Chapter 3

chapter

three

Jack

Did I just give her a nickname? Evidently yes. It fits her. And there’s something about her that makes me feel at ease. Not like at the diner when I was tripping all over my words. Here, in Lucy’s house, everything just feels right. She’s easy to be around in a way I don’t think I’ve experienced with any other person.

The tour of the house doesn’t take more than an hour, then I’m sitting back at her kitchen table making my list. The house itself is a gorgeous Colonial revival, probably built around the turn of the previous century. While there’s plenty of work to be done on it, she’s right about that—other than the work in the kitchen—it’s been mostly untouched, which means there are not ugly 80’s bathroom “updates” that will need to be torn out.

I’m still mulling which of the projects I want to tackle first, when she sets the coffee cup in front of me and then tosses down a package of everyone’s favorite sandwich cookies.

“I’m not much of a cook. Or baker. Whatever.”

God, she’s refreshing. So honest and open and real. And I can’t stop staring at her. She’s so damn pretty with her pink riot of curls and big brown eyes.

She nods to my notepad. “So how’s the list going?”

“Well, the good news is the house has good, sturdy bones.”

She pats her hip. “Like me.”

I laugh because I can’t not. “Some of these old houses need to have the wiring updated. Eventually I’ll want to check on that. Most of the issues are cosmetic unless you want to change some structural features. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Her lips part and her eyes drop to my mouth. Her pink tongue slides out to wet her plump bottom lip. Fuck me. Now I’m hard as a stone sitting at her grandmother’s kitchen table. I shift my legs to give my cock a little more room since it’s now pressed against my zipper.

“I’ll have to think about that one. I guess for now, I just want everything to be functional. You know I’ve got some light switches that don’t turn anything on and those two hall closets that obviously need shelves.”

“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask. I don’t even know where the question comes from, but I really do want to know.

“Sixteen, I think. I might have lost track. You have any ink?”

I nod. “You can’t be in the Army for as long as I was and not escape with at least one tat. I have a few.”

She does her hands in a “gimme” motion. “Come on, let’s see. I showed you one of mine.”

“Seriously?”

“You asked.”

“That, I did.” I stand and pull off my t-shirt and then turn quickly so she can see my back. I’ve still got a half chub and she does not need to see that. I point to my left shoulder. “This was my first.”

“Is that the Texas flag?”

“Yep. I really can’t even explain it other than to say that I was eighteen, away from home for the first time and probably a little drunk. There might have been a lost bet in there too.”

She laughs and the sound is magic. It makes me think of ice cream on hot days and summer rain storms that come in fast and hard. “Maybe somehow you knew you’d one day end up in Texas,” she says.

“Maybe.”

“And this?” Her hand swipes against my right flank. I swallow and try to keep my breathing even. I can do that. It was a skill I learned while holding an M24 rifle for hours on end staring into the blackness of the dessert night.

“Standard Army ink?”

“For the most part. In memory of some brothers that didn’t get to come home.” I turn around, still clutching my shirt to my stomach. I find she’s actually removed hers.

She’s still mostly covered though. A thin wife-beater covers up a lime green bra. Her tits are bigger than I thought with the baggy shirt she was wearing. I try not to stare, but damn with the cleavage and some bra-covered side-boob, I’m practically mesmerized.

I force my eyes to her exposed arms. Here, she has a series of colorful tattoos. Not quite full sleeves. She still has a few empty spaces of skin left. I step forward to her because suddenly this feels like more than just two people showing tattoos.

Her hands go to the bottom of her tank and she pulls it up to reveal her soft, rounded stomach. Starting at her waist and arching up and across her navel and reaching to just below her bra line is a stand of dandelions with their tiny blooms fluttering away. It’s elegant and feminine.

Just like her body. She is all woman with her soft and welcoming plump curves. I just want to hug her to see what all that softness feels like.

I swallow again, but this time against a knot in my throat. “That’s beautiful.”

She drops her shirt, then holds her forearms out to me. On one there’s a girl sitting on a stack of multi-colored books and then some books have floated above her in various stages of becoming butterflies. I can see thin strips of puckered skin beneath the colored lines of the tattoo. Her other forearm is covered in a metal-looking woman, head tilted back, hair made of barbed wire. Again, I see those thin scars hiding amidst the ink.

“Based on one of your creations?” I ask, not wanting to pry, but also not wanting to ignore whatever pain once made her cut. Still, I can’t help but run my fingertip across some of the small scars.

“Yes, my first.” She takes a shaky breath and looks up at my face. “I was a cutter in my early teens.” She shakes her head. “Stupid, but it was how I coped. I think I just needed something I was in charge of. Something that didn’t make me feel powerless. That was back before I learned how to use an arc welder, which is basically the most powerful feeling in the world.” She grins waggling her eyebrows.

I can’t help but chuckle. God damn, this woman is going to kill me. I’ve known her less than a day and I already know that Lucy is a fighter, a survivor. The idea of her turning her fear of being powerless into the fuel for her art … that’s pretty kick ass.

“Most of my scars are covered now,” she says, chin tipped up like she’s daring me to criticize her. “I started with the ones on my thighs.”

I want to ask to see them, but mostly just because I want to see more of her. More of her art. More of her skin. I want to see all of her. Every bit she’ll show me. Inside and out.

Instead, I drop my shirt onto the metal back of the chair and lift my arm so she can see my newest ink that’s scrawled down my ribs.

She closes the distance between us and then her fingers trace over the words.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

“Dylan Thomas.”

I nod.

Her brown eyes meet mine. “I’ve always loved that poem.”

“Good reminder to not give up,” I say.

She takes another shaky breath, then her hands cup my face she pulls me down for a kiss.

I’m hard again in an instant. She nips lightly at my bottom lip. I pick her up and her legs go around my waist, then I press her against the refrigerator and kiss her back. My hands grip her plump ass as my tongue assaults her mouth.

Goddamn she tastes good. Her soft, abundant curves feel perfect against my body. Her hands are in my hair which is finally growing in from the standard-issue Army cut.

I move one hand to her waist and ease my fingertips beneath the hem of her tank top. Her skin is impossibly soft and so hot. She sucks on my tongue and makes a throaty noise that’s somewhere between a moan and a growl.

What the hell am I even doing? I don’t even know this woman.

Do I already know I want her? Yes. Absolutely.

But I’ve known her less than a day. I need a job more than I need a hook up. Hell, that’s assuming I’d even know how to handle a hook up. Not to mention the assumption that a hookup is what she wants.

I end the kiss, and press my forehead to hers.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I lost control.” I lower her body to the floor, then quickly turn from her to pull my shirt back on. I scrape my hand over the soft new growth of hair at the back of my head. “I promise you’re safe with me. I’m going to take my list and start figuring out the supplies I need.”

She’s all wide brown eyes and kiss plumped lips. She nods. “Yeah. I’ve got to finish up with something out in the garage. Let me know if you need anything.” Then she walks away.

I know she feels rejected which is the last thing I’d want her to feel. I want more than anything to lose myself in her body. But she’s obviously more experienced than me. Fuck, everyone is more experienced than me.

How do I admit to the sexiest woman I’ve ever met that I’m the oldest damn virgin in the world?