Into You Series: The Complete Collection

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Ray: We’re on our way.

Wes: Help. It’s getting crowded.

Ray: Didn’t I say we’re on our way? :)

G race and I cross the intersection that leads from campus into downtown. I’ve been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until tonight. His text sends nerves through me, and my overthinking of it causes my already unpracticed purple heels to wobble more beneath me.

Wes’s text shows a weird moment of dependency—a friend seeking asylum. Only friends send a cry for help, which begs the question: are we friends now? Since when are we friends? And is that just one step closer to the inevitable?

Project: Pound Town is right on track.

It didn’t take much to convince Grace to go to a concert. She’s all about exploring the college town’s nightlife, and her cousin who lives locally was more than happy to pick up and pup-sit Hank. I’m thanking my lucky stars, too, because the closer we get to the venue, the more unsure I become that I can even walk in these heels.

“I told you not to wear them,” Grace says, holding out an arm for me to take as I stumble onto the next sidewalk.

“I’m a woman,” I say, holding my head up in defiance. “If those pageant show toddlers can wear heels, then damn it, so can I.”

“They probably practice breaking them in first, though.”

“Who needs to break in shoes?” I say, taking two steps successfully only to be thwarted by the third, rubbing the unforgiving glitter against the back of my heel.

Uh-oh.

Grace snorts. “You’ll be eating those words, Ramona.”

I continue my freshly born giraffe routine as we approach the venue, and I clomp my way past the bouncer, showing my ID and handing over cash. I practically tumble into the room while Grace stays within an arm’s reach, knowing I’m about two scoots of a heel away from landing on the hardwood below us.

The opening band onstage is packing up, and even though I crane my neck every which way to see if I can find my new friend Wes, I don’t see the sight of his glorious tattoos anywhere.

“Ray!”

My heart jumps at the sound of a deep voice calling me, but it instantly deflates when I realize it’s just my brother.

“I didn’t know you’d be here, Ian,” I yell through cupped hands, not daring to walk forward in my new stilts. It isn’t until Grace taps my elbow that I feel only slightly empowered to scuff my way toward the bar.

When I reach the countertop, which feels like fifty years, I hunch over it using my forearms as support and trying not to get the sticky bar on my new faux-leather jacket.

“Good lord, what is this?” Ian says, the words exhaled with a disappointed air.

“This is her attempting to be a woman,” Grace interjects with a smirk, shakes her head, and waves down the bartender to order the three of us water.

Ian’s nose scrunches up as he scans me from head to toe—my cropped jacket, high-waisted, deep purple, pleather leggings, and much-too-high stilettos.

“I miss when you played with Barbies,” he says in what sounds like both a grumble and a groan.

Brothers.

“Ray?”

I twist my head to find the voice—the very familiar voice I never should have mistaken for my brother’s —and see Wes with a drink in his hand.

Although I know my curls are practically sticking to my forehead as I try to balance the humidity of this warehouse venue and not fall to my doom from this height, I have never felt sexier than I do seeing his expression as I attempt to balance.

And in turn I can’t stop myself from staring at him. His beard is trimmed close to his cut jaw, his black T-shirt is pulled taut over his broad chest, and his arms look particularly solid in those sleeves, like they’re begging for my fingers to run over them.

Wes lifts an eyebrow—one single brow—and the implication of that silly little quirk is enough to send my thoughts whirling.

Ian’s hand stretches out from beside me.

“Hey, I’m Ramona’s lawyer big brother who knows a lot of powerful people. How are you?”

I forgot anyone else was in this room, but here’s Ian, towering over the rest of us and looking at Wes like he’s a slimy urchin.

“Ian—” I hiss, but Wes shakes his hand with a warm, genuine smile.

“Wes. Nice to meet you, Ian.”

“Ian was just leaving, right?” I ask through gritted teeth, flashing him my please-go-away smile, which I should know by now will do nothing to actually send him away. Based on his grin in return, I’m sure my embarrassment only gives him a reason to stay longer.

“No, I’m actually visiting friends, so I’m here to stay, little sister,” Ian says. “I know the band’s manager.”

Wes snaps his fingers in acknowledgment. “Oh, you know Tyler?”

Ian quirks up a smile, but then lowers it once more as he scans Wes’s tattoos. “Yeah, my roommate from college.”

“Yeah, cool dude,” Wes says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the stage. “My friend normally plays drums.”

“How cute. Small world. Crazy!” I interject in spurts as they appear to be talking semi-cordially. At least Wes doesn’t seem bothered by Ian’s big brother act, which only makes him that much more swoonworthy.

Grace, holding a water and able to read my thoughts, shoves one in my hand. I gulp it down fast, eyes darting between the two men. My overbearing brother and the bearded prince I wish was doing things nobody in this conversation would ever need to see. I try to find solace in Grace, but with narrowed eyes, she doesn’t seem any less upset about my taste in men than my brother is.

“Looks like they’re setting up,” Wes finally says. “I’m going to get a good spot. I like to stand at the front.”

“You like having those ears damaged, huh?” Ian asks. I shove my elbow into his side. He doesn’t flinch.

Grace nods. “Yeah, I like these ears, thanks.”

“Well, since you two don’t want to enjoy the music, you won’t mind if I go hang out over there,” I say, smiling. My protective brother and my equally disapproving best friend don’t seem to like that. But they’ve painted themselves into a corner and I’ll gladly take advantage of it.

I wave and attempt to walk away gracefully. I remember much too quickly that walking in these stilt shoes is damn near impossible. Wes looks at me with wide eyes and I know he’s expecting me to follow, so I do what any desperate girl would do, and I grin and bear it.

With each big step Wes takes, I’m barely making three, scuffing through the crowd, finally getting the confidence and know-how to lift my feet and clomp over toward the stage. I hear the sniggers of betrayal from behind me, but I don’t turn back around to see Ian’s and Grace’s mocking laughter.

Head tall, Ray. Chin up!

Though right when that finally feels natural, the outside of my big toe starts to burn, and I can feel the jagged glitter rubbing into my ankle.

Ouch.

Wes stops short of the stage, leaning to gesture his friend over from the drum set. They exchange some weird bro-hug thing, and I awkwardly stand a foot or so behind. I’m not usually a wallflower in any scenario, but my feet are messing up my entire game. I try to pretend I’m in yoga class balancing in tree pose. If I just close my eyes, maybe I can focus on the great imaginary sunset …

“Ray, this is Gary,” Wes says, gesturing to the drummer. I wasn’t focused enough to notice before, but this man doesn’t look even remotely like someone Wes could have gone to high school with. He’s much older than us and resembles something closer to Winnie the Pooh than a dreamboat drummer.

“I’m clearly not the drummer,” Gary says, and I involuntarily breathe a sigh of relief.

Thank god.

Gary’s smile reminds me of a mall Santa Claus, and it’s hard not to smile with him.

“I’m filling in for my son,” he amends.

“Just as cool, though,” Wes says, slapping Gary’s shoulder.

“Nah,” Gary says, batting him away. “And hey, Sean didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend!”

My heart stops, drops, and rolls like it’s caught in the flames of embarrassment—no doubt sending a deep red rising up to my cheeks.

“If he plays his cards right,” I blurt out, forcing a nervous laugh and flashing what I hope is a flirtatious grin toward Wes, but I wonder if I look like a hyena instead.

Wes gives a sharp inhale, looking toward the ground and nodding slowly. “Wow. Thanks for that, Gary.”

With a grin, Gary laughs and walks away while the band finally starts to sound check. I do my best impression of a statue, cemented to my spot due to the limitations of my heels and hope I’m not forced to move anytime soon. And at first it doesn’t matter. After the band starts their set, I’m too distracted by how much Wes is enjoying himself. He nods his head, yells out lyrics to their songs, occasionally looking over at me and grinning.

I revel in it.

But at the end of the day, I’m me, and once they get their rhythm and the music rings into my ears and chest, I’m jumping and joining in when they play a cover of a song from one of my favorite bands, and occasionally knocking into Wes as we ride the wave of a live concert together.

It isn’t until the first set is over, when we’re clapping and hooting and letting the energy of the night wave over us, that I realize the pain in my feet has only been waiting dormant for me to notice it. The outside of my big toe throbs, and the opposite side of my heel doesn’t hurt any less. I’m almost too afraid to look down and assess the damage. Wes’s occasional grins only make me that much more decided against it because, damn it, I am here to have fun and stare at this tattooed angel forever.

Which I could, honestly. I like watching him walk away to get more water from the bar. I like how I felt totally free next to him. I like that he liked the same songs I did.

“Hey, I’m going to head out,” Grace says. Her voice pulls me back to the present. “Corinne is on her way to pick us up. You’re coming with me, right?”

“I … maybe,” I say. “I’m not sure.”

The truth is, I want to stay out longer. Are there after-parties for the band? Does Wes like to go to them? Could I possibly get one step closer to sleeping with him? And, at this point, with the adrenaline still coursing through me and the memory of Wes’s hand so close to touching mine while we jumped to the music, I almost wonder if I’d be just as happy spending time with him without the sex stuff.

No, I have to keep my eye on the prize.

As is usual for Grace, I can tell she’s reading my thoughts in the way only best friends can.

“Ray, be safe.”

“I am,” I say with a ridiculous laugh that sounds too high-pitched to pass as truth.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Neither do you ,” I shoot back.

Grace glances down at my feet and back up to me, her dull expression of disapproval unchanged. “Your heels are bleeding.”

“No, they’re just overly enjoying the comfort of new shoes.”

“Bull.”

“So what’s the plan?” Wes asks, looking between the two of us. I hadn’t noticed he’s rejoined our circle again.

“I was wondering if you’d walk me home,” I say, letting the impulsive flirting take me wherever it wants. Be my guide, dear confidence spirits. Lead me to my destiny. If it means going to his room and ending up with no pants on, then that’s what the universe must want.

“You’re going to walk home?” Grace says, her tone so deadpan it would be humorous if my heels weren’t secretly dying.

“After the next set, of course,” I say.

“Sure, we can walk then,” Wes says. His immediate assent to walking me home makes me want to melt. God, let me have those inked arms around me soon …

Grace’s eyes drift down to my feet again, giving me away instantly. Following her judging stare, Wes steals a glance as well, inhales sharply through his teeth, and cringes at me.

“Or now,” he amends. “We can leave now. I don’t mind.” When I open my mouth to argue, he stops me by continuing, “I have to get some studying in anyway.”

“On a Friday?” Grace asks, an eyebrow raised.

I curl my lips in and shake my head at her in warning.

Grace’s eyes narrow, and I can feel the unspoken worry and disappointment at the idea of me walking home with a stranger. But the longer she stares, the more I can see the wheels turning, and I know she realizes what I do as well, which is that the campus is safe. We’re so close to our dorm and there are no dark alleys he could take me down between here and there anyway. Not to mention it’s a Friday night pre-football game, and this college town doesn’t sleep with this many out-of-towners.

I couldn’t have asked for a safer scenario.

I tilt my head and furrow my eyebrows inward. I’m trying my best to mentally beg her to take pity on me.

She exhales, looking between us, before stopping to point at Wes.

“Fine. But your tattoos don’t fool me, hot guy.”

My cheeks instantly burn.

“I’ll take the compliment?” Wes says in a questioning tone.

“I’ll see you at home,” Grace says, looking down at her ringing cell and answering. She places a hand on my shoulder and walks toward the entrance, where Corinne has pulled to the curb outside.

I throw them both a wave, Corinne excitedly waves back, and they drive off.

Then it’s just me and Wes.

I have a hot guy in tow and a mission, but one more step tells me it will be a long night with these heels.

Only two blocks and half a campus’s walk until I can take them off.

Great.

Ten minutes later, Wes and I successfully made it one block down the road before finding a bench for me to collapse on. I tried to be strong, gripping every edge of brick sticking out from the sides of downtown buildings to steady my movements and not exacerbate the pain in my heels. But after a few involuntary groans, it was more than even Wes could handle.

“Okay, this is like watching a horror movie in slow motion. Let’s please sit down somewhere,” Wes finally says, bending low and reaching one arm behind my knees and the other around my waist to pick me up in his arms wedding night style.

The rush of night air across my face as he carries me to a nearby bench should cool me down, but the closeness of his fingers to the curve of my breast only makes my temperature hotter.

When he places me on the seat—so gently I could cry—I finally kick the damn heels off, throwing all attempts at sexiness out the window. Once they’re no longer torturing me, I couldn’t care less about how I look.

“Oh thank god,” I breathe, letting my head fall back against the bench and closing my eyes in relief as the breeze tickles my raw heels. “Those are the worst.”

Wes laughs and it’s deep and wonderful. “Then why’d you wear them?”

“Well, they’re sexy,” I say with a small shrug. “Duh.”

I wait for a comment in return, but I’m only blessed with his low chuckle once more. When I peek open my eyes to look at him, he has this devilish grin on his face as he glances from my throat, exposed in my relaxed position, down to my slight cleavage, and I’m satisfied enough.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Here. About two hours away, though. And you?”

“Nowhere near here,” he says. “I’m actually from out of state.”

“So why this college?”

“The music scene.”

“You know, I think most people come here for the football,” I say, gesturing to the crowds of people passing by with team jerseys and backward sports caps.

“You would think it would be for the studying,” Wes says, squinting. Though I can’t tell if it’s a challenge or if it’s just the way his handsome face looks when he has a big smile.

I narrow my eyes back. “You would think.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Why’d you come to this college specifically?”

“I came here because … I don’t know.” I shrug, settling into the bench. “It was the best state college. I don’t even know what I want to do.”

“What do you like to do?”

A question stumping me is such a rarity, but he stumps me now. I’m normally an open book, but it’s hard to be open when there are no answers to give.

“I like to be nosy,” I respond. “Tell me about your tattoos.”

He laughs, leaning back on the bench with me. “What do you want to know?”

“Which is your favorite?”

“I like them all.”

“Okay, you’re not a parent talking about their kids. You can pick a favorite.”

“You just want to know where else I have tattoos.”

I look over and see a cocky little smile playing on his mouth. I slowly slide down the bench, hoping it’s not obvious that the comment just sank my soul.

“Maybe I do want to know,” I say, hoping it comes out coolly. This only makes him smile wider. My nipples grow uncomfortably hard under my lacy bralette, but who cares. We’re flirting , and it’s intoxicating.

“Do you have any?” Wes asks.

“No, but I want one.”

“Of what?”

“Lavender,” I say.

“Why?”

I inhale, tilting my head to look up at the night sky. “The scent helps ease anxiety.” Even closing my eyes now, breathing in the downtown night air stained by college booze and stale cigarette smoke, I can almost smell a hint of it in the air purely from memory. “I brought my brother a ton of lavender-scented stuff when he was in the hospital last year. The smell makes me think of family and doing what you can to help people.”

“Nosy and you like helping people …” Wes muses. “Maybe you’re meant to be a therapist.”

I can’t help but smile, opening my eyes again to see Wes with his eyes now closed. He’s relaxed against the bench, unaware that I’ve opened mine to watch him. I like the way his sweet hair falls to the side. I like how his trimmed beard complements his jawline instead of hiding it. I like how every tattoo littered over his arms brilliantly glimmers in the moonlight.

“Second week of college and I’ve got it all figured out,” I say. “Thanks to you.”

His eyes open and I don’t even try to look away. Why should I be embarrassed for admiring him? Shouldn’t he know he’s beautiful?

“Let’s get you one,” Wes says, sitting up so his elbows are poised on the knees of his black denim jeans. I hadn’t realized before how stretched the material is. His thighs are bulky and strong.

Jesus, what exercises does this man do?

“What?” I ask, trying to find my mental footing after taking in his gorgeous legs.

“Tattoo time, Ramona.”

“What?!” This time I hear him properly.

“Say what again and I’m not walking you home.”

I laugh, but still sputter, “I’m not getting a tattoo, Wes.”

“Come on. Live a bit. I’ll get one too.”

“Get real.”

“I’m very real.”

Wes stands and holds out his hand, defined and hardened like a man’s should be—that single tattoo line across his middle finger taunting me like a dare.

I take it.

“This is my first time.”

“Congratulations.”

“Do I have to hold this towel?”

“Do you want to flash me?”

“No.”

My conversation with the tattoo artist—though clipped as he readies his station—is not making me nearly as nervous as the fact that my leggings and underwear are pulled down to my thighs and I have a towel placed over my right hip, draped in between my legs. My left hip, the area normally covered by my panties, is exposed with a lavender stencil in purple ink.

“You here for moral support?” the artist asks, nodding his head toward Wes, who leans on the doorframe, hands in pockets, eyeing the length of my figure exposed on the reclined chair. His eyes prowl over me, more sensual than I’ve ever seen, but exactly how I imagined they might be when I was finally exposed to him. Though I didn’t exactly expect it to be in a tattoo parlor.

“Of course,” Wes says.

“Seems like you make her nervous.”

“He’s harmless,” I say. At a flick of Wes’s eyebrow, I instantly question the validity of that statement.

“Do you have any final questions before I get started?” the artist asks me, swiveling in his chair next to me. It almost feels like I’m at the gynecologist with the intimacy and pants-pulled-down bit.

“At least my feet aren’t in stirrups,” I blurt out. Wes barks out a laugh and the artist gives a small smile. “Sorry, I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.”

Wes pushes away from the wall, walking over to my side and brushing the back of his hand against mine until I tilt it outward and let our fingers entwine. The movement comforts me, fills me with a warmth I can’t describe. It’s nice, but rough. Plus I like the look of his inked finger tracing over my lifeline.

Is that symbolic or am I just high on nerves?

“I believe in you. I think you’ll be fine,” the artist says, swiveling back to his machine and starting it up. I hear the whir first, then feel the initial pinches as the gun vibrates against my skin, but I’m too busy tracing over Wes’s fingers to truly care about the pain.

“This one is my favorite,” I say, ghosting over his finger tattoo.

“It’s a good one,” he says, chuckling.

Thankfully my pain tolerance is higher than I expected, because the only pinches that get a bit pinchier than I’d like are closer to my hip. But my tattoo is a simple line drawing with no frills, so it only lasts ten minutes before I’m sliding out of the chair and Wes is getting in.

“I’ve got this idea,” he tells the artist, showing a napkin drawing of a flower like mine but with less lines and detail. More sketched, but still with a natural flow like a Picasso outline. “I figure you can do better, but it’s just an idea.”

“Yeah, I can help you with that,” the artist says, glancing over his patterned forearms. “It’ll look good with the theme you’ve got going on.”

I can’t help but swoon, and I think my fluttered exhale gets the artist’s attention, because he smiles as he pulls out his notebook and pen. “So how long have you guys been dating?”

“Two years,” Wes says before I can counter.

“Have we?” I ask with a grin.

“Yeah.” His shrug says it all. We could.

After the artist sketches up something new based on Wes’s rough drawing, Wes gets the gun on his skin. He doesn’t flinch during the process, but I hold his hand anyway. I think he even twitches his thumb a couple times to make it seem like the pain is there, but given how many tattoos he currently has, I’m willing to bet it’s all for show.

“My punk rock man,” I mutter. A smile tugs at his mouth.

Fifteen minutes later and we’re walking out of the shop with my heels in hand and paper towels duct-taped to my feet, courtesy of the front-desk woman, who said she couldn’t bear to watch me ruin my feet further.

Wes’s fingers lace in mine as we cross the street from downtown and onto campus, passing the chapel on our right and the open grassy quad on our left. It’s so calming at night. No picnics, no Frisbees threatening to smack your head (ask Grace; it happens)—just the whistle of occasional wind and my sticky duct tape footsteps.

“You barely flinched in there,” he says.

“What can I say? I’m a tough cookie.”

He chuckles. “You are. I also didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

“Well, don’t test me again, because I have no other tattoo ideas.”

“No worries. I’ll get them for the both of us.”

My stomach does that weird flippy thing it keeps doing whenever Wes talks about us like we’re actually dating.

“So we’ve been dating two years, huh?” I ask.

Wes laughs, but then stops walking. I want to halt as fast as he does, but my duct-taped feet take a second to brake so that I don’t rip the paper towel.

“Listen,” he says, taking a step toward me, running a finger over my palm, trailing it to my wrist and back down to entwine our hands once more. “I like you, Ramona.”

The words somehow surprise me, as if I had considered maybe only platonic friends got tattoos together and held hands on a romantic night jaunt around campus.

“Good,” I say. “I like you too.” And, just as with his words, these feel surprising leaving my mouth, as if I didn’t expect to have any feelings other than lust for him. But that simple train seems to have left the station a few hours ago.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s do a date thing.”

“I can do date things.”

Wes looks from my eyes down to my lips and takes another step toward me. I can only hear the sound of the crickets and our heavy breathing. The smell of downtown is now shrouded under the scent of Wes. I don’t know if he wears cologne or if his body wash is the culprit for his clean smell, but I want it closer.

My hand reaches up of its own accord, wrapping into a fist in his shirt.

He looks down at it, then back at me.

As if that was the lit match he needed, Wes’s index finger and thumb tip my chin up, agonizingly slow. We’re floating in a dream, getting closer and closer to his green eyes until mine close and our lips touch.

It’s like a heat starts at the edge of our mouths and carries down into my neck and chest, flowing like fire to my stomach and fingers. What starts soft and sweet turns warm, passionate, and heady with every subsequent kiss.

My hands, desperate for more of him, reach up to touch his neck. I can feel the muscle move under my fingers. He inhales sharply, wrapping a hand around my waist, pulling me closer until I can feel him against me, hard, large, and begging for me to take action.

Isn’t this what I wanted?

My stomach feels like it’s on the roller coaster of its life, graciously accepting every single flick of his tongue against mine and hoping against hope he doesn’t stop. But I had originally wanted to ride the bumper cars—not the loop-de-loop coaster. This was supposed to be rough, fun, but without any stomach drops.

I wasn’t supposed to like Wes. We were supposed to bone, then, badda bing badda boom, I win at Project: Pound Town, and we call it a day and move on.

But this is more than I signed up for.

I really do like him.

I pull back to find him smiling, his eyes squinting in the process just as I like them to, and I smile back because there’s nothing else my heart urges me to do in that moment but admire this man.

There’s something in the way his eyes skim over my lips, the way his finger lifts to place a piece of hair behind my ear … I know the results of my little experiment in a noncommittal friends-with-benefits relationship is getting more skewed with every touch.

I step back, my duct tape crinkling on the sidewalk—the sound providing some relief from our need to touch.

“So.” I clear my throat. “Tell me more about this stellar date thing you have in mind.”