for me. His lips pressed into a tight line, and I knew he was done speaking. He turned and stalked off, an exit strategy I was beginning to think was his modus operandi. And yet…
The stutter. It wasn’t painfully obvious, but it had been there. The other night, too, I could recall a hint of a stutter. Was that why he was so quiet, why he got so flustered when we talked?
I couldn’t help but feel an urge to delve deeper—to chase after the man who, I had to admit, looked fantastic walking away. That ass was a piece of art. But I stopped myself fast and hard. Javi was a grown man who didn’t need me trying to reassure him. His problems were just that: his. God knew I had enough problems of my own.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Mason, giving me an update on my daughter. There were few people I’d trust with Giuliana, but my brother and his wife were high on the list. Not every baby could boast her own policeman bodyguard.
I texted him back, letting him know I’d be there to pick her up in a few minutes. It was the perfect reminder of what I needed to do, and who I needed to do it for. With my plan for the day beginning to formulate in my head, I got into my car, visions of the website I wanted to build and the snuggle sessions with my daughter I desperately needed.
Javi, with his glares and his fine ass, were almost completely out of my mind.
Almost.
6
Javi
The hum of the tattoo machine was like medicine. I felt centered with its buzzing drone in my ear and a blank patch of skin in front of me. I could block out all the other shit that was plaguing me.
Like how Reagan had been treating me like a delicate fucking flower since I stopped hosting parties at my place. I knew he worried about me being lonely. I knew he was worrying that I was letting myself spiral, that I might self-destruct like I’d done in the past. His concern made me feel cared for; he was as close to a father figure as anyone I’d known.
On the other hand, I hadn’t messed with anything illegal or lashed out in a way that could land me in trouble in over a decade. I was thirty-three and deserved to be treated like an adult.
I could also block out how Gordo seemed to be leaving his house early so he wouldn’t run into me. Or how he always seemed to need to leave the youth center as soon as I showed up. He was avoiding me, and I should be used to this shit by now, but it fucking stung.
Whenever I stuttered, people always became uncomfortable. I’d been dealing with it since I was a small child. First came the wide-eyed surprise—oh, gosh, a stutter? Then came the sympathy, which made me so angry it felt like my insides would rattle to pieces. If I was lucky, they spoke to me normally, and then avoided me. If I was unlucky, they spoke to me slowly, as if having a speech impediment stifled my ability to understand.
At least Gordo was in the category of ignore-the-freaks. I didn’t think I could handle it if he spoke to me like I was stupid.
“You’re being a little heavy-handed,” Mia said to me.
This was my third tattoo for her, and she was trusting me with a massive amount of space—I was creating a tiger that curved, angry and deadly, down her ribs and onto the thigh. Today’s session was for inking her ribs, a notoriously painful spot. But she was tough as nails, so if she said I was being heavy-handed, then I was.
Which meant that for once my job wasn’t doing its job, which was letting me fucking forget.
“S-sorry,” I said before I dipped the needles into the black pot of ink and prepared for a new pass.
“No worries,” she replied, but her voice was high and tight, and there was no missing the way she kept her abs clenched, as if that could protect her from the pain.
I needed to be more gentle and pay better attention. Fucking up with clients like her, either by not being sensitive to pain or by doing a shitty tattoo, was the best way to dry up future clients. Her ink and her word were my bread and butter.