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Contents
Tenley
Hayden
Teaser of Clipped Wings
For my sister. Your courage astounds me. I love you.
Acknowledgments
Brooks, Micki, and my S&S team: thank you for making every step in this process an adventure.
Alex and Kris: you really are fabulous. Thank you for always being there to clean up my semicolons. Alex, your sage advice and your friendship have been a blessing.
To my Filets, I love you ladies. You keep me sane(ish).
WC crew: your support, excitement, and general awesomeness have been so incredibly helpful through this whole endeavor. I’m so glad I have all of you.
Husband, you are the best.
Fandom, without you, this wouldn’t have been possible.
Tenley
I parked in the lot behind my apartment and cut the engine, taking a last moment to appreciate my air-conditioned car. When I opened the door, the heat slapped me in the face like a wet blanket. It was disgustingly hot and humid, standard for late August in Chicago. It was almost nine at night, which should have meant relief from the oppressive heat, but the forecast predicted more of the same over the coming days. I popped the trunk and grabbed as many bags as I could.
I had to make several trips, and by the time I got everything upstairs, sweat dripped down my temples and my T-shirt was sticking to my skin. The industrial box fan—the most important purchase—made a thud when I dropped it on the hallway floor outside my apartment.
I wasn’t concerned about the noise. Since my neighbor’s ancient Toyota Tercel wasn’t parked in the lot, I assumed she wasn’t home. I hadn’t met her yet, having moved in only a week ago, but my landlady, Cassie, said she went to Northwestern. Like me, she was pursuing her master’s.
I shouldered the door open and shoved the bags inside with my foot. One of them ripped, scattering boxes of microwave popcorn across the hardwood. With a sigh, I went back into the hall, then slid the fan across the floor. It was so brutally heavy that I’d almost dropped it coming up the stairs. My sole source of air-conditioning was the window unit in my bedroom; the rest of the place was like a sauna. I’d left my bedroom door open once, hoping to cool the whole apartment, but when I returned the main living area was still grossly hot, and the bedroom was barely cool.
I made quick work of the groceries, tossing the perishables into the fridge. Then I gathered the boxes of popcorn and dumped them on the counter along with the rest of the easy-fix meals like Kraft Dinner and ramen noodles, as well as baking supplies. I needed an entire cupboard dedicated to my baking paraphernalia.
The next order of business was to make myself a drink. My twenty-first birthday was a few weeks away so I couldn’t buy liquor legally yet, but I’d been smart enough to pack a few bottles of booze before my exodus from Arden Hills.
A bottle of vodka awaited me in the freezer. It was thick but not slushy as I poured a hefty shot and dropped in a handful of ice cubes. I topped it with pink grapefruit juice, swirled it around, and took a sip. Glancing at the microwave clock, I saw that it was just after nine-thirty—perfect. I nabbed a throw pillow from the couch and went to the window, drew back the curtains, and unlocked the latch.
I sat on the wide ledge, propping the pillow behind my back. Taillights glowed on the street below, the occasional honk punctuating the thrum of engines running. I’d never lived on such a busy street and the constant activity was a welcome diversion.
The first few nights after I moved in, I sat at the window and listened to the chatter of the people passing by on the sidewalk below. Opposite my apartment, at street level, the Inked Armor sign glowed against the backdrop of shadows and streetlights. I was fascinated by the goings-on inside the tattoo shop. It was a distraction from the emptiness of my apartment, which was an echo of the feeling in my chest. I’d come to Chicago to escape the memories in Arden Hills; to leave behind the reminders of the things I’d lost and could never get back.
Here, nothing was familiar. It was both a blessing and a curse. The intrinsic loneliness was consuming in such a different way. I missed feeling connected to people, especially after the months of isolation. Observing the interactions of the people across the street had become a safe way to assuage my sense of seclusion. I found myself watching until the last customer left the shop.
Three men and one woman worked there, all in their mid-to-late twenties. The men were tattoo artists; I’d seen them putting ink on skin many times. And all of them, including the woman, sported a variety of ink and metal, defying the conventions I’d grown up with.
One tattoo artist piqued my interest more than the others. Tall and broad, with dark hair, his extensive ink captured my attention as did his facial piercings. A pattern of black ink traveled up his right arm and a vibrant burst of color covered the left, the designs indistinct from my window. I imagined, more often than I wanted to admit, how much more there would be under his shirt. Surely anyone who had full sleeves wouldn’t stop there. And the expanse of his back and his cut arms hinted at a beautifully sculpted canvas for his body art.
Beyond the obvious allure of ink and his unconventional beauty, something about him drew me to the window every night. As interesting as everyone in the shop was, from the huge man with the soft smile to the wiry one with the goatee and the girl with the cotton candy–colored hair, the dark-haired man was the one I couldn’t take my eyes off of. He prowled; he didn’t walk. There was an inherent restlessness about him; even when he was seated, his foot tapped on the floor. Of the four of them, he seemed the most serious and the most intimidating.
He was intensely focused when he engaged in his artistry, his movements fluid and practiced. For all the menace he projected, he was careful when he worked, and his clients seemed at ease with him. Watching him transfer designs onto skin was almost sensual. I often felt like the worst kind of voyeur, observing an intrinsically intimate act. I started to think about what being in his chair would be like. How it would feel to have those hands putting art on my body.
Tonight he was shading a shoulder piece. I was envious of the woman in his chair—he’d been working on her for almost two hours. I’d polished off three drinks in that time, so I was catching a serious buzz. The design, alive with color, spanned from the blade to the center of her back. He was methodical, making passes with ink, wiping down the design before he switched colors. Every so often he’d pause and hand her a bottle of water or a small, round ball that she squeezed as he worked. I wished I could see the detail in the design. Getting closer to the shop was something I contemplated with increasing frequency. More than the art, though, I wanted to see him up close up to confirm what I was already certain of: that his ink was as beautiful as he was.
When he finished the tattoo, he helped the woman out of the chair and took her to the other side of the shop. She spent a good long time staring at the fresh ink as he moved the mirrors to give her the best view. He was inordinately gentle when he cleaned the art and dressed it. It was at such odds with his hard exterior, making him all the more fascinating.
Once his client left the shop, he and his colleagues congregated around the front desk as seemed to be their habit. The girl behind the counter said something that made him laugh, which he didn’t do often. There was camaraderie between them that I envied; it made me long for that ki
nd of easy friendship.
After a few minutes of discussion they dispersed to tidy up. Things were put away and wiped down before the blinds were drawn and the lights turned off. Then they filed out and locked up. The four of them turned right, past two storefronts to the lobby of a condo building. They all stopped while the object of my growing fascination unlocked the door. Then they disappeared inside the lobby, leaving me alone again.
Since this nightly ritual had begun, I’d tried to convince myself my interest was in the clientele. That was untrue. I was constantly waiting for a glimpse of the dark-haired man with the juxtaposing sleeves. More than once, I’d seen him cross the street and go into Serendipity, the antiques and bookstore located beneath my apartment. He always came out with coffees from the adjacent café. We’d never been there at the same time. Not that I was looking for that to happen.
I sat at the window until my drink was gone. Then I refilled my glass and set up the box fan. By the time I finished, my T-shirt was once again damp and clinging to me. I plugged in the fan and turned it on. The papers I’d left on the coffee table took flight and fluttered through the air until they hit the wall, tumbling to the floor. It sounded like a jet plane was landing in my living room, the noise inciting an irrational surge of panic. I took a deep breath and shut down the anxiety. It was just a loud fan. I was safe. I gathered up the papers; I’d need to staple things in the future.
Then I set the fan in front of the window, hoping it would suck in the marginally cooler night air to help bring the temperature down inside. Bypassing the boxes of books that still needed to be unpacked, I turned off the lights, save for the one in the kitchen. Sticky from sweat, I needed a shower in the worst way. I turned on the water, peeled off my clothes, and didn’t bother to check the temperature before stepping under the spray. It was cold enough to make me shiver, but I didn’t mind.
When I couldn’t stand the cold anymore I made the water lukewarm, then reached for the shampoo. As I lathered up my hair I brushed over the ladder of rings in my ears. Each addition had been a minor revolt. I thought back to the events and the people who had incited those tiny acts of rebellion. There was no one to fight me on it anymore. I could do whatever I wanted now, without worrying about repercussions. It would be so easy to go to Inked Armor. . . .
I shook my head and lathered up a body sponge, running it along my arms and over the back of my neck, then moving lower. That was a colossally bad idea, no matter how much I might want to. Better to keep a safe distance. I was still trying to find my way in this new city and this new life. Making friends wasn’t something I was ready to contend with. When I was done washing up, I rinsed off, cut the water, and grabbed a towel. My discarded clothes stayed on the bathroom floor since no one was around to care whether I picked them up.
Wrapped in a towel, I returned to the kitchen to replenish my drink, doubling up on the vodka this time, and headed for the bedroom. The wave of frosty air that greeted me goose-bumped my damp skin, and I basked in the glory of the Freon cold. I had trouble sleeping and didn’t need the heat to make it more difficult.
Done with the towel, I draped it over the chair in the corner of the room to dry. Then I rummaged through my dresser for something to wear. The dresser came from Serendipity; Cassie owned and ran the shop below my apartment. It was attached to a small café that specialized in baked goods and coffees. Since I moved in, I’d been to Serendipity almost daily. If I wasn’t seeking out pieces to furnish my place with I was buying coffees or snacks since I hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet.
In my haste to move to Chicago I’d brought only what could fit in my car. I’d spent the first two nights sleeping on a blow-up mattress until I’d tested out pillow-top varieties and had one delivered. Much of the past week had been spent either seeking out necessary items like a couch and a coffee table or assembling cheap DIY shelving units for my books. My apartment was slowly starting to feel like home.
I put on fresh undies and a tank, then flipped open my laptop and searched for something entertaining to watch. I didn’t like horror since I’d lived the real thing this past year and romantic comedies made me want to vomit, so I cued up a documentary that might help with my master’s thesis. Classes didn’t begin for a few weeks, but I was eager to get started. The more research I did now, the better prepared I’d be for my first meeting with my advisor.
I snuggled into my pillows, ready to get schooled on the art of contemporary body modification. An hour and a half later, I had copious notes. I turned off the lights, pulled the sheets up over me, curled around a soft pillow, and started the documentary again. Halfway through my eyes started to grow heavy and I blinked sleepily as Jesse Jarrell told me, in his calm, soft-spoken way, about sub-dermal implants. . . .
I was reclined in a tattooing chair. The red vinyl was smooth and smelled faintly of lemon. I looked around, disoriented, until I realized I was inside Inked Armor. As I surveyed my surroundings I became acutely aware that it was just him and me in the quiet shop. There was no one else. Not the girl with the pale pink hair, or the tall, thin man who was clearly her significant other, or the jacked-up one with sleeves in black and white. The blinds were drawn and the lights so low, I couldn’t understand how he could see the design he was putting on my skin. My fingers curled around the edge of the chair; tension made my muscles tremble. I blinked and blinked again, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring the tattoos covering his arms or the contours of his face into focus.
I looked down at the new ink—singed and smoking feathers in shades of crimson and gold floated over my hip and down the outside of my thigh. It was a version of the tattoo I’d been drawing for the past several months, in stunning detail. But it was in the wrong place.
Between one blink and the next, the scene morphed. The hum of the tattoo machine ceased. Tension became a living thing as I realized I was wearing a tank top and nothing else. Confusion and mortification warred with an unfed hunger I’d forgotten existed as he shifted between my thighs. I tried to close my legs, but he was filling the space, making it impossible.
His face was in shadow, features still obscured, no matter how much I strained to see him clearly. Warm hands smoothed down the outside of my legs and then I felt the satin smooth brush of lips against the inside of my thigh. His mouth moved higher, teeth nipping at skin. And then his fingers were right there, soft and warm and touching me in ways I hadn’t been touched in so long. I reached out, fingers slipping through those dark strands and gripping tight. He laughed, the dark sound moving over me, through me. I arched under him, heat and desire coalescing. . . .
* * *
I awoke on the crest of an orgasm, my body and sheets damp with sweat. I lay there in the dark, panting like I’d just run a marathon. I hadn’t had an orgasm in more than eight months. The desire had been absent for so long, I’d forgotten what it even felt like.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to catch my breath. My body hummed with foreign energy; I was still insanely aroused. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but as soon as I did the images came back with devastating clarity. While his face remained blurry, the imagined sensations were not. Those inked arms holding my legs, the soft brush of lips and his warm, wet mouth on me.
I pulled a pillow over my head, willing the images to fade, but it was useless. After so many months, my body had woken up from its sexual slumber. I threw the pillow across the room and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was five-thirty in the morning; no way would I be able to fall back asleep. I might as well get up.
* * *
Later that day I stood in the middle of my living room, trying not to give in to the urge to stand at the window. I’d already changed my sheets, showered, and drank an entire pot of coffee. During the coffee marathon, I rearranged my living room furniture three times. I was trying my best to keep my mind off the tattoo artist across the street. So far I was failing miserably.
I glanced at the boxes beside the bookshelves. I�
�d been avoiding a few of them on purpose. The box of photo albums had been relegated to the closet in my bedroom. Inside the albums were snapshots of my life and all the people who had passed through it. I wasn’t ready to give them a home on the shelf, though. Instead I filled the shelves with books; texts from my undergrad studies, novels I loved. Books my mom had given me over the years.
When I was done, I stared at the empty space where the albums would go. Eventually I’d muster the courage to put them where they belonged. My whole apartment seemed to reflect that sense of vacancy, no matter how much stuff I filled it with. It made me anxious. I was alone here, with nothing and no one, which was how I’d thought I wanted it to be. But the ache inside was so overwhelming, it scared me sometimes. I had so much to miss, yet back in Arden Hills, the constant reminders had been a kind of torture.
I turned away from the shelves and dropped down on the couch. The new fan was doing its job; the moving air definitely helped offset the heat. I flipped open my laptop and checked my Northwestern email. The only messages were from the student affairs office, inviting me to attend an information session in two weeks. The unstructured time was killing me. Now that my apartment was furnished, my only distractions were my thesis and people-watching. The latter was becoming a problem, particularly after that dream last night. While I was happy to spend a few hours or more each day on research, I wouldn’t meet with my advisor for at least another week, which limited what I could accomplish.
I needed to find something else to do with my time besides sitting at my window, wishing for a life that wasn’t mine.
* * *
A week later, I found myself in the basement of Serendipity. Cassie had kindly offered to let me rummage through it for anything I might need. It was like a hoarder’s dream down there and nearly impossible to navigate. I wanted the dining set on the far side of the room for my kitchen, but the maze of furniture and boxes impeded my ability to get to it. I gave up and carried a box of books up the stairs, then went back down to grab another one, in hopes of clearing a path to the table.
Cupcakes and Ink Page 1