ARE YOU MENTALLY ILL, EMILY? DID YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN? HAVE YOU BEEN IN REHAB?
She looks at the person with surprise. “The last time I checked, I wasn’t.” She looks down at her body and pats her hips and stomach. “I think I’m quite well.”
WAS THERE FOUL PLAY, EMILY?
She shakes her head. “No. No foul play. I was perfectly safe the whole time.”
Someone steps up to the podium to pull Emily away, and I ache as I watch her take a step back. One more question scrolls across the screen.
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE FUTURE, EMILY?
She smiles. Then she looks directly into the camera. Directly at me. She might as well have kicked me in the gut. “In the spring, I’m going to Julliard to study music.”
My stomach drops down toward my toes.
WHY NEW YORK, EMILY? Someone asks before she can walk away.
She tilts her head to the side and looks right at me. She raises her hand into the sign for I love you and I see the tattoo that takes up her forearm. It’s a key, and written down the center of the key shaft are the letters of my name. I look at Paul. “Did you do that?”
He grins and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
It’s everything. It’s every fucking thing.
The reporter repeats the question.
WHY NEW YORK EMILY?
“That’s simple,” she says. “It’s because I love New York. I love New York with all my heart and I can’t wait to get back to it. I needed to come see my Dad so he could take care of something for me. But I’m going back to New York.” She leans close to the microphone. “I love you New York. Never doubt it. I’ll see you soon.”
Then she waves and she’s gone.
I fall back against the couch, trying to put it all together in my head.
“Shit,” Paul says. “She paid for Matt’s treatment.”
“What?” I’m still dumbfounded.
“She went back home for you,” he explains. He still has Matt on the phone and he’s talking to both of us at the same time.
She did it all for me. “She did it for me,” I say out loud.
“You lucky fucker,” Paul says, punching me in the arm.
“She’ll be back for the spring session at Julliard.” Warm happiness settles around me like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.
Paul nods. “Matt will be home by then.”
We all hope Matt would be home by then. Matt has a chance to come home and it’s all because of Emily. I jump up and Paul pulls me into a hug.
“She’ll be back?” I ask. I can’t wrap my head around it all. “She’s not gone for good.”
“She just told the whole fucking world how much she loves you, you jackass.” Paul punches me in the shoulder again.
She’s coming back. To Julliard. To me.
***THE END***
Tall, Tatted and Tempting
Tammy Falkner
(Sexy-lite version)
Logan
I don’t know her name, but she looks familiar to me. She’s a tight package in a short skirt that makes me imagine the curves under her plump little ass. That skirt is made to draw attention, and she has all of mine. I’m so hard I can’t get up from behind the table where I’m drawing a tat for a client on paper. I reach down and adjust my junk, the metallic scrape of the zipper against my dick not nearly enough to calm my raging hard on. I shouldn’t have gone commando today. I hope Paul did some laundry this morning.
Her nipples are hard beneath the ribbed shirt she’s wearing, and she pulls her sleeve back to show me something. But I can’t take my eyes from her tits long enough to look at them. She shoves her wrist toward my face, and I have to jerk my eyes away. Shit. She caught me. I would tell her I’m a guy, I can’t help it. Or at least I would if I could talk.
I see her mouth move out of the corner of my eye. She’s talking to me. Or at least she’s mouthing something at me. No one really talks to me since I can’t hear. I haven’t heard a word since I was thirteen years old. She’s talking again. When I don’t answer, she looks at my oldest brother Paul, who rolls his eyes and smacks the center of his head with his fist.
“Stop looking at her tits, dumbass.” He says the words as he signs them and her face flushes. But there’s a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth at the same time.
I roll my eyes and sign back. Shut up. She’s fucking beautiful.
He translates for her. I would groan aloud, but I don’t. No sound has left my throat since I lost my hearing. Well, I talked for a while after that. But not for long. Not after a boy on the playground said I sounded like a frog. Now I don’t talk at all. It’s better that way. “He says you’re beautiful,” he tells her. “That’s why he was ogling your tits like a 12 year old.”
I flip him off and he laughs, holding out his hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “What?” he asks, still signing. But she can hear him. “If you’re going to be rude and sign around her, I’m going to tell her what you say.”