The Science of Loving (2 page)

“It depends. Most of the time it’s a matter of buyer’s remorse. Once they’ve sobered up, the tattoo isn’t nearly as clever as they’d originally thought. Since it can’t really be undone, I try to minimize the damage by covering it with something cool that will make it less offensive.”

“Like, with what?” Ashley asked.

“Usually something with a hole,” Danny snickered. “For dudes: A lion or tiger’s mouth; for girls—I know right? You’d think they’d know better—a flower, or if the line work is light enough, I can do something like Celtic knots, or a
mehndi
style design. On this one chick, I did a Mayan calendar.”

“Like, what’s
mehndi
?” Ashley’s annoying habit of peppering her sentences with meaningless ‘
likes,’
‘
causes’
and ‘
ya knows’
was really starting grate; especially when she put them all together—
‘cause like, I find that, like, ya know, really irritating… Ya know?’

“
Mehndi’s
a thousands years old art form originating in India,” I answered, glancing around. Why was everyone so surprised? So I’ve cracked open a book or two. “Why don’t they laser them off?” Not that I had anything against tattoos, I’ve seen some that were truly breathtaking, but why throw a carpet over a pile of crap?

“That’s what I usually recommend during an initial consult; since over time, the old tattoo will eventually show through, even with a really good cover up. But most of the people needing cover-ups don’t want to wait—poor impulse control. That’s what got them in trouble to begin with. Well, except for Biggie, I’m completely to blame for that.”

“Like, you did his tattoos? ‘Cause, when we met at
Flash,
I thought you were, like, the receptionist, ya know? I had no idea you were an artist.”

“Yeah, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Danny smiled impishly. “He’s so stupidly sweet that he let me practice on him when I was just starting out.”

Talk about trust
. Sadly, I was totally devoid of artistic talent. Oh, I did all right with a stencil. I could even paint pin stripes as long as there wasn’t a lot of scrollwork involved, but creating something original? Not in this life. I was far too literal to create art. Even as a child: My grass was green, my suns were yellow and my dinosaurs were never purple. Perhaps coloring outside the lines was something they taught in kindergarten.

“I haven’t seen him around lately. Like, how’s he doing?” Ashley pressed.

“He’s good, but you can judge for yourself when he gets here,” Danny said, rolling her eyes when the rest of the group emitted a collective sigh.
What kind of man made grown women sigh at just the mention of his name? I thought that only happened in the movies.

Ashley fanned herself. “God, he’s so drool worthy.”
Or she needed a strong dose of antibiotics.

As more guests packed into the kitchen, the walls started closing in on me and it became hard to breathe. When the press of bodies nudged me towards the patio door, I slipped outside, edging away from the tiki torches and candles.

Lurking in the shadows, I watched as a group of guys huddled around some coolers, trading annoyed glances and eye rolls while a tall, spindly guy appeared to be in full rant, talking and waving. I guess he didn’t realize no one was listening, or perhaps he just didn’t he care. That was one of the reasons I wasn’t particularly chatty. I doubted anyone here cared about the gene expression of fruit flies; it’s not a commonly held interest after all. Even my mom’s eyes tended to glaze over after a few minutes chatting with me—
it’s either that or one too many cocktails. No, it’s me—
I’ve seen her down half a bottle of Ciroc then carry on three concurrent conversations in German, French
and
English.

Inside, the girls straightened; their heads snapped up, magnetically aligning on something off stage—
the Pavlovian Wunderkind must have arrived—Ding… Let the salivation commence.
Maybe I could escape while he had Danny distracted; I doubt anyone else would notice I’d left. Twenty minutes from now, I could be home sipping a Guinness and watching
Top Gear
reruns—the British version, of course.

“Hey babe.” Damn, it was the spindly guy.
I flinched when he invaded my personal space, finger combing his greasy hair. Sweat rings bloomed from his armpits and a miasma of cheap body spray and dirty laundry assaulted my senses. It was as if he tried smothering one stink with another, but instead of canceling each other out, they somehow mixed into a caustic concoction that amplified his funk.

Did I mention how much I hate parties?

It sounded like Danny’s barbecue was in full swing. Music throbbed dully down the walk as I approached the front door. I’d hoped to get here earlier, meet this Angie chick, knock back the socially mandated beer then beat feet before the crazies arrived. Unfortunately, I’d worked late, tweaking a presentation due on Monday. I pushed through the door without knocking. It was doubtful anyone would’ve heard me over the pulsating house music and shouted conversations pouring out. The gathering was smaller than Danny’s usual. An impromptu Facebook event she tossed out hoping to end my soul crushing loneliness. She actually said that.
‘Soul crushing loneliness.’
There was tequila involved.

“Matty!” Ashley’s shudder worthy squeal knifed through me lodging somewhere in the region of my balls. Shit, I was going to kill Danny. Ashley was one of Danny’s matchmaking fails. Let’s just say, Hell no! Because of her, I had to change my number, my email and close my Facebook account.
This Angie chick had better be worth it.

“Hey Ashley, still stalking strong I see.” I stepped back in a failed effort to escape her groping hands.

“Oh Matty, you know you’re the only man for me,” she simpered. I fought off her hug, my ass clenching as she copped a feel.
Geez, was she drunk already?

Danny came from of the kitchen with an apologetic look on her face, nudging Ashley none too gently aside to get her own hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “She saw it on Facebook and just showed up. Besides,” Danny added loudly, smacking me upside the head. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, shit happens. I need a beer,” I muttered, looking at Ashley. “Or six.”

Danny jerked her head. “Outback on the patio. Angie’s out there too. You can’t miss her. She’s the only black haired pixie here.”

“Ladies.” I sauntered into the giggling estrogen cloud in the kitchen. I’d never had a problem getting chicks, even back in the day when I was just another big doofus, although I had to work a little harder at it back then. I’d smile and tell stupid jokes until they were laughing too hard to turn me down. But all that changed after I started getting ink. Now, I got eye-fucked as Danny called it, the moment I walked into a room, and if she was to be believed, not just by chicks. And what really sucked, was my ink attracted the wrong kind of women, pushy bitches like Ashley. They latched on to me like a leaches, chasing off the few sweethearts who didn’t take one look at me and run.

“Yo, Ash, a little space please?” Pasting a fake I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look on her face, she locked her fingers on my belt.
Shit.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared her down. Bitter experience had taught me a firm request, reinforced with unbroken silence was the safest way to get an aggressive female to back the fuck off in public. Doing anything else, either encouraged them, or I came off looking like a bully. And there was always some asshole, usually a little guy with something to prove, who thought he was going to teach me some manners. Schmuck.

The conversations around us petered out during our passive contest of wills. Finally Ashley dropped her hand, and tried to laugh it off. “Oh Matty, you know I just can’t help myself when it comes to you.” God, she was batting her fucking eyelashes at me.

“Try harder. And quit with the Matty shit.” I hated that. It sounded so fucking cutesy. I was many things, but cute wasn’t one of them. Only my mom got away with that kinda shit. And that was only because she was a badass when it came to laying down guilt. She could make hardened criminals fold under the weight of her disapproval. Who do you think taught Danny?

Ashley trailed after me to the patio like a fucking anchor. I stopped just outside, scanning the yard, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light—
that had to be the pixie
—there was a sweet looking girl with a pale, heart shaped face, framed in dark curls hiding in the shadows at the patio’s edge—
hey, she’s a cutie. Danny might’ve actually come through—
I watched as she backed away from the troll looming over her, her rigid posture telegraphing her discomfort. And when troll boy touched her face, she literally flinched.
Oh, hell no
.

This was why I hated parties. Inevitably, I drew the attention of creepiest, most annoying guy there. Once caught, I could never shake them. By the end of the night, I was a nervous wreck with an upset stomach and a headache.

I was already backed as far as I could go without falling into the bushes. “Please leave me alone.” I sounded weak, but I couldn’t help it. I never knew what to do when guys like this cornered me, so I froze: Unable to move, or breathe or think. When he brushed a nonexistent hair from my cheek, I could almost feel it trailing green slime.

“I know you don’t mean that.”
Uh, yeah, I do
. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to party.”

“Excuse me. I know you’re not macking on my girl.”
Holy Shit! That’s the scariest man I’ve ever seen.
And he was standing right behind Spindly staring holes in his back. God, he was huge and bald, covered in tattoos like a painted Aztec god. All he needed was some gold jewelry and a bloody alter.

“Look dude, I saw her first and I’m not done with her.” He straightened, making a weak attempt at puffing out his concave chest—
Oh Spindly, you should really turn around and check out the monster behind you.

“Oh, but you are,” said my savior. Although, considering that I was a creep magnet, he was most likely a serial killer. He was scary-beautiful. Torchlight glistened off his head and his tattoos twisted and rippled down his outstretched arm. And, although I was struck dumb as usual, my fingers slipped into his hand of their own accord. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Spindly’s back, he drew me to him. Spindly grabbed me just as I was about to step around him, and I gasped as his fingers dug into my arm. I’d probably have bruises tomorrow.

“You’ve got about two seconds to unhand her before I break you in fucking half,” Killer growled.

When the creep finally saw the monster at his back, he dropped my arm like it was scalding. “Sorry dude, I didn’t know she was your girl.”

“Well, now you do.” He wound a beefy limb around me, tucking me into his side. “Are you okay babe? I’d be happy to kick his ass for you.”

I gaped, momentarily stunned by grey eyes that sparkled with mischief. Meeting Spindly’s pleading eyes, I stammered, “I…I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Then looked down
—oh my God, even his feet were huge.

I felt his arm constrict around me as he said in a quietly menacing voice, “I think it would be best if you left.”

Spindly held out his hands, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you dude,” then addressed someone behind us. “Come on Ashley.”

“You go ahead,” she said, stepping up next to us, “I’ll catch a ride with someone else.”

“No Ash, you won’t.” The killer’s voice held a quiet threat. This was what death sounded like, not hotly raging, but cold, murderously calm. “I thought I made myself clear; I don’t want you anywhere near me. You. Need. To. Get. The. Fuck. Gone.” My heart tripped—
oh, God, he is a serial killer—
I froze against his heat as a twisted part of me wondered how he’d do it: Like a python, his gigantic muscles, crushing me breathless, or maybe he’d just smother me against his chest… His hard, hard chest… He could probably boink me to death and I’d thank him all the way to the grave. God, I had the worst survival instincts ever. If my life were a horror movie, I’d be that first splash of blood in the opening scene.