All The Ways You Saved Me Part 11

"Don't apologize for him. Just . . . don't."

"Now that's no way to smile for a picture," Helen said, bustling over to Rachel's side and fussing with her hair. "I don't know what's got you so worked up and grimacing. Is it the dress? It does look really tight. I-"

"It's fine, Mom," Rachel answered through clenched teeth, her face going as red as her dress. G.o.d, sometimes I wanted to strangle this woman.

Helen's eyes flicked from Rachel to where Grace was standing, making an obvious comparison without even saying a word. "Very well, dear." With a shrug she made her way back over to her other daughter.

Forcing a happy expression back on her face, Rachel stepped around me before I could even utter a word and went straight for John. Maggie slipped in front of me, and I tucked an arm around her.

"How's she really taking it?" she asked.

"Better than I expected." Not that her mom is making it any easier, I added in my head.

Maggie c.o.c.ked her head to the side, eyes narrowing. "I think she might like him."

"Who, John?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe she's finally moving on from your a.s.shole brother."

"G.o.d, I hope so." Turning Maggie in my arms, I let one hand rest on her hip while the other one trailed along the length of her spine. "Listen, not that I don't love Rachel, but my mind is on other things tonight."

She wrinkled her nose at me, slipping one hand underneath my tux jacket and fiddling with the b.u.t.ton of my white dress s.h.i.+rt. "Other things, hm? Like what?"

I tucked a riotous curl back behind her ear, knowing that it would bounce back into place as soon as I let it go. "Like you." Dipping my head toward her, I planted a tiny kiss on the tip of her nose.

"And dancing?"

I swayed with her to one side, and back to the other, dancing in place to a rhythm I knew only the two of us could hear. "There will be plenty of dancing."

She slipped her lip between her teeth, and gave one of my lapels a little tug. "You think maybe we can slip out of there a little early?"

The smile spread across my face slowly. "I'm sure that can be arranged."

Chapter 19: Bianca.

The air was alive with a frenzy of buzzing as tiny needles jammed their way into the sensitive skin underneath my left breast. I puffed out small breaths through my nose since my lips were clamped so tightly together no oxygen was getting through there. The machine moved, and it felt like a cat dragging its claws over sunburnt skin.

Except there was no cat. No sunburn. Just me, indelibly marking myself in a place I hoped to G.o.d my parents would never, ever see. If they did, then it meant that a) I was either naked or b) I was wearing one of the tiniest bathing suits known to man. I couldn't watch, so I'd draped my arm over my eyes, s.h.i.+elding them from even the tiniest peek.

"Doesn't Ian have tattoos?" Harper asked.

"Mhmm."

"Then why isn't the man himself here with us?"

I forced my lips apart and muttered, "Busy."

She snorted, the page of her magazine crinkling as she flipped it. "When is he not busy? You see him what, once a week, if that? Some boyfriend he is."

"Not . . ." The tattoo artist hit a particularly sensitive area, and I blew out a breath. I sounded like a bull getting ready to race down the streets of Pamplona. "My boyfriend."

Harper sighed. This wasn't a new reaction; she'd repeated it at least seven hundred times since I came back from the boardwalk and told her about my night. Although, that wasn't her initial reaction. We'd only gotten to that stage when I told her I didn't know what Ian's issues were, why he was so against dating, and that I had no intention of finding out. What was the point when I could already see the finish line cresting on the horizon?

Three more months. That's all I had left to live in the moment, to ride the wave. Three months before I had to stuff myself back inside the sh.e.l.l that was Bianca Easton. Back to late night cramming sessions, lonely afternoons in the library with my books, and absolutely no time for someone like Ian. Or any guy for that matter.

I wasn't going to think about that now because it would be an utter waste of my remaining ninety-eight days. What I was going to think about was Ian, and how I could convince him that letting down those walls and enjoying the time I had with him was a good idea.

I'd seen him once since our boardwalk adventure, for dinner. Another Thursday, which was starting to become our thing. Thursdays with Ian. It had been casual, comfortable. We'd spent the night talking. Chatting about nothing really, nothing of any importance. He didn't ask about my family, and I didn't ask about his past. Or his tattoos. When he'd walked me home, he'd kissed me once, on the lips, and left. It was that dry, awkward kiss again though, not at all like kiss number two.

The magazine slapped onto the counter behind my head. My muscles tensed ever so slightly, and I felt the needles disappear from my skin for the briefest of seconds before getting right back to work.

"Do you have your phone?" Harper asked. "Mine's dead."

"Purse."

Her heels clicked across the floor. A zipper opened. Her heels clacked back, and the pleather stool exhaled when she plopped back onto it.

"Whoa! Well, what have we here?"

Gently, I lifted my arm off my eyes and squinted at her, trying to see through the colorful spots that danced through my vision. "What are you looking at?"

Her gaze dipped back down to the screen of my phone. "I think the question should be, what are you looking at?" She cleared her throat. "'How to Give the Best BJ Ever.'"

A quickly stifled snort came from the direction of the tattoo artist.

My first instinct was to lunge for the phone, but at the moment, that was a huge no-no. Unless, of course, I wanted a really screwed up tattoo. Embarra.s.sment flooded my cheeks in the form of a furious blush, and I curled my toes as tight as I could.

"Planning something?" Harper's eyes danced with laughter as she grinned at me.

Ian's problem, as I saw it, was that he spent too much time in his head. When we were together I swear I could hear the gears grinding. No matter how good a time we were having, we always seemed to hit a point where his brain kicked in, and he remembered exactly why he didn't want to date. Or didn't want to date me. Or any combination of those two points.

Now if I could get him to stop thinking, maybe we could get over that hurdle. The only issue with the plan I'd devised was that my limited s.e.xual experience did not guarantee any type of brain shut-off.

So, I did what I did best-I researched.

"Maybe," I finally answered her.

"Another thirty minutes here, maybe forty-five," the tattoo artist said to me. I flicked my eyes down to him. The tip of his tongue peeked out between pursed lips as he concentrated, the ends of his s.h.a.ggy black hair dipping over his forehead and tickling his eyebrow piercing. The corners of his mouth were pressed firmly down like he was trying to repress a smile, and his hazel eyes danced with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Harper crossed one leg over the other, gripping the edge of the stool in either hand to balance herself. "Want some tips?"

"Nope."

"Why, of course I'll give you some, Bianca," she said, completely ignoring me. "What kind of friend would I be, letting you give your first b.l.o.w.j.o.b without any helpful hints?"

And that's exactly what she did, in very great detail and with accompanying visual demonstrations. Even without a mirror I could tell that I was blus.h.i.+ng absolutely everywhere, from the tips of my ears, all through my face, and down my neck. And d.a.m.n her if I didn't listen, soaking in every word she said.

"Right at the end, you can cup your hand around his b.a.l.l.s, and give them a little tug."

"Gently," the tattoo artist interrupted, lifting an eyebrow in my direction.

If I could have died of mortification, I would have in that very moment.

"Very gently," Harper agreed.

He wiped something cool against my skin, then rolled back on his stool, returning a moment later with a mirror. "All done."

I studied the reflection in the mirror, letting my eyes flow over the cursive font. "It's perfect."

"That's what I like to hear." Snapping off his gloves, he spun on his seat toward Harper. "I have to say that was one of the most interesting sessions I've had in a very long time."

"Let me guess," she responded, taking a step closer to him. "You're wondering if my mouth is half as good at giving b.l.o.w.j.o.bs as it is talking about them."

I let my gaze flip between them, purposefully clenching my jaw so that my mouth didn't fall completely open.

"Well, is it?"

Resting one hand on his shoulder, she leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Thank G.o.d I couldn't hear what it was because I had no doubt that my face would probably have burst into flames. His wide lips curved upward at whatever she said, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter, and he reached across to his table.

"Here's my card. Call me, anytime."

Without even looking at it, she slipped it into her back pocket. "I might just do that."

I left ahead of her, and she pushed through the door seconds later. "So, what now?"

I considered it. "I think . . . I'm going to go show Ian my tattoo."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"

This was a really bad idea.

I stood outside Ian's door, a brown paper bag of Chinese food in one hand and the other poised to knock. I hadn't called ahead of time. Why did I think this was a good idea again?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I rapped my hand on the door and then s.n.a.t.c.hed it back to my side. Oh G.o.d, what if someone was here with him? What if he had a woman in his apartment?

My smile froze on my face as I waited for the door to open. The seconds ticked by, and my eyes roamed over the surface of the door. Blue paint, silver numbers, a tiny peephole underneath. No chips or cracks.

I started counting down from thirty. If he didn't answer the door by then I was out of here.

The door swung open by the time I got to twelve.

I must have woken him up, though I hadn't imagined he'd be sleeping at four-thirty in the afternoon. He hadn't bothered putting on a s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of red flannel pajama pants rode low on his hips. His hair, which was normally messy to begin with, was flattened on the left side and rioting on the right. A pair of black-framed gla.s.ses rested on the bridge of his nose, and he blinked sleepily at me from behind the lenses.

My mouth opened like it was supposed to, but the words that should have come out got lost somewhere on their way. I fastened my gaze on his face and tried again.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

He ruffled a hand through his hair. "Did we . . . have plans?"

"No," I said, hugging the Chinese food to my chest and suddenly feeling like a huge idiot for showing up here unannounced. "No, I just thought I'd . . . surprise you."

With one hand on the door, he leaned toward me and sniffed. "Chinese food?"

"Yeah." I pa.s.sed him the bag and shoved my empty hands in my pockets. "I should've called, I'm sorry. I can just . . ." I hitched a thumb over my shoulder.

"What?" Ian stepped back and pushed the door open farther. "No, come in. Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Don't mind me."

Tossing a glance at him over my shoulder as I walked by, I headed for the kitchen. "I like your gla.s.ses."

"My what? Oh." His hand darted up to touch them, and he smiled at me sheepishly. "Forgot I had them on. I feel like such a dork in them so I never wear them out."

"Really?" I made a concerted effort to try and calm my pulse, which was thrumming out an unsteady rhythm. "I dunno. I think they're kinda s.e.xy." My eyes s.h.i.+fted from the floor to his face, then back again.

"Yeah?" A smile peeked out from between his lips, and his hand drifted up to rub against the back of his neck. The lean muscles across his chest and stomach rippled with the motion. I definitely wasn't going to ask him to put a s.h.i.+rt on this time.

I nodded, glancing around his kitchen at the cherry cabinets. "Where do you keep your plates?"

"Plates?" He gestured off to the left. "Over there."

I had to reach for them, and my still-sensitive skin protested the stretching. I winced, and switched hands, reaching with my right rather than my left.

"Hurt yourself?"

"Not really." I pushed two plates across the kitchen island toward him. "Just managed to cross off another item on my list."

His forehead crinkled, and then his eyes sharpened. "You got a tattoo? Without me?"

"I texted you, but you were busy."

"Right." The small frown was momentary and gone almost as soon as it appeared. "So, let's see it."

Grasping the edge of my s.h.i.+rt, I pulled it up, leaning back against the counter behind me. The tattoo was just visible beneath the edge of my very uns.e.xy sports bra, but my skin was still too tender for anything with lace and underwire.

His thumb skimmed over my ribcage. "I carry your heart," he read, his finger pausing on the very far edge where a tiny, purple and blue lily was inked, looking like it was plucked straight out of a watercolor painting.

"It's part of this poem Renee used to have hanging on the wall. When she was little, that's what she wanted to do-poetry. Except she was never any good at it. Horrible, really. Her mom pulled out her old school stuff once and showed me-" Ian's thumb landed on my lips, and it wasn't till I looked up with him that I realized my eyes were swimming in tears.

I took in a shuddering breath, trying to tamp down my feelings. "That line doesn't just remind me of her, it's the truth. Renee's always with me."

Ian nodded, his fingers skimming over my cheek to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You miss her."