Maya - The Novel

I could see her lips moving but the sound of my own breathing had taken over my hearing. I ran a hand over my face, trying to focus.

"Are you okay?" Her voice seemed distant, as though she wasn't only two feet from the bed.

I nodded, taking deep breaths. I needed to calm the fuck down before a heart attack took me at the ripe old age of thirty-two.

Although I always preach at my FREE NYC meetings that recovery is a process that takes time and effort, I fail to mention my fear that recovery might never happen for some people. Namely, me. As I struggled to get my breath back, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was fifteen again with banged up ribs and so many lacerations that it took the doctors four hours to stitch me up. My throat started to close.

"Put your head between your legs. Now."

Although her voice was still far away, I felt her hands on my back pushing me forward. She slapped it hard. Once, twice, three times. I fought the overpowering images and the sharp taste of phantom blood in my mouth.

"Breathe, Gray." Her fingers gripped mine and I held on, trying to get some air into my lungs. It took a few tries, but the knack of breathing eventually came back to me. Still, she held on, one hand patting my back in a soothing motion.

"Better?"

I could only nod. My heart was racing.

She plonked herself into the space between my raised knees and cupped my face in her hands.

"You're okay, Gray. You're fine." She patted my cheeks and I could feel the color rush back into them. I nodded again.

"Here," she said, handing me the coffee mug. "This should help."

The familiar scent of espresso teased awake the functioning part of my brain. "Thank you." My voice was hoarse as I accepted the small mug and took a sip.

"I asked the barista what your drink was. She seems to know you well."

My nerves were starting to calm. I took another big gulp. "You went to Expresso?"

"Yeah, I got us some breakfast."

"And you came back upstairs and poured the coffee into a mug?"

"Well, I've never seen people serve coffee in bed with a plastic cup. And I wanted to be all professional lover-like." She pushed stray strands of hair out of my eyes, her lips twisting with a smile.

"Lover-like, you say?" I pulled her straight onto my lap and buried my nose in her neck, inhaling deeply. Who knew jasmine could be so calming?

"Are you feeling better, Gray? I thought you were going to have a panic attack."

So did I.

"I'm fine, sweetheart. I get nightmares sometimes. It's not a big deal."

She frowned. "What do you mean it's not a big deal? How long have you had them?"

"About seventeen years. But I've worked through most of it with my therapy group."

"Have you really?"

Why does she do that? Ask the exact questions that I don't want to answer. I took another gulp of my coffee and avoided her eyes.

"What time is it?" I asked instead.

She let it drop with a sigh. "It's 8.30. I've gotta be in class in an hour."

"Sure, how about we do something later? Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something?"

Her face fell. "I can't, I'm sorry. Um, my mom's gonna be home tonight. She's actually visiting some family right now, which is why I can have you over. And she's not... you know..."

"Cool with this?" I set the mug on the bedside table.

"Yes. She's very traditional." I could tell that she was choosing her words very carefully.

"I understand, sweetheart. How about you text me when you're free?"

"Sounds great." Her relief was palpable.

I slid out of the covers and stretched. I could feel her eyes on me, watching every move. Did I mention I sleep naked?

Her cheeks were flushed when I let my arms drop. When her eyes met mine, they were slightly dazed.

"So your class is at 9.30?"

She nodded. I moved forward and slipped my hand into her curls, tilting her head up to meet mine.

"How about a shower first?"

She leaned forward to place a kiss on my lips. "Yes, please."

It wasn't until I was walking home later that I realized her hair had been damp already.

#

Chapter 7

The scent of jasmine haunted me all day - I thought it was psychosomatic before I remembered I'd used her shampoo that morning. Each floral whiff evoked some kind of memory from the previous night, another isolated image of her with the echoing words "Let me take care of you" playing somewhere in the background on a demented loop. I saw her dimples flash, her breath catch, her breasts bounce, her head between my legs... all in a succession of scented memories.

By lunch, I'd spent half the day doing almost nothing but check my phone. By closing time, the hollow ache in my gut was the only thing I could think about. I'd only completed one stencil that day for a client who was coming in the next day - not my best track record.

It wasn't my fault. I blamed her. Who could resist the contrast of sexy innocence? Who'd be able to walk away from someone who says things like "Let me take care of you"? Who wouldn't want to spend every night with a woman who trembled like a dream when she came with your name on her lips?

And now, we were playing the stupid fucking dating game. At least, I assumed she was. Why else would she wait so long to text? I would've texted her while walking out her front door... let's pretend I didn't just say that.

At the back of my mind, doubt still lingered. What if she'd just wanted a one-night stand? She did come on pretty strong with the "no pretenses" stuff. What if that simply meant she didn't want to deal with any relationship bullshit? Could I handle it if she just wanted sex? The answer was a resounding no.

I don't think I've ever reacted to someone this way; I'm usually great with keeping my cool. I'm used to clingy girlfriends who won't leave me alone. I'm usually the one who makes others wait for a text. Hold up - was this karma?

As I locked up for the day, Kenny, a talented artist I'd hired from Jersey over ten years ago, offered to help. Kenny was a quiet dude, always kept to himself. Which is why I liked him, I suppose. Everyone else at the shop had a gossip problem. Nothing happened without them knowing about it and making up several different stories to make life in the store more interesting.

A few years ago, there was a rumor that Mel had gotten a nose job because one of our clients had seen her wearing a cast on her nose. She'd even taken a week off work so the story seemed to fit. Little did we know that her boyfriend had roughed her up and broken her nose. My knuckles still tingled when I thought about the night I'd found out the truth. Mel wasn't only an employee - she was a FREE NYC kid I'd enlisted to help with the shop when she was sixteen. She was one of those people that never let life get her down - even homeless and hungry, she'd cracked jokes while waiting in food lines. I thought the shop could use her energy. Anyway, her douchebag ex hadn't even seen me coming.

Kenny was different from the others in the shop, though. I'd seen him smile at the gossip that went around the room but he never contributed or spoke more than he absolutely had to. So far, he had a 4.8 star rating on our site among 369 satisfied clients over ten years. Hell, even my rating was a meager 4.5.

As we pulled the shutters down, he said, "Needa talk?"

Did I mention Kenny was uncannily perceptive?

I bought some time pushing locks into place. Then I said, "No."

"Aight." He handed me a cigarette. We smoked in silence as we walked around the block together. He was walking towards the subway; I was trying to decide the easiest option for dinner.

"Women are confusin', man," he said as we turned a corner. He looked straight ahead. With his hood pulled over his baseball cap, he looked like a thug. No one would ever guess that this man made five figures through commission alone and owned an immaculate lower-level condo in Rutherford.

I took a deep drag. "How is Ramona?"

"She good. Havin' a hard time with Cara. Teenagers."

No one knew how long Kenny had been with Ramona. But they had a fifteen-year-old daughter so we assumed it's been a while. Kenny was only thirty-three so perhaps they were high-school sweethearts or something? It's not like he ever volunteered any information so it was anyone's guess, really.

We walked in silence for two blocks. When I stopped in front of the sushi bar I liked, Kenny said, "Take it easy, boss. Things will work out the way it's meant to."

I watched him walk away, head down, back stooped, with a "suspicious" thug swagger. He'd never said more than two words to me in a very long time. Had I been that obvious that something was bugging me? Rephrase - had my brooding been so obvious that my so-quiet-he-could-be-mute employee had told me to "take it easy"?

I frowned as I stepped into the sushi bar. There was still no message from her.

It was gonna be a long night.

*

In bed later that night, I wondered what constituted stalking. I'd never been a big social media person - hell, I even hired a social media whizkid to handle the website and improve something called SEO. Chesca had tried to explain what it was and how it could benefit the store but all I heard was gibberish followed by "more clients". So I'd given her a trial, and truthfully, we'd gotten way more enquiries than the month before. Most of them were through Instagram, which was fine with me. The books were full until December, just the way I liked it.

Did people know how easily they could be found on the Internet? How were there still criminals at large? Although I only had her first name and the University she attended, I found her in under twenty minutes. Her Facebook page connected me to her Twitter page through which I found her Instagram account and LinkedIn profile.

She didn't have much of an online presence. In fact, other than her latest post from two days ago (a picture of her, Alex and Cady with corn dogs at Times Square), she hadn't posted since June. Her old pictures were mostly of family gatherings, church and her Pomeranian.

Could someone feel unsatisfied from stalking?

I groaned, turning over in bed. It was past two a.m. I briefly wondered if I should have a drink and watch some shitty late night TV. But here's the worst part - I didn't want to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, felt her by my side, heard her soft breathing in my ear, her breath warm against the side of my neck. I could almost feel her weight in bed with me, comforting, stable. I could hear her voice saying "Gray" and asking how I was. Saying good morning. Her messy hair tangled in the covers.

I wanted to savor those memories. What if sleep blurred the feel of her? I couldn't think of anything worse.

At the back of my mind, I knew it was unhealthy how fixated I was with her. This was a girl I'd only known for a couple days. And I already wanted her to be my forever girl. How the hell did this happen?!

Because she was perfect for me. I liked to think I was perfect for her as well (she didn't have to know that I don't have a sweet tooth). Things between us were effortless. There was a natural rhythm, a natural melding that hadn't happened for me before. Most of my past relationships had entailed a push and pull that we "needed to work on" at some point before things got serious.

Was I confusing sex with actual feelings? I wanted to say no. Everything in me screamed no. But this wasn't a problem I'd encountered before. It was actually the exact opposite. I was always the last one to commit; I'd think ten times about any long-term commitments before I said yes. But Maya was different. She felt so right.

Clearly, my thoughts were going in futile circles.

I welcomed the pound of the pavement under my feet ten minutes later as I tried to shut my mind off with a workout. I had a set of weights I usually used at home but at this point, nothing short of three miles would calm me.

I ran my usual route around the University - it was generally the safest jogging route in the area with minimal chances of getting mugged. I heard several house parties still going at full steam in the dorms with students belting out rap tunes terribly (and wrongly).

I knew I'd jog by her place on the way back. Perhaps that had been my plan all along. Was this my version of a creepy drive-by? My steps slowed as I spotted her window. There was a soft glow from her bedside lamp and her curtains were partially closed.

She was probably asleep. Why did I think she'd be up, tortured by images of me in her bed? The touch of my hands on her breasts? The smell of my hair wax on her pillow? The feel of my lips on hers?

It was stupid. We had one night together - granted, it was a beautiful, blissful night - and I was already thinking of ways to make her mine. Was this normal? Could someone please weigh in?

I sighed as I pulled a pack of cigs from my joggers. Guess I'd better end this self-imposed psychological war and (try to) get some sleep.

#

Chapter 8

A really good tattoo studio always smells of surgical spirit - anyone ever tell you that? If it doesn't, I suggest you walk away quickly or risk hepatitis. As I stepped into work a little later than usual the next day, greeted with the scent of heady disinfectant, Kenny already had a client in his chair.

Mel came around from behind her receptionist desk and ran through my appointments for the day, reminding me that she'd stuck a post-it summary on my desktop. So far, it didn't look like it was going to be a busy day. I had two clients coming in for consultations and stencil reviews, and a client in the evening who needed a touch-up for a boombox tattoo I'd done last month. Sadly, most of today would just be spent checking inventory and chasing vendors. One of our new ultrasonic cleaners was also acting up so I'd need to call the supplier and yell at him for a bit. Lovely.

I didn't want to think about last night. After way too many cigarettes and regret for my almost-stalkerish behavior, I'd silenced my phone and actually gotten a few hours of rest.

But my first thought had been of her this morning. And my shower had felt so empty.

Fuck this. I picked up the office phone and dialed Malcolm, the tech supplier. He was a nice enough guy, but as a new supplier he should have been sure to check all his products before selling them to us. I mean, we weren't big clients but we sure were repeat clients. If he was unwilling to fix the cleaner, I wasn't gonna hold back. I was already in a mood.

The day passed pretty quickly. In between calls and inventory check, clients came in for a final review before their sessions later that week. I was pretty excited for the 3D phoenix tattoo a new client had requested. The design had taken me weeks to tweak (and for him to approve) but he was finally happy with it. It was his first large tattoo (he had a smallish tribal band on his bicep) and he wanted it to be "perfect, just perfect". What I truly loved about it was that, if done right, the phoenix would look like it was flying every time he shrugged. It was a cool concept and I was honored that he'd sought me out for it. 3D tattoos were my forte but I didn't have a phoenix in my portfolio - yet.

I was on hold with a supplier later that afternoon, staring out into the barren ten by six foot space of land we called "the backyard" when I heard my office door open and shut.

Kids, let me tell you: when you wish really, really hard for something to happen, it will. I stood with the receiver glued to my ear, the ridiculous "please hold" elevator music playing on in incessant, merciless loop as Maya stared back at me, slightly breathless.

She was wearing an oversized black jumper, leggings and that goddamn gorgeous red lipstick. Stirrings of "Summers Over Interlude" started up in my head. Her hair was loose today, falling around her shoulders in practiced perfection yet no apparent order.

"Hi," she said, still not moving from the doorway.

I covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. "What are you doing here?"

I hadn't meant to sound gruff. Okay, maybe I was a little (a lot) butthurt that she hadn't texted in over twenty-four hours when all I'd done was think about her. But god, I'd forgotten the crazy effect she had on me. She made everything feel like it was happening in slo-mo, every breath she took, every curl that fell over her shoulder, every time her lips moved... everything happened at half speed. I took in all of it, mesmerized.

"I just... I've been thinking about you." She pressed her lips together, as though she'd just revealed a secret - as though I hadn't been doing the exact same thing.

"You have?"

She nodded. Don't cave, Gray. Stay mad. Tell her it's not okay not to text and then just show up.

But I was already a puddle on the inside.

She nodded, walking around my desk to stand in front of me. She raised her arms and wrapped them around my waist, resting her head on my chest.

"I missed you." Her voice was muffled.

I tried to hold myself as stiffly as possible - I wanted her to feel bad for letting me hang in the balance for a torturous amount of time.

But all it took was a whiff of her hair and I was hanging up the phone as though I hadn't been on hold for half an hour. My fingers worked their way into her hair, tilting her head up.

"You didn't text." I may be a softy on the inside, but I wasn't about to let things go.

"I know. I'm sorry."

That's it? The least she could've done is make up an excuse to make me feel better! The default explanation that I had to fall back on was that she couldn't be bothered to text. I could feel myself stiffening again, the first sparks of anger igniting painfully in my stomach.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Really?"

She looked apprehensive now. I wasn't sure how much of me she could read. I've been told that "pissed off" was my default look.

"Do you want me to leave?" Her voice was soft; her gaze searched mine. I could feel her arms slackening around my waist.

I said nothing but my fingers tightened in her hair. She paused, looking up at me with those damn expressive eyes.

My lips took hers in a kiss a moment later, her body plastered against mine. She released a startled moan before leaning into the kiss, arms once again tight around my middle.

I inched her backwards until we were pressed against the only bare wall in my tiny office. She pulled back, face flushed. Her lipstick was smudged in the most appealing way.

"You're mad at me."

I inched a hand under her sweater and her tummy quivered. I watched her throat work as she decided what to say next.

"I'm so sorry."

My hand paused its exploration. "You're sorry? That's all you have to say?"

"I..."

"No. Don't."

My fingers moved up to the sports bra she was wearing, brushing an already turgid nipple over the stretchy material. She sucked in a breath.

"Isn't this what you're here for?"

"What? No. I just wanted to see you."

I let my hand drop and pulled her sweatshirt down over her waist. She watched me pull away, unsure. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the desk.

"I know you're upset with me," she said, her eyes now focused on the parquet flooring. "You have every right to be."

I took a deep breath and waited for her to continue.

"I do like you, Gray. And maybe that scares me... a lot."

I sighed and unfolded my arms. "But why?"

She shook her head. I pulled her close, cradling her head against my chest. She had a distant look in her eyes as she slid her arms around my waist again.

"Maya," I tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. "I'm a pretty safe bet."