Page 21 of Under My Skin
“He hardly lets anyone touch him,” I say with a bewildered shake of my head. It took weeks of Allison living with me for Pudge to finally let her pet him—and a few more weeks of that before he actually looked like he enjoyed it.
Everett peeks down at the cat before resting his other arm behind his head and refocusing on the movie. “Nice.”
He says it so simply, but I can hardly focus on the movie’s opening scene. All I can do is stare at Everett’s fully tattooed arm draped over the side of the chair, his fingers like a shadowweaving through Pudge’s cream and brown fur. I mentally trace the lines of his tattoos, studying the intricate designs from the geometric shapes poking out from the sleeve of his shirt to the spider nestled between his thumb and forefinger on the back of his hand.
A spider.
I suppress a shiver at the sight, like the thing might start wiggling all eight of its legs. Why in the world would anyone get that? He has to look at it while he’s eating.
I shift my legs beneath me to give me a better view of my mock tattoo. Could I really go forward with it? My eyes dart in Everett’s direction again, but this time, they’re locked on Pudge. I love my cat, but would I ever regret having him on my body? Forever? I try to imagine myself as an old woman with a sleeping Pudge still curled up on my ankle. Will I want to get every pet I ever own tattooed on me? The decision that felt insignificant a few hours ago, suddenly feels like the fork in the road that could lead me to being an elderly cat lady with all her cats’ names and faces tattooed on her body. I internally cringe at the thought and wonder if it’s possible to regret a tattoo before you even get it.
Chapter Twelve
EVERETT
The apartment is alwaysquiet when I duck out for my early morning ride, but I’m not used to having to tiptoe around a sleeping Lucy on the couch. Simon sleeps like he’s dead, and his bedroom door is always shut. I could probably make myself a smoothie and he’d be none the wiser, but Lucy? I have no idea how she sleeps. Peacefully from the looks of it. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun, her body nestled beneath Simon’s throw. She has the blanket pulled up and almost over her face as she sleeps on her side, and I wonder if she was cold last night. The weather isn’t bad yet, but the temperatures are dropping.
I wanted to offer her my bed last night, but she fell asleep before I could. Simon and I agreed not to wake her and went our separate ways, but knowing she was out here with no one but her cat didn’t sit right with me. She’s already having a hard time, and sleeping on Simon’s lumpy couch sure as hell won’t make things easier.
The fluffy feline is nestled between Lucy’s bent knees and elbows, like she made the perfect pocket for him to curl up against her stomach. Pudge lifts his head, his blue eyes assessing me, and it’s only then that I remember I need to keep moving. I can’t juststand here in biker gear, staring at Lucy while I hold my bed sheets bunched in my arms.
Taking a slow step backward, I wince when the hardwood floor creaks beneath my boot. Note to self: wait to put boots on until I’m outside.
Lucy takes a deep breath before stretching her legs out and blinking against the soft light poking through the curtains. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice groggy with sleep as she rubs her eyes.
Thank God I haven’t put my helmet on yet. I probably would have given the girl a heart attack.
Before I can answer, she blinks a little more, her eyes finally settling on me. “Are you doing laundry? Now? What time is it?”
She looks around for her phone, but I answer before she has time to grab it. “A little before seven.”
She groans. “Why are you doing laundry so early?”
I shrug. “I’m always up early.” I’m whispering, and I have no idea why. “I’m washing my sheets so you can have my room tonight.” Technically, I wouldn’t call it my room. It’s Simon’s extra room that he let me throw my shit in. It’s basically an oversized storage closet with a bed, but at least it has a bed.
She blinks. “What?”
“You know, so you can sleep on an actual bed.”
She goes to sit up, but I wave her back down.
“Don’t bother arguing with me. This is happening.”
She’s propped up on her elbows, her messy bun a little lopsided from whatever she put it through overnight, but those bright blue eyes are so fucking clear, even with it being early. Her mouth opens for a moment like she isn’t sure what to say until she blurts, “Where are you going?”
“For a ride. Go back to sleep, Luce.”
Before she can say anything else, I turn and head toward the laundry closet in the kitchen. I toss the sheets in the machine andget the load started, glad she’s already awake once the thing starts beeping with every press of a button.
Once the load has started, I reach for my helmet and keys on the kitchen counter. Peering toward the couch, I look for any sign of Lucy, but I can’t see her head over the back of the couch. She must have gone back to sleep, or at least she’s trying to.
With lighter footsteps, I sneak outside with my helmet tucked under my arm and breathe in the fresh mountain air. My bike sits in the same spot it always does, fallen leaves scattered across the seat, and I pull my helmet over my head as I walk down the three steps to the parking lot.
I run my hand over the leather seat as soon as the bike is within reach, brushing small red and brown leaves to the pavement. It’s a gesture my dad did a million times, and I never really understood it. Now, for whatever reason, I find myself doing the same thing.
Actually, I find myself doing a lot of the things he did. This was always his ritual. He’d wake up early, before his nine to five, and go for a ride. He’d quietly sneak out of the house while we were all asleep—or so he thought—and roll the bike down the driveway so he didn’t wake us.
I was always awake. I loved watching him leave every morning. I’d look out my window through the blinds, just to watch him strap on his helmet, brush his hand over the leather seat, roll the bike down the driveway, and go. I guess it became my own ritual, too.
