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“It’s okay; I can do it.”
“My mess, I’ll clean it up.”
I’m so fucking pissed at myself, but then she squirms beneath the cloth and giggles, and I’m not so pissed anymore.
“Tickles,” she tells me.
I look away as I hurry to finish cleaning her up. Then I go shower.
When I come out, she is in a white hotel robe, sitting on the bed and leaning against the dark wooden headboard. The robe is short, exposing her long legs. So fucking beautiful.
“I ordered room service. Nothing big; just a few snacks.”
“I’m not here for a meal, Tatum.”
“Okay.” She looks down and scuffs her barefoot, toes painted pink, back and forth across the carpet. “Will you tell me about you?”
She’s sits there, looking up at me and waiting, expecting, and I can’t say a fucking thing. Telling the truth has never been a problem for me, but it always seems to cause problems.
“Okay, then.” She looks back down.
I want her to look at me again, so I make sure she does. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, you own a gym...” she begins.
“Co-own,” I correct, wanting to make sure she understands I’m on the up and up about who I am and what I have.
“You aren’t married and have no children,” she says, her cheeks turning pink. “I asked the woman who instructs the self-defense classes. Just in case you were wondering, I’m not married, nor do I have children, either.”
Never even considered asking. Probably should have.
“And you’re here for a month to write a book and need a muse,” I state.
She nods and looks down. “Yes.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll see you around,” I say, ready to leave, liking it better when I didn’t know shit, because now I’m wondering, and I didn’t want to open that box. Wondering leads to learning, and learning may lead to caring. The last woman I cared about... Well, it got us both a death sentence different sorts.
“Wait,” she says, standing up and grabbing a few pieces of paper, folding them and putting them inside her leather-bound journal. “Here. I wrote more.”
I take the book and start to open it.
“No, read it tomorrow,” she says, wide-eyed.
“Why not now?” I ask, starting to pull out the papers.
She jumps off the bed and tries to grab the book, but I hold it above my head, and she jumps for it.
“Not fair. You’re, like, a foot taller than me.”
“Then I suggest you do some growing.”
The playfulness I hear in my own voice shocks me. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.
She jumps again and smiles while she does it. “At thirty-one years old, I’m pretty sure I’m done growing.”
“Thirty-one?” This revelation shocks me. She’s gorgeous, toned, and not a sign of aging, which led me to believe she was my age.
She stops jumping and looks at me, placing a hand on her hip, and asks, “Yeah. Why, too young for you?”
I shrug. “I suppose not.”
She tilts her head. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Her jaw drops in disbelief. “No.”
“How old did you think I was?” I ask.
“Older than that,” she replies, still eyeing me.
“I would have guessed you to be not a day older than thirty,” I tease, yet not letting on that I am.
“Gee, thanks,” she grumbles. “Where did you go to school?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
Not wanting to lie, I shrug and twist the truth. “I spent seven years at State.”
“Impressive.” She smiles.
If you only knew.
“What did you get your degree in? Physical something or criminal justice?”
I wonder why she asks that specifically.
“Little of both,” I answer, being honest again. My time at State was definitely educational.
A knock at the door saves me from being asked anything more.
“See you around,” I tell her as I walk toward the door and open it.
The man who pushes in the cart has a tattoo on his hand I recognize. It’s a gang sign.
I let him push the cart in and wait for him to leave.
When he walks out, she cocks her head to the side and looks at me curiously.
“Don’t answer the door when you’re dressed in a robe, Tatum. You never know who’s on the other side.”
She smiles. “I didn’t answer it; you did.”
“Okay, smartass. Just, seriously...” I shake my head and look away from her. “I don’t know. Don’t go out at night alone, and don’t wear that when you answer the door.”
She tries not to smile, but fails.
I sigh. “See you around.”
“Wait!” she almost yells.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your last name?”
I swallow down a lie that may have wanted to come out and answer the way I have to, knowing if she wants, she can find out anything about me with just a few strokes of a keyboard. “Mazzini.”
“Italian.” She smiles, and I nod. “Didn’t exactly expect that. You look kind of like that rock star from Detroit, but bigger, stronger. Kid Rock is his stage name,” she rambles, and I like it. I like it too much.
