JENNIE

..

I parked in the lot behind my apartment and cut the engine, taking a last moment to appreciate my air-conditioned car. When I opened the door, the heat slapped me in the face like a wet blanket. It was disgustingly hot and humid, standard for late August in Chicago. It was almost nine at night, which should have meant relief from the oppressive heat, but the forecast predicted more of the same over the coming days. I popped the trunk and grabbed as many bags as I could.

I had to make several trips, and by the time I got everything upstairs, sweat dripped down my temples and my T-shirt was sticking to my skin. The industrial box fan—the most important purchase—made a thud when I dropped it on the hallway floor outside my apartment.

I wasn't concerned about the noise. Since my neighbor's ancient Toyota Tercel wasn't parked in the lot, I assumed she wasn't home. I hadn't met her yet, having moved in only a week ago, but my landlady, Cassie, said she went to Northwestern. Like me, she was pursuing her master's.

I shouldered the door open and shoved the bags inside with my foot. One of them ripped, scattering boxes of microwave popcorn across the hardwood. With a sigh, I went back into the hall, then slid the fan across the floor. It was so brutally heavy that I'd almost dropped it coming up the stairs. My sole source of air-conditioning was the window unit in my bedroom; the rest of the place was like a sauna. I'd left my bedroom door open once, hoping to cool the whole apartment, but when I returned the main living area was still grossly hot, and the bedroom was barely cool.

I made quick work of the groceries, tossing the perishables into the fridge. Then I gathered the boxes of popcorn and dumped them on the counter along with the rest of the easy-fix meals like Kraft Dinner and ramen noodles, as well as baking supplies. I needed an entire cupboard dedicated to my baking paraphernalia.

The next order of business was to make myself a drink. My twenty-first birthday was a few weeks away so I couldn't buy liquor legally yet, but I'd been smart enough to pack a few bottles of booze before my exodus from Arden Hills.

A bottle of vodka awaited me in the freezer. It was thick but not slushy as I poured a hefty shot and dropped in a handful of ice cubes. I topped it with pink grapefruit juice, swirled it around, and took a sip. Glancing at the microwave clock, I saw that it was just after nine-thirty—perfect. I nabbed a throw pillow from the couch and went to the window, drew back the curtains, and unlocked the latch.

I sat on the wide ledge, propping the pillow behind my back. Taillights glowed on the street below, the occasional honk punctuating the thrum of engines running. I'd never lived on such a busy street and the constant activity was a welcome diversion.

The first few nights after I moved in, I sat at the window and listened to the chatter of the people passing by on the sidewalk below. Opposite my apartment, at street level, the Inked Armor sign glowed against the backdrop of shadows and streetlights. I was fascinated by the goings-on inside the tattoo shop. It was a distraction from the emptiness of my apartment, which was an echo of the feeling in my chest. I'd come to Chicago to escape the memories in Arden Hills; to leave behind the reminders of the things I'd lost and could never get back.

Here, nothing was familiar. It was both a blessing and a curse. The intrinsic loneliness was consuming in such a different way. I missed feeling connected to people, especially after the months of isolation. Observing the interactions of the people across the street had become a safe way to assuage my sense of seclusion. I found myself watching until the last customer left the shop.

Two men and two women worked there, all in their mid-to-late twenties. The two men and one girl were tattoo artists; I'd seen them putting ink on skin many times. And all of them, including the woman, sported a variety of ink and metal, defying the conventions I'd grown up with.

One tattoo artist piqued my interest more than the others. Tall and broad, with dark hair, her extensive ink captured my attention as did her facial piercings. A pattern of black ink traveled up her right arm and a vibrant burst of color covered the left, the designs indistinct from my window. I imagined, more often than I wanted to admit, how much more there would be under her shirt. Surely anyone who had full sleeves wouldn't stop there. And the expanse of her back and her cut arms hinted at a beautifully sculpted canvas for her body art.

Beyond the obvious allure of ink and her unconventional beauty, something about her drew me to the window every night. As interesting as everyone in the shop was, from the huge man with the soft smile to the wiry one with the goatee and the girl with the cotton candy–colored hair, the dark-haired girl was the one I couldn't take my eyes off of—And my observations say her condition is different from any other girls—She prowled; she didn't walk. There was an inherent restlessness about her; even when she was seated, her foot tapped on the floor. Of the four of them, she seemed the most serious and the most intimidating.

She was intensely focused when she engaged in her artistry, her movements fluid and practiced. For all the menace she projected, she was careful when she worked, and her clients seemed at ease with her. Watching her transfer designs onto skin was almost sensual. I often felt like the worst kind of voyeur, observing an intrinsically intimate act. I started to think about what being in her chair would be like. How it would feel to have those hands putting art on my body.

Tonight she was shading a shoulder piece. I was envious of the woman in her chair—she'd been working on her for almost two hours. I'd polished off three drinks in that time, so I was catching a serious buzz. The design, alive with color, spanned from the blade to the center of the woman's back. She was methodical, making passes with ink, wiping down the design before she switched colors. Every so often she'd pause and hand her a bottle of water or a small, round ball to squeezed as she worked. I wished I could see the detail in the design. Getting closer to the shop was something I contemplated with increasing frequency. More than the art, though, I wanted to see her up close up to confirm what I was already certain of: that her ink was as beautiful as she was.

When she finished the tattoo, she helped the woman out of the chair and took her to the other side of the shop. She spent a good long time staring at the fresh ink as she moved the mirrors to give her the best view. She was inordinately gentle when she cleaned the art and dressed it. It was at such odds with her hard exterior, making her all the more fascinating.

Once her client left the shop, she and her colleagues congregated around the front desk as seemed to be their habit. The girl behind the counter said something that made her laugh, which she didn't do often. There was camaraderie between them that I envied; it made me long for that kind of easy friendship.

After a few minutes of discussion they dispersed to tidy up. Things were put away and wiped down before the blinds were drawn and the lights turned off. Then they filed out and locked up. The four of them turned right, past two storefronts to the lobby of a condo building. They all stopped while the object of my growing fascination unlocked the door. Then they disappeared inside the lobby, leaving me alone again.

Since this nightly ritual had begun, I'd tried to convince myself my interest was in the clientele. That was untrue. I was constantly waiting for a glimpse of the dark-haired girl with the juxtaposing sleeves. More than once, I'd seen her cross the street and go into Serendipity, the antiques and bookstore located beneath my apartment. She always came out with coffees from the adjacent café. We'd never been there at the same time. Not that I was looking for that to happen.

I sat at the window until my drink was gone. Then I refilled my glass and set up the box fan. By the time I finished, my T-shirt was once again damp and clinging to me. I plugged in the fan and turned it on. The papers I'd left on the coffee table took flight and fluttered through the air until they hit the wall, tumbling to the floor. It sounded like a jet plane was landing in my living room, the noise inciting an irrational surge of panic. I took a deep breath and shut down the anxiety. It was just a loud fan. I was safe. I gathered up the papers; I'd need to staple things in the future.

Then I set the fan in front of the window, hoping it would suck in the marginally cooler night air to help bring the temperature down inside. Bypassing the boxes of books that still needed to be unpacked, I turned off the lights, save for the one in the kitchen. Sticky from sweat, I needed a shower in the worst way. I turned on the water, peeled off my clothes, and didn't bother to check the temperature before stepping under the spray. It was cold enough to make me shiver, but I didn't mind.

When I couldn't stand the cold anymore I made the water lukewarm, then reached for the shampoo. As I lathered up my hair I brushed over the ladder of rings in my ears. Each addition had been a minor revolt. I thought back to the events and the people who had incited those tiny acts of rebellion. There was no one to fight me on it anymore. I could do whatever I wanted now, without worrying about repercussions. It would be so easy to go to Inked Armor. . . .

I shook my head and lathered up a body sponge, running it along my arms and over the back of my neck, then moving lower. That was a colossally bad idea, no matter how much I might want to. Better to keep a safe distance. I was still trying to find my way in this new city and this new life. Making friends wasn't something I was ready to contend with. When I was done washing up, I rinsed off, cut the water, and grabbed a towel. My discarded clothes stayed on the bathroom floor since no one was around to care whether I picked them up.

Wrapped in a towel, I returned to the kitchen to replenish my drink, doubling up on the vodka this time, and headed for the bedroom. The wave of frosty air that greeted me goose-bumped my damp skin, and I basked in the glory of the Freon cold. I had trouble sleeping and didn't need the heat to make it more difficult.

Done with the towel, I draped it over the chair in the corner of the room to dry. Then I rummaged through my dresser for something to wear. The dresser came from Serendipity; Cassie owned and ran the shop below my apartment. It was attached to a small café that specialized in baked goods and coffees. Since I moved in, I'd been to Serendipity almost daily. If I wasn't seeking out pieces to furnish my place with I was buying coffees or snacks since I hadn't gone grocery shopping yet.

In my haste to move to Chicago I'd brought only what could fit in my car. I'd spent the first two nights sleeping on a blow-up mattress until I'd tested out pillow-top varieties and had one delivered. Much of the past week had been spent either seeking out necessary items like a couch and a coffee table or assembling cheap DIY shelving units for my books. My apartment was slowly starting to feel like home.

I put on fresh undies and a tank, then flipped open my laptop and searched for something entertaining to watch. I didn't like horror since I'd lived the real thing this past year and romantic comedies made me want to vomit, so I cued up a documentary that might help with my master's thesis. Classes didn't begin for a few weeks, but I was eager to get started. The more research I did now, the better prepared I'd be for my first meeting with my advisor.

I snuggled into my pillows, ready to get schooled on the art of contemporary body modification. An hour and a half later, I had copious notes. I turned off the lights, pulled the sheets up over me, curled around a soft pillow, and started the documentary again. Halfway through my eyes started to grow heavy and I blinked sleepily as Jesse Jarrell told me, in his calm, soft-spoken way, about sub-dermal implants. . . .

I was reclined in a tattooing chair. The red vinyl was smooth and smelled faintly of lemon. I looked around, disoriented, until I realized I was inside Inked Armor. As I surveyed my surroundings I became acutely aware that it was just her and me in the quiet shop. There was no one else. Not the girl with the pale pink hair, or the tall, thin man who was clearly her significant other, or the jacked-up one with sleeves in black and white. The blinds were drawn and the lights so low, I couldn't understand how she could see the design she was putting on my skin. My fingers curled around the edge of the chair; tension made my muscles tremble. I blinked and blinked again, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't bring the tattoos covering her arms or the contours of her face into focus.

I looked down at the new ink—singed and smoking feathers in shades of crimson and gold floated over my hip and down the outside of my thigh. It was a version of the tattoo I'd been drawing for the past several months, in stunning detail. But it was in the wrong place.

Between one blink and the next, the scene morphed. The hum of the tattoo machine ceased. Tension became a living thing as I realized I was wearing a tank top and nothing else. Confusion and mortification warred with an unfed hunger I'd forgotten existed as she shifted between my thighs. I tried to close my legs, but she was filling the space, making it impossible.

Her face was in shadow, features still obscured, no matter how much I strained to see her clearly. Warm hands smoothed down the outside of my legs and then I felt the satin smooth brush of lips against the inside of my thigh. Her mouth moved higher, teeth nipping at skin. And then her fingers were right there, soft and warm and touching me in ways I hadn't been touched in so long. I reached out, fingers slipping through those dark strands and gripping tight. She laughed, the dark sound moving over me, through me. I arched under her, heat and desire coalescing. . . .

I awoke on the crest of an orgasm, my body and sheets damp with sweat. I lay there in the dark, panting like I'd just run a marathon. I hadn't had an orgasm in more than eight months. The desire had been absent for so long, I'd forgotten what it even felt like.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to catch my breath. My body hummed with foreign energy; I was still insanely aroused. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but as soon as I did the images came back with devastating clarity. While her face remained blurry, the imagined sensations were not. Those inked arms holding my legs, the soft brush of lips and her warm, wet mouth on me.

I pulled a pillow over my head, willing the images to fade, but it was useless. After so many months, my body had woken up from its sexual slumber. I threw the pillow across the room and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was five-thirty in the morning; no way would I be able to fall back asleep. I might as well get up.

..

Later that day I stood in the middle of my living room, trying not to give in to the urge to stand at the window. I'd already changed my sheets, showered, and drank an entire pot of coffee. During the coffee marathon, I rearranged my living room furniture three times. I was trying my best to keep my mind off the tattoo artist across the street. So far I was failing miserably.

I glanced at the boxes beside the bookshelves. I'd been avoiding a few of them on purpose. The box of photo albums had been relegated to the closet in my bedroom. Inside the albums were snapshots of my life and all the people who had passed through it. I wasn't ready to give them a home on the shelf, though. Instead I filled the shelves with books; texts from my undergrad studies, novels I loved. Books my mom had given me over the years.

When I was done, I stared at the empty space where the albums would go. Eventually I'd muster the courage to put them where they belonged. My whole apartment seemed to reflect that sense of vacancy, no matter how much stuff I filled it with. It made me anxious. I was alone here, with nothing and no one, which was how I'd thought I wanted it to be. But the ache inside was so overwhelming, it scared me sometimes. I had so much to miss, yet back in Arden Hills, the constant reminders had been a kind of torture.

I turned away from the shelves and dropped down on the couch. The new fan was doing its job; the moving air definitely helped offset the heat. I flipped open my laptop and checked my Northwestern email. The only messages were from the student affairs office, inviting me to attend an information session in two weeks. The unstructured time was killing me. Now that my apartment was furnished, my only distractions were my thesis and people-watching. The latter was becoming a problem, particularly after that dream last night. While I was happy to spend a few hours or more each day on research, I wouldn't meet with my advisor for at least another week, which limited what I could accomplish.

I needed to find something else to do with my time besides sitting at my window, wishing for a life that wasn't mine.

..

A week later, I found myself in the basement of Serendipity. Cassie had kindly offered to let me rummage through it for anything I might need. It was like a hoarder's dream down there and nearly impossible to navigate. I wanted the dining set on the far side of the room for my kitchen, but the maze of furniture and boxes impeded my ability to get to it. I gave up and carried a box of books up the stairs, then went back down to grab another one, in hopes of clearing a path to the table.

As I hit the stairs, I heard the front door tinkle and the thud of boots moving across the floor above. When I reached the landing, I propped the box on my hip and peeked through the gap in the open door. I recognized her instantly, and apparently so did the rest of me. I flushed from head to toe.

She was talking to Cassie, her hand resting on a short stack of books. She was close enough that I could see the strong line of her jaw and intricate, colorful designs on her arm. They looked like vines and what might be flowers, but they were too dark for me to be completely sure. She leaned in and dropped a kiss on Cassie's cheek, which surprised me, both because of the tenderness of the gesture and the fact that she looked closer to my age than hers. They chatted for a few minutes, and then she continued on to the café. When she was gone, I slipped through the door and set the box on top of the other two.

"Jennie!" Cassie stepped out from behind the desk. "You should have asked for help. My niece was just here; she would have brought that up for you."

Oh God, I was having sex dreams about her niece. How much more embarrassed could I be?

"It's fine," I said, my voice higher than normal. "I checked inside these before I brought them up and it looks like there are some classics in here. I noticed you have a few empty shelves in the back where you keep the books . . ." I trailed off, trying to hide my mortification as I rambled. I hadn't done much socializing for the past several months and my conversation skills were lacking. "I'm sorry. I can take them back down if they're in the way."

She smiled reassuringly. "Not at all. I've been meaning to get to those, but it's difficult with just me here."

"I can shelve them if you want. It won't take me any time at all," I offered, wondering if I was overstepping boundaries.

At that moment, her niece returned with a tray of coffees in hand.

"I almost forgot these," she said as she tucked a couple of books from the counter under her arm. "I've got a client in five, but I'll stop by tomorrow so we can catch up. You can tell me what's new and shit, 'kay?"

"Whenever you have time," Cassie replied, accepting the cup she handed her.

She headed for the door, elbowing it open. Her gaze lifted and found me as I tried to blend into the wall. I caught a flash of silver at the corner of her mouth before I looked away, not wanting to get caught staring. I was sure people did that to her all the time.

There was a long pause before I finally heard, "Later, Cass."

The door chimed as it closed behind her.

I expelled the breath I'd been holding, my stomach twisting at the memory of my dream. I stepped away from the wall and gave Cassie what I hoped looked like a natural smile, despite the heat in my cheeks.

"I'll just put these away for you?" I asked hopefully.

"That would be great." Her smile was genuine.

I hoisted a box into my arms and turned toward the rear of the store. What began as a simple offer to shelve a few books turned into a full-day project. Everything was organized by size and general topic, rather than genre and author. I pulled them down and started over.

Sometime later, Cassie found me between the stacks. "I didn't even realize you were still here!"

I looked at the piles of books towering around me and then up at her. "I think I got carried away."

She laughed. "They weren't very well organized, were they?"

I crinkled my nose. "Not really," I said apologetically.

"Lisa tells me that all the time. She says it drives her batshit crazy."

Lisa. It suited her. "I can come back tomorrow and work on the rest of this if you'd like," I offered. "Oh, and there's a table and chairs in the basement I'd like to buy, but I'm having trouble getting to them. When I'm done with the books could I move some of the other boxes around, as well?"

It would be the perfect distraction from the emptiness of my apartment. Being alone all the time was getting to me and this was the kind of safe interaction I could handle.

"How would you feel about a part-time job?" Cassie asked.

"You don't have to pay me. I'm the one who pulled all the books off your shelves."

"I could use the help, though, and I'd be happy to have the company."

I hesitated. It would be good to have a part-time job, a way to have interaction with purpose. "Okay. I'd like that."

..

A few days later, I was sitting behind the register of Serendipity. It was my third official shift in as many days. I'd finished shelving the books; now I was cataloging them on Cassie's computer. It was slow going, but it would make finding things much easier in the long run. I propped up an old textbook on the desk in front of me. There was an interesting, albeit dated, chapter on body modification practices of various cultures. It consisted of antiquated schools of thought on "deviant behaviors" that had now become almost mainstream.

Completely engrossed, I failed to hear the door chime over the soft strains of jazz filtering in from the adjoining café. When a shadow passed over my book, I glanced up, startled, and found Lisa standing right in front of me, a curious smile playing on her full lips.

Beyond the eyebrow ring and the ones piercing the left corner of her bottom lip, the first thing I noticed was her eyes. They were astonishingly blue. Not a sea blue, or a sky blue, or even a grayish blue. They were icy and pale and shockingly intense against her dark hair and thick dark lashes. She was painfully gorgeous in a severe, a typical way. Just like I imagined she'd be. And that was just her face.

The dream rushed back, and I stammered out a greeting as images of her face and hands between my thighs flashed in my mind. She was taller than I'd thought, towering over me. She was wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeve T-shirt with an Inked Armor logo stretched across her chest. Hugging the contours of her torso, it highlighted the defined muscles underneath, giving my imagination a more accurate vision of what was under the shirt.

Ink, ink, and more ink was visible on her arms, but I was too unnerved to be able to focus on it. I fumbled with the book in front of me and it fell over, hitting the counter with a thud. In the process my caramel latte tipped over, dumping the sticky liquid all over the pages.

Horrified, I hastily wiped up the mess with a pile of napkins. I couldn't look at her when she reached across to help me or when she apologized for scaring me. Thankfully, Cassie saved me from further humiliation when she came back upstairs. I left the counter and quickly ducked behind the door leading to the basement, standing on the landing for several minutes to calm my racing heart. I could hear the deep timbre of her voice as she and Cassie spoke.

Now that I had a clear image of her face and her body and the sound of her voice, I worried about what my mind would do with them. I stayed in the safety of the basement until I found the lamp Cassie had been searching for.

In the week that followed, Lisa came in every day I worked. Sometimes more than once. Often I was holed up in the basement, battling the chaos. It was both good and bad; at least I didn't have the opportunity to embarrass myself again. Unfortunately, it also meant I couldn't cure the insistent desire to have a more thorough look at the art on her arms. Or her stunning face.

I knew whenever she was in the store. Lisa's walk was distinctive, the soles of her boots heavy against the worn floor, her route predictable. She always stopped at the register first to chat with Cassie, then continued on to the café. After she picked up coffees, she came back through to talk to Cassie again. Sometimes she brought her a coffee or a tea.

Today I had a reprieve from the basement. Cassie had picked up several boxes of books from an estate sale. Hidden in the stacks, I sat amid the books, arranging them by subject matter. It was relatively mindless work, which allowed my thoughts to wander in the direction of Inked Armor and Lisa. The dream about her kept resurfacing during daylight hours, particularly when I wasn't occupied, disturbingly vivid in visual detail and sensory recall.

The tinkle of the bell above the door alerted me to someone entering the store and I froze, listening for the sound of her boots. When there was nothing but the soft strains of jazz music, I went back to sorting books. Some days Rosé, the pink-haired girl from Inked Armor, came into Serendipity. Sweet and friendly, she always stopped to chat.

She'd invited me across the street to check out their jewelry after I'd expressed interest in getting a nose ring. As I sat there entertaining the idea, I heard the low murmur of voices.

I scrambled to my feet, fighting back a moan as the ache in my hip flared. I'd been sitting in the same position far too long. The pain eclipsed everything for a moment, and I grabbed on to the shelf for support. As I waited for the pain to ease, I peered through a gap in the books. Lisa was in the store. She glanced in the direction of the stacks and I took a step back even though I was well hidden. My heart slammed in my chest and I closed my eyes against the fear coupled with embarrassment that I'd even considered the possibility she might seek me out.

What I was doing was ridiculous. Hiding from someone I didn't know because I'd had a dream about her. Images of her fully dressed between my thighs plastered themselves against the backs of my eyelids. I cracked one and turned around, checking to see if she was still talking to Cassie, but she wasn't.

Disappointment was tempered with relief and I went back to sorting books, moving down the aisle for a better view of the door.

As expected, Lisa came through the store a few minutes later, stopping to chat with Cassie before she left. She used her hip to open the door on her way out, hands full with a tray of coffees and a bag of snacks. She smiled slowly as her eyes came to rest on me. I clutched the books to my chest, frozen in her icy blue gaze.

"See you tomorrow," she said, staring right at me.

A few moments later, Cassie appeared and held out a coffee.

"Thanks." I inhaled deeply. It was a caramel latte.

"Don't thank me. Lisa left it for you. She said it was to make up for last time."

I took a sip to hide my grin.

That night I had another dream about her. This time I could see every line of ink, and I could feel those rings in her lips against my skin as her mouth moved over my body. When I came this time, I wasn't asleep.

..

..

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