m jealous.

  He probably thinks, Ah ha! She does like me. And that little hysterical display after she caught me fucking another girl is proof!

  But it’s not. I’m not jealous. I’m actually disgusted. In fact, Vann Vaughn is even less attractive to me right now than he was this morning when I considered him hot.

  I don’t think he’s hot. Nope. His grin isn’t charming. It’s… ah… sleazy. Yeah. He’s sleazy. Fucking random girls he doesn’t even like in his studio with all kinds of people around.

  What’s wrong with him?

  I get the irony. I’m a hypocrite. I just fucked Tony outside in the alley. But in my defense, there was almost a zero possibility of us being seen. And it was only to get Tony off my back and make him leave town.

  Fucking Tony tonight was a joke, of sorts. Maybe even a necessary evil.

  That’s it.

  Vann walks by. Again. And he looks right at me. Again. I pretend not to see him from behind my safety glasses. Anyway, it’s a quick pass by. He’s heading to the front
to check people in.

  A few minutes later I hear him laughing. Even over the music, and conversation between Vic and Trev, not to mention the giggling girls in the waiting room, I can hear that laugh.

  OK. I will admit that Vann has a nice laugh. It’s catchy. And easy. And light. Not a too-loud haha, but not a huffy chuckle either. It’s deep and comes from his chest. It makes you want to smile.

  “Follow me,” I hear him say. “I’m in the back.”

  He walks by the room, and then a blonde girl—young, beautiful, sexy—hell, let’s just call her look “porn-star cheerleader meets cliché stripper princess”—follows him. But she practically slides to a stop and backtracks.

  I shoot her a weird look, momentarily pausing my work.

  “Vicious Vaughn. I thought you were off tonight?” Slutty Princess leans against the doorjamb and grins at my boss.

  Vic stops working too, and then pulls his facemask down and swivels in his chair. “Cherry! What’s up?”

  Cherry? Her name is Cherry? Gag.

  “I would give you a hug, but—” He holds up his gloved hands.

  “I’ll take a raincheck,” Cherry coos. “But I thought I was booked with Vann because you were off tonight.”

  “He came in for me,” Trev mumbles.

  “Hmm,” Cherry hums.

  “What, I’m not good enough for you, Cher?” Vann jokes.

  Cherry turns to Vann and pats his cheek. “Oh, no. It’s not that at all, sweet Vann.”

  Sweet Vann? Double gag.

  “But this design tonight is… in a… how should I put it?” Cherry pokes her cheek, making a fake dimple, and pretends to think. “A delicate place.”

  I snort. Everyone looks at me. Even Trev lifts his head up from the face pillow. “What?”

  “Yes, delicate,” Cherry continues. “But you won’t mind, right, Vann?”

  Vann looks down at her… uh… yeah. Not subtle, asshole. And then his eyes shoot back up and over to me. “Wait. What?” he says. “You want a tattoo… there?”

  Vic and Cherry laugh loudly. “You’ll see, sweetie,” Cherry says. She shoots Vic a look that says, Your loss, buddy, grabs Vann by the collar, and tugs him to the back, towards his studio.