Getting inked, p.1
Getting Inked, page 1
© Copyright 2020 by Van Cole All rights reserved.
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Getting Inked
Gay First Time Bad Boy Romance
By: Van Cole
Table of Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Foreword
Dealing with an ex is never easy business. Anyone who’s been divorced will tell you that. But, when your ex invites you to her wedding, what else is there to do but say yes? My tattooed ass was never the best son-in-law material. Too much of a bad boy in me, I guess.
Seeing her family goes as smooth as it can, under the circumstances. There, I stumble across my ex’s younger brother. As always, one drink leads to another and he makes a move on me. My first reaction is to punch him straight in the face. My second reaction is to consider apologizing. My third reaction has me questioning who I am.
This guy, who just happened to walk into my life, drives me crazy without even trying. Should I just let go and allow the unthinkable to happen?
Getting Inked
Chapter 1
I wake up with a whale of a hangover. How many of those did I drink last night? Enough to get shitfaced - that’s how many. Stupid fucking colorful cocktails. You never know exactly how many you can drink before it’s lights out.
I try to lift my upper body off the pillow, but gravity smacks me down with a vengeance. My head is blasting stars and stripes, and it’s not even the 4th of July. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the water running in the bathroom. Someone’s taking a shower. Living alone, you’d think that’s alarming. But, getting shitfaced drunk the previous night just means that I brought home some nameless girl. Oh, God, I hope she isn’t some crazy ass stalker. Why is she still here? Fuck.
I glance at the floor. A crop top with sequins. Red, lacy bra. A pair of miniature thongs that would barely hide anything. Alright, could be worse. I could see some granny panties lying around. Thank God for little things in life, right?
I hear the water turn off. The watch on the little nightstand tells me it’s 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Fuck. I need to get some rest. I’ve got a shitload of work this week and I need to be focused. Not like you can do a shitty job on someone’s tattoo and then just say, ‘oh sorry, dude, my bad.’ It doesn’t work that way and I didn’t reach the top by doing a lousy job.
Alright then. Let’s get our unwanted guest out, so I can take a shower myself, grab something quick to eat. The acid’s killing me, and then I can go back to sleep. You’re meant to kill off the first half of any given Sunday by sleeping it off.
Tiny little footsteps are heard, like someone tiptoeing through the hallway. Does she really think I’m still asleep? I focus on the door, expecting anything at this point. The sight that opens up before me surprises me pleasantly.
She’s totally naked, droplets of water still glistening on her voluptuous body. She’s busy drying off her hair. The girl’s really gone native here. Not sure I like that, but let’s see. Perky tits, not too big, not too little. The ideal amount of juice in them. Slightly toned belly. Curves to die for. A flashback from last night hits me. She’s riding me like a pro, her tits bouncing right in my face, my hands resting on her ass, as it bounces off of me. I immediately get hard underneath the covers.
“Oh, hey,” she tells me nonchalantly, revealing a cute smile and a small, but even row of pearly teeth. I think she had dark lipstick on last night. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s fine,” I brush it off.
She circles the bed, and her butt jiggles a little. Her dark hair spills over her bare shoulders and over her breasts.
“Well, it’s good you’re up,” she tells me, sitting on the edge of the bed. I see the little curly triangle between her legs. She doesn’t even try to pretend like she’s shy. Her eyes are aglow with desire. I fucking love it. “I was thinking we could go for round four, now that you’re all rested.”
“Baby, you’re reading my - “
My hand reaches out for her soft breast, but my phone interrupts us.
“Who’s calling you on a Sunday morning?” she frowns.
I give her a what-the-Hell-do-you-care look, as my hand changes trajectory, picking up my phone instead. I recognize the number instantly. I should. I knew it by heart years ago. I changed my phone recently, and just started picking up on the numbers that didn’t sync up.
I jump out of the bed, leaving the naked chick all confused. But, she’s the last thing on my mind. Right now, I’m weighing between picking up or pretending that I’m asleep, and just letting it ring. But, really. Who calls on a Sunday morning? Maybe something happened?
“Hello?” I answer quickly, like ripping off a band aid. Quickly and, hopefully, painlessly.
It takes her a moment to reply. I can almost hear her breathing on the other end of the line. She feels so close. I can almost touch her. I can see her now, clear as daylight. Her blonde curls. Her cheeks that would get fired any time she was caught saying or doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She’s still the only person who can’t lie. She just can’t. Her cheeks immediately blush, and you know exactly what’s happening.
“Hi, Brook,” she whispers, just like she did a million times before.
“Hey, Clara,” I reply.
At the mention of another girl’s name, the naked chick in my bed winces. I turn away from her, but I know she’s drilling a hole in the back of my head with her stare. She probably thinks I’m a cheating scumbag, and that Clara is my girlfriend, wife, whatever. She’s wrong, of course, but I’m not in the mood to explain anything right now. Not until Clara tells me why she’s calling, at least.
I walk over to the window. The curtains are light, peach colored, but they provide enough privacy to a guy whose dick was still trying to figure out whether it’s ready for round four.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” she asks, as if she just remembered the time.
“No, it’s fine,” I assure her, gripping the phone. “Is everything OK?”
She pauses. All sorts of horrible images pass through my mind. She’s at the hospital. Someone’s hurt. Someone died. Despite the fact that we haven’t been close in the last year or so, you could say we were pretty close for years before that. Like, really, really close. My head between her legs close. Her hand in mine close. Sharing a surname close. But, all that’s behind us now, and we’ve established a courteous relationship that allows us to occasionally catch up over the phone or during a rare lunch out, if she’s in town.
Then, it hits me. That’s probably why she’s calling. She’s in town and wants to get together for a lunch or something. I exhale loudly, feeling the weight slide down my back, like a rolling stone.
“It’s fine, perfect actually,” she finally replies. I hear a smile. I could always recognize the tone of her voice when she was smiling. “I’m calling because Dan and I are getting married, and…”
The rest of the sentence trails off. I remember pretty boy Dan. She showed me a photo of the two of them. Dan the stock broker. Aspen vacation Dan. Her latest paramour, the one she told me all about the last time we spoke. I’m surprised they’re still together, honestly. He strikes me as a momma’s boy, the one who’ll never leave the hems of his momma’s skirt, or his momma’s deep wallet. And, Clara’s always had a soft spot for bad boys. I grin at the thought.
“And, the wedding is small, you know, just the closest friends and family,” she continues, and I realize what she’s telling me.
She’s getting married, and I’m fucking invited to the wedding.
“It’s all just a spur of the moment thing, and I wanted to personally invite everyone, you know, face to face, but you’re too far away for that,” she is still smiling as she’s talking. I wonder if she talked like that about our wedding, too. A pang of jealousy hits me, out of nowhere. There goes my erection. Round four isn’t happening, baby. “You know I consider you a dear friend, Brook. And, I’d love to have you there.”
Her last words linger on, in the nothingness of the receiver. When’s the wedding? I didn’t even hear. I was too busy throwing a hissy fit over Dan. Fuck.
“What was the date again?” I cough a little, clearing my throat.
“The 19th.”
That’s a month away. Just enough time for me to get sloshed a few more times, sober up properly, and then go attend my ex-wife’s wedding, like the gentleman that I’ve never been.
“You’ll be there, won’t you?” she asks me, her voice all hopeful. I still remember that hopefulness about her. The sheer desire to believe that everything would turn out alright in the end, just because. For no other reason than just because.
“Sure thing, Clairs,” I grin at my own reflection in the mirror, peeking through the curtains.
“Wonderful! Everyone will be so happy to see you!”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I roll my eyes, already cursing silently. What the Hell did I get myself into?
“I’ll forward you the info and everything.”
“Sure,” I confirm again.
“I’m so happy you’ll be there, Brook. Really.”
“Yeah, same.”
“Bye…”
I repeat her last word quickly, but there’s nothing painless about this band aid. I turn to the bed. The girl is lying there, all cozy, her pink nipples in stark contrast with the green sheets. She looks confused. That makes two of us.
“Who rained on your parade so early in the morning?” she asks me.
I watch her collar bones protruding from the soft flesh. They look enticing. I leave the phone back on the nightstand, and sit on the bed. Her fingers trail an invisible line on my bare back, traveling to my chest, then downward. Maybe round four is happening, after all.
“I could help you forget,” she whispers, biting on my earlobe gently. “Instant gratification and all.”
You gotta love these academic chicks. Instant gratification it is.
Chapter 2
Weddings aren’t something I’m usually prepared for. Clothes-wise, I mean. Everything in my closet is considered work clothes. In other words, it’s stuff that reveals my artwork; my tattoo sleeves, the tattoos on my neck, sometimes even the ones on my legs. Now, I know that’s no wedding attire. And, seeing Clara was sweet enough to invite me, I figured, I might as well do her a solid and appear wearing something presentable.
I know the right place for that. It’s a relatively early Saturday morning, something I rarely do, but the wedding is two weeks away, and I can’t put it off any longer. I walk down the street, looking for the specific store I have in mind. I find it easily, even though this is the first time I’ve been here.
The moment I push the big glass door open, I’m welcomed by a familiar, bleached grin.
“Brook Richards, as I live and breathe!”
“Yeah, watch so you don’t choke,” I grin back.
Ciccio lunges at me with open arms, as he always does. Only, we’ve never met where he works. We’ve met many times where I work, as he constantly needs something added to his already existing tattoos, and I’m more than happy to put in the extra work, knowing what a picky person he is. He wouldn’t let just anyone poke around on his body with an ink-filled syringe. In a way, it’s an honor.
The heavy smell of his cologne hits my nostrils, and I pull away quickly.
“Man, do you always need to smell like an Italian?” I laugh.
“How else would people know?” he replies, still with that grin.
I look around the shop. I mostly see dark colored suits in the corner. The shirts are all the way to the left, behind the big mirror, with a little step, where, I suppose, I’m to stand and get measured. Alright. Let’s do this.
“So, what brings you here, loverboy?” Ciccio speaks, as he moves towards the mirror to adjust a single strand of hair that doesn’t seem to be in its rightful place. The amount of gel on his hair would be enough to lube up a whole staircase.
“I need a suit,” I reply, a little stupidly. But, it’s a stupid question to begin with. Why else would I be here?
“What do you need a suit for?” he accentuates the you a little more than he should.
“Clara’s getting married.”
“And, she invited you?” he bursts into loud, unapologetic laughter, and I feel lucky that I’m the only client there. “As a guest or to get married again?”
“Oh, ha-ha, real funny,” I frown.
“Oh, come on now,” Ciccio winks at me. I suppose that’s how he winks at his potential lovers, but I don’t feel the sexual tension here. I never did. Even though he tends to be on the flirty side more often than not. “You know I like to kid.”
“Well, kidding or not, I’m going,” I sigh. “You need to make me look good.”
“You don’t need any clothes for that,” he chuckles again, then moves to the rack with suits, his body gliding through the air like he’s taking part in an ice skating competition, and knows damn well that he’s gonna win. I walk after him slowly, like I’m dragging a ball and chain behind me.
“Now, tell me,” he clicks his lips as he talks, as if he’s just had a taste of a very sour lemon. “You want to look good or you want to make the new groom jealous?”
“Not that good, but I doubt it’d be that hard to make old Danny boy jealous,” I reply, and we both chuckle.
The last thing I want is to get Clara back. We seem to function better as friends than lovers. Even though the sack part was the least of our issues. We somehow, grew apart. I guess it happens when you spend so much time together physically, but inside, you’re branching out into a whole different direction. And sadly, neither of you realizes it.
I also don’t want to make any trouble while there. But, trouble seems to follow me. Brook Trouble Richards. Someone called me that once. I’m starting to think they might have cursed me with it. You know, that old saying that you don’t say something out loud, unless you want to make it happen. While it’s silent, just a thought, it can’t affect you that much. It has no form. But, saying it out loud gives it form, and once it’s out there, it’s gone. It’s out of your control.
“Just hide what needs to be hidden,” I instruct him. “You’re good at that.”
“Oh, snap!” Ciccio snaps his fingers.
He might be a queen, but he’s a queen who knows what’s good. If anyone will be dressing me up for this clown parade, it should be him.
We continue our chit chat, as he gives me a few different versions of suits, shirts and ties to try. I know he’s enjoying feeling me up, but hey. It’s a price you gotta pay for having a gay guy dress you up to the nines.
“Well, look at you!” he exclaims, pressing his hand against his lips. “No tie.” He pulls the tie forcefully off my throat and unbuttons my shirt a little. “My God, someone call Calvin Klein, I got his next underwear model here!”
I frown, but I know that’s just how he is. And, he’s a good guy. Too bad good guys rarely find the partner they deserve. I’ve learned that it’s better to be a dirtbag. People tend to respect you more. And women? They worship the ground you walk on, if you play hard to get. But, I’m starting to get tired of the games. Sometimes, all you want is just someone to bring you a coffee in the morning, and just lie down next to you. The little things.
“You think this is fine?” I wonder, turning a little to the left, then to the right.
I’m no stuck up white collar, but the suit really does look awesome. The tie would be too much, I agree. It’s just not me.
“The navy blue wasn’t you,” Ciccio explains. “It’s for a man who wants to fit in.” I shake my head at him. He knows what I’m thinking. “Exactly,” he continues. “Charcoal grey, either. It’s work, church funerals, and weddings for those who dream of meeting the President one day.”
I can’t resist laughing at this one. He’s got me. Meeting the President has never been one of my goals. Not even close.
“True blue,” he concludes.
I look at the reflection in the mirror. The blue blazer and non-matching pants are a killer. Just the right amount of respect for the occasion, but keeping the hue casual enough to retain my bad boy persona.
I’m still smiling as I leave, even though I’m not all that happy about what’s to follow.
Chapter 3
The ceremony is quick. Quicker than ours was, but I guess it’s nice. Or, whatever people say on these occasions to be polite. I’ve already had a few to drink, but I’m a bottomless barrel. It takes an ox to get me totally out of it. So far, the alcohol is reinforcing my non-existent need to be present and accounted for.
The table I’m seated at is a circus. There’s a girl who thinks it’s OK to wear white at someone else’s wedding, pretending she doesn’t notice the looks other women have been aiming her way. There’s a couple who are about 10 years younger, but the girl looks like she’s had 4 babies already and is about to pop another one out. She’s in one of those “not sure if she’s pregnant or not” kind of periods, so politely, I don’t ask. I just grin when she smiles my way, and raise my glass. The guy seems alright. Hen-pecked and all that shit. He looks her way every time he wants to state an actual opinion. I think out of all these, I like the old guy opposite me the best. Clara’s uncle Win. He’s in a wheel-chair, has been since I’ve known him. Diabetes made him lose his leg, but it sure didn’t make him lose his sense of humor.
