The drunk, happy feeling I got from the tattoo is interrupted by a chill when I realize what that storm means. I need to take the bus home, and the stop is eight blocks away, and there’s a transfer that takes forever after that. Plus, the street wasn’t even plowed behind Joey, so are the buses running?
“I knew there was snow coming,” Joey says, scratching the back of his head. “I just didn’t realize this much. Still going, too.”
“It’s Lake Michigan,” I say. “And the plains, east of here.”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Grew up in Milwaukee.”
We look at each other, and I realize that now that the tattoo is over, I’m supposed to go. “Wow, first winter storm of the year,” I say awkwardly.
Joey’s brow tightens, and he frowns as he crosses over to me. Without saying anything, he pulls his eyes up and down my body, then grabs the plastic wrap from my hands. “You live close by?” he asks.
I shake my head as he wraps plastic around my arm, where he smoothed lotion earlier. One last time, I feel his hands guiding me, posing me, and pleasurable heat soothes my nerves until he pulls his touch away.
“No,” I manage, my cock swelling. “I’m south of here. By the college.”
“Big city,” Joey says, still frowning.
“Yeah.” I turn, knowing my erection is probably obvious in my tight jeans. I grab my sweater and pull it on, grateful that it hangs low.
“You’re going to drive through this?”
“No, I don’t have a car. I’ll take the bus. Buses.” I try to sound cheery, even though it obviously sucks. I have a pretty happy nature, but I’ve also learned over the years that a good attitude is a powerful tool.
Not as powerful as a warm ride home, maybe, but still helpful.
Joey still looks concerned, which makes me feel all kinds of confusing things. He keeps moving his jaw back and forth, like he’s concentrating on a math problem. I don’t know why he’d care about my transportation home. He’ll probably drive a motorcycle through the blizzard like it’s nothing while I’m struggling to survive a stroll down the street.
Finally, he stops thinking and walks back to the door. He pulls it open and steps outside, stomping his way into the snow. It’s dark out, and there’s obviously no one else on the street. I watch as he hauls his body around, his arms crossed over his chest and no jacket on like a maniac, then drags himself through the snow and back in.
“Nope,” he grunts, slamming the door shut behind him. “Not getting anywhere.”
I blink. Joey is covered in snow from the waist down, and he brushes it off and stomps his boots while I process.
“We’re trapped here?”
He grunts. “I have an apartment upstairs. You’re welcome, or you can hang down here, if you’d rather. You could probably sleep on one of the tattoo chairs tonight, if the storm keeps up. But you’re not going anywhere else, at least not soon.”
My jaw slowly falls. I’m snowed in at the tattoo shop.
“So?” Joey asks. “You want to come upstairs?”
Holy crap, he’s asking me to come up to his place. Except this isn’t what Matty was talking about. It’s not like he’s inviting me up in a romantic way. We’re just snowed in, and maybe Joey really is a sweetheart behind his stoicism, like I pretend he is.
Or maybe he just doesn’t want to kick a client out in a blizzard. That’s probably bad for business.
“Uh, yeah,” I finally answer. “Sure.”
Joey nods and heads through a door right by the entrance, and I follow him through a stairway and into his place. The apartment opens into a large living room, empty except for a couch, a small coffee table, and a television hanging on the wall. Joey slaps the light switch, turning on the overhead, and heads straight toward the back. “You must be hungry.”
My hands land on my stomach. “Starving, actually.”
“Eat chicken?” he calls out.
“Yeah,” I call after him, then kick my shoes off as I try to process. “Thank you!”
I’m in Joey’s apartment, and even if I want to leave, I kind of can’t.
My eyes dance around, taking it in as I follow his voice. There’s a tiny dining room with the kitchen attached, and like most of the house, it’s pretty bare. No, not bare, but more like simple, ordered. I do notice a few different stacks of thick books, piled on the small table and the counter, and another out by the couch. And there’s a stack of cards with a game of solitaire on the dining table and some sketchbooks beside it.
