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Which leaves one excellent option: Patrick Murphy.
The very cute tattoo artist who a) put the hearts and thorns on my ribs, b) left his card with a casual "call me anytime" and c) put his hands on my skin in a way that felt both safe and sexy as sin.
Maybe it's the rush of neurotransmitters from my new tattoo. It's been eight hours and I'm still buzzing. But, for once, I don't want to question my desires.
Patrick has already seen me topless. He knows I'm flat, and he wants to sleep with me anyway. I might as well call.
I channel my roommate's confidence, find my cell, and get straight to the point.
Imogen: Hey, Patrick. This is Imogen. The rib tattoo.
He answers quickly.
Patrick: The gorgeous woman who insisted she didn't need someone to hold her hand?
Imogen: I didn't.
Patrick: I know. How's the piece holding up?
Imogen: Beautiful. Do you want to see?
Patrick: Sure.
Imogen: Here.
No. This is too coy. Men don't understand hints. I need to be more explicit.
Imogen: I need a little help with after-care. In person.
Patrick: Oh?
Imogen: If you're free.
Patrick: Now?
Imogen: Now.
Patrick: You're direct.
Imogen: Why mince words?
Patrick: It's easier, for some people.
Imogen: For you?
Patrick: Not exactly. You said you go to UCLA, right?
Imogen: I live in Brentwood.
I send the cross-streets.
Patrick: Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes to prepare for my first tryst in over a year.
No problem.
ChapterThree
