Books, Tattoos & Other Inky Things

7. The Plot F*cking Thickens.

When they arrived in front of the trendy GroveMarc condos, Nella stared up at the building.

What kind of weird week was this? For a brief time, she had planned to live in this building herself.

"I still can't believe you live here."

"Yeah, but it's like you said, don't judge a book by its cover," he warned. "My roommate owns the unit. He extends me... rent control, I guess you could say."

"Must be a good friend."

"The best." He ushered her into the ground floor lobby, so different from her building. The Tellico was bare brick and worn wood and Edison bulbs and ghosts. The GroveMarc was bright white and cool green and modern orange and shiny dark floors and low circular furniture and martinis. It didn't seem like Baz at all, but then again, he said it was his friend's place.

On the left, there was an access door to a coffee shop and on the right a small organic market. Baz ignored both and headed straight to the elevators at the back, where he swiped an access card. While they waited for the elevator car, she studied the lobby again.

"You like this?" she asked, sweeping her hand around what she considered a cold environment. Too orderly and sterile for this natural, exuberant man with sprawling art on his body.

He didn't look back at the room behind him. He gave an adamant nod. "I do. Or rather, I would with wings." 

"Come again?"

"Hang on, I'll show you." He gestured for her to enter the elevator.

They took it up to the mezzanine floor where a gym and salon claimed space. He pulled her to the rail overlooking the open-air lobby.

"I like it from here," he said as gestured below.

Nella gazed down and sucked in a pleasurable breath. Seen from above, the room was layers and layers of circles and semicircles—from the modern couches to the planters with ficus trees, even down to the heads of the few lounging people and their drinks scattered on round tables.

"Wow, perspective is everything to an artist, huh?"

His prominent eyebrows furrowed at her. "Not to a writer?"

"Sure, but words are more subjective. A writer can manipulate perspective from so many angles. Whenever you see this, you see the circles, right?"

"I see an orange grove," he said.

That surprised Nella. She looked at the lobby again. It was orange and green and brown. She supposed the repetitive circular pattern had an organic feel, but she did not see an orange grove. "Really?"

Baz nodded. "Yup."

He tilted his head toward the elevator, and they continued to his apartment. He told her his roommate mostly worked from home, and when he swung open the door, he called out, "Honey, I'm home!"

A masculine voice pitched in falsetto drifted down the hall. "I've got your bourbon and your blow job waiting!"

Baz winced, "He's kidding. It's just a... thing we do. I mean... we don't do... that... it's just—"

Nella put a hand to Baz's lips. "The less you say, the better."

He nodded as a dark-haired, warm-skinned guy with glasses rolled from an unseen room off the hall in a desk chair. Seeing Nella, he stood.

"You must be The Girl Who Likes Dragon Tattoos."

Nella felt proud that she didn't blush. She was getting used to the constant reference to their hookup. "I'm Nella. Fischer."