“I just want to do the front of your leg, where it’s more pronounced. I don’t want to do too much at once. We can save the back for another time. If you wear a loose and long dress or skirt this evening, you’ll be fine.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. “Will I get a drink for the pain?”
He shook his head. “You’ll bleed too much. But you’ll do fine. I promise.”
And so with the curtains open and the sun blaring in, I stripped down to my underwear and lay on the towels he’d spread out on the bed.
He sucked in his breath as his saw me, his eyes traveling from my toes to my hips, as if he hadn’t seen it all before.
“Jesus,” he whispered, gaze lingering everywhere. “I keep forgetting that you’re art already.”
I felt strangely shy at his admiration and fidgeted with the corners of the towel. “So what are you going to tattoo on me?”
“Whatever your scars tell me to,” he said.
I lay my head back on the bed as he started prepping my leg. I didn’t want to watch. I wanted to submit. I looked out the window, the sun glinting off the Rio building in the distance. After a few minutes, the needle buzzed, alive and waiting to transform me.
I put my sins in his hands.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Then
The girl stood outside the tattoo parlor, shaking her head adamantly. She had promised her boyfriend that she’d get a tattoo with him, but she was getting very cold feet at the last minute.
“Come on, angel,” Javier crooned to her, taking her hand. “Everyone gets nervous their first time. It’s a little like sex, although you should be so glad you don’t have to wear the loss of your virginity on your sleeve.”
I kinda will, she thought to herself, unable to keep from smiling. Not only had she lost her virginity to Javier, but they had talked for months about getting tattoos together. Javier already had several, a large cross that ran up his spine, and his mother’s name scribbled on the inside of his bicep. The girl had none.
They had decided to go with a musical theme based on songs they would pick out for each other. Javier was partial to the song “On Every Street” by Dire Straits. Being a big fan of the band, the girl loved the song but could never understand why her boyfriend had associated it with her. After all, the song talked about a woman’s “injured looks” whose “fingerprints remained concrete,” and the man with a “ladykiller regulation tattoo” who was “still on the case” and forever searching for her in “a ravenous town.” Javier’s answer was always the same, that no matter what happened to them, he’d always come looking for her, on every street.
At the time, the girl thought it was romantic. And perhaps, in some twisted way, she still did. But she couldn’t decide how to incorporate that into a tattoo. There was a line in the song about the moon hanging upside down, and she thought that might be a good one. Then Javier suggested she get the written notes to the part of the song that always made her cry. She said she cried when she heard it because it made her feel what the hero in the song felt. And that was alone. Just three simple notes, and she felt all the grief of losing your lover, forever confined to a never-ending search. She told him it sounded like your heart echoing down a black corridor.
Her song for Javier was Nine Inch Nails’ “Wish.” A darker, faster, more frantic song but one of her favorites. But when it came to the cryptic lyrics, to wishing there was something real in a “world full of you,” she wasn’t sure who the song was about. Her or Javier?
He decided to get it on his wrist, just the word “Wish.” He said he had always wished for a woman like her and every time he looked at his hand he’d be reminded that wishes did come true.
Still, despite the commitment and support, the girl was having second thoughts. It was more than just the pain; tattoos were forever. Her tattoo spoke of a future that may or may not happen. Did she want it to come to pass, to look down at her arm one day, knowing Javier was looking for her? Did she want to feel that empty, seeking sound?
Javier was making sure she’d always remember the first time she had sex and the first time she got a tattoo. He was imprinted on her body in so many ways. And in the back of her head, buried deep behind logic, hidden behind first loves, sex, lies and power, the girl knew that she was being branded, for him to own, forever.
It took a bit more pleading and coaxing outside the parlor on that day when the clouds pressed down on Ocean Springs like a humid hand. But finally, and as usual, the girl gave in. She had a hard time saying no to Javier. It was one of the reasons why, a year later, her mark became her lover and the master of her heart. She never meant to fall for Javier. She couldn’t even understand how she did, how she succumbed to a man who did very bad things, who was part of an organization that had once done very bad things to her.
But when you’re twenty, the heart wants what it wants and if you’re dedicated enough, it gets what it gets. Youth and naivety did so much for this girl who was now calling herself Eden White.
Javier kissed her hand, staring intently at her with the sharp, yellow-green eyes that won her over to begin with. “I hope I’m always a part of you, Eden,” he said with conviction. “You’ll forever be a part of me. A world without you in it is a song without the music. You need both to make it whole.”
She felt her cheeks flush. Javier could be terribly romantic, and the strange part was he was always sincere. He lived his life bravely and with passion, so much so that when he was dispatched by Travis—the man who started it all, the man she had yet to see—he made savagery an art. It made it easy for the girl to forget the type of man she was dealing with, because when he was dealing with her, she was a sacred jewel—his queen.
It wasn’t until later, when it was almost too late, that she rediscovered the snake. He was starting to slip through his cage. And it was frightening.
The girl took in a deep, steadying breath, and leaning on Javier for support, entered the parlor. An hour later they came out with their marks forever on each other, sinking into their skin. Her arm was heavily bandaged and soaked through; his song had made her bleed more than normal.
It was her first warning.
Now
To say that the tattoo hurt was an understatement; it hurt so much that I needed something to bite down on. The hotel towel looked like it had been chewed up by a disobedient dog, but it was better than screaming, which I felt like doing on more than one occasion.
Most of the time I just looked straight out the window, imagining I was floating high above the gaudy people at the pool below. Sometimes though, I would sneak a look at Camden. He almost dissolved into the tattoo, into my body, that’s how involved he looked. He was like a sculptor, whittling away my ugliness, leaving trails of beauty behind. What started off as a bare branch growing from the roots of my foot soon unfolded into a leg full of cherry blossoms. Camden made the criss-crossing lines into a tangle of green growth; he coaxed my dead skin into living flowers.
When he was finally done, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead and snapping off his gloves, I felt like crying. Not just that the pain was over but that something amazing had been birthed from my tragedy. For the first time in my life, I was able to stare at my leg with something other than disgust, anger, and shame. I felt awe and I felt pride. And, whether I wanted to accept it or not, I felt gratitude. Camden…
I couldn’t even complete the thought. I stared at him, unable to say anything except “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ellie,” he said. “And thank you. Now you can see what I’ve always seen.”
My throat felt thick and I swallowed hard. Noting this, he got up and came back with a glass of water from the bathroom for me. I drank it down but still couldn’t come up with anything to say.
“Are you done admiring my work?” he asked with a wink. The truth was, I didn’t think I’d ever be. The pink cherry blossoms were so full, vivid, and life-like. It really looked like a tree had grown around my leg. “I’m
going to have to wrap you up now.”
I nodded and winced as he began to wrap my leg with layers of bandages. He worked quickly and gently, his strong hands treating me like I was precious to touch. It was humbling having him dote on me like that, and for once it felt good to be taken care of. I didn’t want to brush him off and tell him I could handle it myself—I wanted him to handle it. I needed him, his touch, his attention. All of it.
When he was all done he ordered me to stay put. By now the sun was setting and casting the Vegas sky coral above the glitzy lights. He thought I should stay off my leg for a little while if I was going to be walking around for the rest of the night.
As he propped my leg up with a pillow, I said, “What about the clothes? I need some nice clothes and shoes for tonight and we’re running out of time.”
He looked up at me and shot me a cheeky smile. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
Pfffht. As if I’d let him shop for me. “You don’t know my size. And I don’t trust your taste.”
He gave my toe a sharp squeeze and laughed. “Wow, so I pick out leopard print leggings for you one time and suddenly you think I have bad taste. Hey, just trust me. And I know your size. I’ve felt you up.”
A flash of his hands all over me flooded me with warmth. I ignored it, ignored the fact that I was lying in bed in front of him, stripped to my underwear, legs slightly askew. “Shoes?”
He leaned over and picked up my boot from the floor, peering at the sole. “Size eight.”
“But I hate high heels. I can’t walk in them.”
“So I won’t get you high heels.”
“You’ll be able to see the bandages on the top of my foot.”
“So then people will see the bandages. People get tattoos all the time here, I’m sure even the high rollers.”
“I have to have—”
“A long dress. I know. Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
And with that he got himself ready to go out and left me lying in bed, sore and slightly immobile. I flipped on the television and got wrapped up in a few episodes of Mythbusters before I started getting worried. Not about what clothes he was bringing me—though I was having visions of stripper platforms, cheetah-printed mini-skirts, and bikini tops—but because I wondered if that was all he was going out there to do.
I had to make a decision and I had to do it now. I couldn’t live in this indecisive, wishy-washy state of not knowing whether I could trust Camden or not. One minute I thought I could, the next I was afraid I couldn’t. It was making me feel bipolar, and in some strange way, wasn’t really fair to him. I had to decide how I felt about him and then I had to stick to it. If I got burned either way, then that was the risk.
I studied the patterns in the ceiling hoping to find a pattern in my thoughts. Camden led me on. He screwed me over as I was screwing him over. He had evidence on me that would put me in jail or at least get a warrant out for my arrest. He had a father who wanted nothing more than to serve me overdue justice. Camden had obvious control issues and his own methods of payback for all the wrongs I’d caused him. He had a meeting with Javier, Raul, and Alex and learned there was a giant price tag on my head. There were many reasons not to trust him.
But despite all my suspicions, it came down to two things. One: he’d had all these opportunities but so far hadn’t seized any of them. If he was just biding his time, I didn’t know. But it seemed the longer we were together, the more complicated things got. If he wanted to get rid of me, it was easier to do it sooner than later. The other reason was the most simple one. The most honest one. I had reason to trust him because I felt he could be trusted. Call it a gut feeling or primal instinct, but that’s what it came down to. I trusted him because I felt like I could, that I should.
Were hunches something to bet your life on? Well, I was in Sin City, where people did it every day. I’d just have to act like the high roller I was pretending to be and take the risk.
With that decision made, I felt a cloud of anxiety lift. It was so much easier to just worry about one thing. I must have been relieved enough to doze off because when I came to it was dark out and Camden was in the room holding a few heavy garment bags and shoe boxes.
“This game,” he announced, placing the packages on the floor with a dramatic flourish, “is a lot more fun when you’re playing it at Armani instead of a thrift store.”
“Who’s going first this time?” I asked as I sat up, my interest piqued.
“You,” he said. “I only have a tux. To put it on would ruin my private fashion show.”
I felt a little bit like Kim Novak in Vertigo as he unzipped all the bags and lay the selection of dresses out on his bed. To my surprise, they were all gorgeous. This man had excellent taste underneath the kinks.
There was a metallic olive green strapless gown, straight down to the floor, nothing poofy; a slinky material halter dress in gold that seemed to melt into the covers; and a long, black silk dress with the front cut down to the navel and the back cut down to what I guessed would be your crack. A layer of thin black lace covered the open areas, making it seem a more subdued dress at first glance, until you looked up close. It was risqué, daring, and elegant. It was perfect.
“I thought so too,” he said, noting the way my eyes were fastened on it. “And I thought it would go well with these.”
He opened up one of the shoe boxes and showed me a pair of strappy sandals with a modest two-inch heel. The straps were in the shapes of twisting roses and glittering with hundreds of silver rhinestones. Perhaps not so modest after all.
“They’re beautiful, Camden,” I said in a hushed breath. “I gotta be honest here. I’m starting to feel a bit like Cinderella or something.”
“Well, I’m certainly not your Prince Charming,” he said, gathering up the other dresses. His arms flexed beautifully against his black t-shirt.
“Thank god for that,” I told him, feeling bold. “Prince Charming never had your body or your tattoos.”
“Or my cock,” he shot in, grinning wickedly.
I bit my lip as my eyes traveled to his crotch and back. “If he did, Cinderella definitely wouldn’t have gone home at midnight.”
“And how late are we staying out tonight?” he asked.
“Until the last chip has fallen.”
I stood up, cautious with my leg. It felt tight and heavy but other than that it was fine.
“Do you mind turning around?” I asked, making the motion with my hands.
He ruffled his hair with amusement. “I don’t think I will. I bought you the clothes, I get to see the show.”
He stood there in front of me, surrounded by boxes and bags, the two beds on either side of us. Though the smile on his lips was playful, the look in his eyes was not. It wasn’t a mean look but it wasn’t soft. Each of his features stood out in their beautifully masculine way, all hard edges and second chances. This wasn’t the time for me to be bashful and he knew it.
Seeing as I was already in my underwear, a black pair that had cheeky coverage, I lifted my tank top above my head and let it drop to the carpeted floor. His gaze intensified, like a heat-seeking missile. I brought my hands behind my back, and as elegantly as possible, I undid the clasp and slipped my bra off of my arms, tossing it to the bed.
Though his gaze, his pose, his very being, reminded me of a wolf about to pounce, he didn’t move. I felt his eyes roam up and down my body like silk, sending shivers down my back. He was turning me on without laying a hand on me.
It wasn’t necessary for the dress, but I shimmied out of my underwear and stepped out of them. Now I was absolutely, completely nude, save for my bandaged leg. To anyone else I would have looked a bit silly. But not to Camden. I could see in the way he regarded me that I was nothing short of a phoenix coming out of the ashes, just like the one on his hips. Now I had become his tattoo.
I slowly walked over to him, owning my body as I never had before, shoulders back and head high. I gestured to th
e dress.
“Will you help me?”
He licked his lips; it was probably involuntary but it caused heat to flare between my legs, my own lips to part open. He reached over and picked the black dress up in his hands and leisurely unzipped the side of it, his eyes never leaving mine.
I raised my arms above my head, my bare breasts rising as I did so, surrendering to him. Our gaze never broke, and the heat only built, connecting us. He took the dress and carefully slipped it over my arms and pulled it down. His knuckles brushed against my nipples and I clenched my jaw, supressing the shudder that wanted to roll through me.
He dragged it down over my breasts and over my stomach, slowly, so slowly, like the fabric was an extension of his hands and lips. Every hair on my body was raised, my skin tense and wanting. He came closer to nudge it over my hips, letting his fingers rest on them as gravity took the remainder of the dress to the ground.
Now fully clothed, I lowered my arms. He was so close to me, too close. His hands burned on my hips.
“Thank you,” I whispered, breaking his heated gaze and looking at the ground.
“One more thing,” he said, breaking away. He bent down and rummaged through one of the bags and pulled out a jewelry box. Before I could say anything, he flipped it open and I saw a sparkling pair of diamond chandelier earrings nestled in dove grey velvet. I’d never had such sparkles so close to my skin.
And, even though Camden had bought it with stolen money, even though we were only dressing up so we could clean what he stole, this cemented my Cinderella comment. I felt like a princess.
“They’re beautiful,” I told him, taking the box from his hands, our fingers brushing against each other. “Thank you. I guess I better go make myself look pretty. I think I’ll put my hair up.”
He beamed and stepped away. “I hoped you might.”
I gave him a quick smile and ushered myself into the bathroom with my makeup kit. The minute I shut the door in the spacious, tiled room I exhaled loudly. My heart had been hammering a mile a minute back there, the tension building until I almost couldn’t take it. It was like the moment I decided to trust Camden was the moment I wanted to hand my body over to him again. I supposed the tattoo was the first step.
Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) Page 21