Two nights in a row, it’s been the same. One of us rolls over in the middle of the night, touching the other, rolling on top of them. This time, she started it. Sleepily and slowly, she rubbed herself against me, riding me to climax. Then, we settle back down and fall back asleep rather quickly.
I’m not complaining. There’s nothing better to wake up in the middle of the night for. Not even cereal.
She’s hot. Really hot. Much more sexually adventurous than you’d assume when looking at her. It’s always the buttoned-up type who have the wildest sides. Then again, anyone with a nearly fully tattooed torso and thighs always has a bad girl streak.
It’s early morning, the sun hasn’t quite made its entrance, so the room is only half lit. The lazy bluish hue is peaceful, calming. I honestly don’t know why I’m awake. Helena is still tucked neatly against me, in almost the same position as we fell asleep. Which surprises me, considering I’m usually the type to toss and turn.
I don’t want to wake her yet. I’m sure on the rare occasions she can sleep in, she probably treasures them. Talking before, I remember she said she usually works six days a week, occasionally seven. Which is rough. Though, I feel her pain. Oftentimes, the shop needs additional day coverage and various events, so we get stuck there all week.
Today, I travel back home. My dog isn’t used to being without me for days. Luckily, she gets along well with Hawk’s girls, so he watches her. At least she isn’t alone. Honestly, that may actually be one of the first things he and I bonded over. We were just two dudes who loved their dogs.
This would be easier if we lived in the same place. Acknowledging that this is a real thing felt like a lot for both of us, like neither of us do it all that often. Admittedly, aside from the one shitty ex she told me about, I haven’t asked any other questions about the men she’s dated or the frequency. And she hasn’t really asked me, not in depth. She knows I keep it casual, don’t get too attached. And I certainly don’t do a lot of sleepovers. I’ve spent more consecutive hours with her than my last three or four attachments combined, honestly.
What can I really say? I’m a man who usually prefers solitude. But, for the moment, time with Helena is better than my alone time.
“Good morning,” she says, as she stretches her arms up over her head.
Snapping out of my thoughts, I squeeze her. “Good morning to you.”
“I don’t know about you, but I could use some sort of breakfast meat,” she says.
“Sounds delicious,” I say.
Helena pulls her phone from her side table, clicking some buttons rather quickly, before putting it back down and turning toward me. “Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect,” I say. My thoughts are still scattered across several Helena-centric topics, and I figure the only way to rid them is to ask the questions burning in my imaginary pocket.
“Question time,” I say.
“I like question time,” she says.
“Okay, then you first,” I say, the two of us adjusting to a position where we can see each other.
“You said you don’t do serious attachments,” she says. “That you keep it casual.”
“Yes,” I say.
“So, is this just a casual thing? Will you be dating other women?” she asks.
It appears our minds are stumbling over similar things right now, which I find interesting.
“I don’t think I will be dating other women, no,” I confirm. “I wouldn’t call this casual. I’m not saying it’s serious either, though. I don’t think it’s been long enough for that.”
“That’s fair,” she says. “Okay, so officially though, we aren’t seeing other people?”
“If that’s alright with you,” I say.
“I’ll have to make a couple dozen phone calls, but that’s okay with me,” she says, laughing.
“How kind of you,” I tease.
“You turn,” she says.
“Along those same lines, I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place for the next trip? Maybe meet my friends in a more casual setting,” I ask.
“I’d love that,” she says.
“Good,” I say, unable to keep my smile under control.
“Okay, my turn,” she says. She’s quiet for a couple of moments before speaking. “When I come up, will you tattoo me again?”
“Definitely,” I say. “I’ll tattoo you anytime you want.”
“What do you mean?” she asks. “Like anytime I come up.”
“No, I mean like any time, anytime,” I say. “I always bring my kit with me.”
“Shut up,” she says. “Really?”
I nod, assuring her I’m telling the truth.
“Okay, well, then can you tattoo me after breakfast?” She laughs.
I nod again, excited at the very idea of tattooing her again.
“My turn,” I say. “What made you want to ask me to do this for you?”
Helena takes a deep breath, soaking in my question. I imagine it’s not a simple answer. It certainly doesn’t seem like it would be anyway. Her eyes study my face, tracing over my mouth and beard.
“Everyone I’ve ever dated has looked like Tommy Devlin. Clean cut, unable to shed their frat boy persona, and more polos in their closet than a department store,” she says. “For once, I just thought maybe I could show people the other side of me, even indirectly. No one I work with knows I’m tattooed under my clothes. Except my sister. They’d shit their pants if they found out.”
“And I was a way to show them without actually showing them?” I ask.
“I guess,” she says. “At least at first. In addition to just fucking with them.”
“And now?” I ask.
“And now,” she pauses, “now, I just really like you.”
“But why?” I ask.
“Why not?” she challenges.
“I guess I’d just expect you to want someone—”
“Someone like all the men before you who’ve disappointed me?” she says.
“I guess.”
“I try to learn from my mistakes, Avery,” she says. “I try to choose better.”
It’s wild to me that she’s referring to me as a better choice than previous men have been. Surely, they’ve all been the same status as her. Wealthy, in the same social circles, possibly even in similar lines of business. If they’ve all been like the one ex I know about, anyway.
We crawl out of bed, resolved to start the day and breakfast arrives no sooner than we’re both fully dressed. Perfect timing, and I tell the delivery guy as much when I answer. He seems surprised to see me or startled maybe. That is, until Helena rounds the corner.
“Hey, Max,” she says. “This is Avery.”
Max seems to relax at her words. I’m guessing this isn’t Max’s first delivery to her and therefore a strange man answering the door is alarming.
“Hey, man,” I say, taking the food from him and shaking his hand.
“Hey.” Max returns my shake, his eyes darting from her back to me. “Good to meet ya.”
After he’s gone, we sit at the counter, pulling containers from the bags. Then I realize, there’s six. Six containers.
“Why are there so goddamn many boxes?” I laugh.
“I couldn’t decide what to get,” she says. “I’m very indecisive in case the ice cream didn’t clue you in.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh. “My poor little Wilding.” She sticks her tongue out at my mocking.
“This place, like the ice cream place, is the best in town. They only serve breakfast. All day, every day,” she says.
“Then I have high expectations,” I say.
“They’re gonna meet them,” she says, pulling all the lids off. She grabs two forks, and we eat it family style, taking bites of all the things.
“The biscuits and gravy are amazing,” I say. “And this bacon is cooked to perfection.”
“What did I tell you?” she teases.
“You’re right,” I say. “When you’re right, you’re right.”
After we finish, we put the leftovers in the fridge and then it’s time for ink. I clear off her coffee table, disinfecting and wrapping it the same way I would in the shop. I never recommend people get tattooed at home, but by that I mean by people who are not professionally trained.
I take a few minutes to sketch what she’s described to me. When I’m done, I let her see it.
“It’s perfect,” she says, looking down at the drawing.
She wanted a snake coiled around a daisy. I have no idea what the significance is, nor do I ask. If she wants to tell me, she will. And sometimes, there isn’t one. A person can want something because they think it’s pretty and nothing more.
Helena lies down on the couch, and I place the stencil beneath her back ribs. Once she’s seen it in the mirror, and approved it, I get to work dipping my needle in ink. The familiar buzz is the only sound in the room for the next hour.
We talk through it, and she tells me it represents her, dually her softness and her hardness in this world. I get that more than she will ever know. In many ways, she’s much like a daisy—soft and delicate. In other ways, the world she lives in fills her with venom.
When I finish, she kisses me and thanks me. Though, it's not necessary. I’d tattoo every crevice if she let me.
After we clean up, it’s my least favorite part of the weekend. Time to go. Placing my bags next to the elevator, we have a few more minutes before the limo arrives.
“So, you’re coming up next weekend?” I ask.
“I sure am,” she says, planting a kiss on my lips.
“Good,” I say, kissing her back.
“I’m going to run into the office today, but text me when you make it home,” she says.
“You know I will,” I say.
I don’t want to leave her. Not yet. I’d much rather be crawling back in bed with her for the rest of the day and binge watching a random show while she continues ordering the “best in town” food. But I can’t stay either.
Even though we labeled this “not serious,” it still sucks to leave. When you live in the same place, you know you can come back later, or spend weeknights, and meet up anytime. There’s no “missing” the person.
Perhaps that’s the driving force of this whole thing. Missing someone can be really powerful sometimes.
After several more kisses, I’m leaving. The elevator doors close, her face the last thing I see. In the limo, I text her.
Me: I wish I had the ability to chill.
Helena: What do you mean?
Me: I’m going to have a surprise for you when you come to my house.
Helena: What is it?
Me: Do you even know what surprise means?
Helena: Shut up.
I laugh, satisfied she’ll be guessing all week. Which just means I better do a really fucking good job pulling it off.