Ashes & Embers Series Collection (Books 1 to 4)

by Carian Cole

  “I’ll be right there!” The words bellow from another part of the building beyond the foyer.

  The interior of the studio is nothing like I expected. Actually, I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess I assumed it would be like the cold, dirty looking tattoo places I’ve seen in movies—large men with long, scraggly beards smoking cigars and hanging around looking sketchy. Hearts & Arrows is a mixture of luxurious Gothic and Victorian decor, with dark hardwood floors, and a red velvet antique couch with matching chairs in the waiting area. Artwork in ornate vintage gold frames hang on the walls. Picking up one of the aged leather bound photo albums from the mahogany coffee table, I realize it’s a portfolio of the artist’s tattoos and slowly flip the pages, impressed with his designs. The detail and shading are intricate and very realistic, especially the portrait tattoos of people and pets, which look like real photographs. Lindsay was right—this guy is truly gifted. My nervousness starts to ease up a little, knowing that at least the tattoo will be beautiful if I don’t pass out and make an idiot of myself.

  “Okay . . .” He comes out from behind the large thick curtain divider and stands behind the glass counter in the waiting area. “You must be Ivy, my six-thirty? You’re my gift card winner.”

  “That’s me.” I put the book down and turn fully toward him, and the moment our eyes meet, an odd sensation comes over me. A warmth sparks deep in my core and seeps to my heart, creating a flutter that spreads throughout my body.

  Deep chocolate truffle eyes lock on to mine, while a crooked smile and curious tilt of his head tells me he feels it, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure he feels exactly what I’m feeling, judging by the entranced expression on his face.

  He clears his throat nervously and extends his tattoo-covered arm and hand to me. “I’m Lukas. Have we met before?” Slipping my hand into his, that strange feeling buzzes through me, stronger now that we’re touching. Grounding myself, I take in the sight of him. He’s young, I’d guess early twenties, and he’s covered in tattoos. A faded grey t-shirt stretches over his broad chest and toned muscular shoulders, revealing full-sleeved artwork. His hair is long, a bit past his shoulders, and jet black with razored edges. A silver barbell piercing decorates his eyebrow and a hoop hooks through his lower lip. His eyes are dark with amber flecks—what we gals would describe as bedroom eyes. Way too sexy to be looking into for long periods of time. He holds on to my hand for a few moments longer than what would be the norm, then slowly lets go.

  “No,” I answer softly, unable to pull my eyes from his.

  Although something about him feels familiar, I know for a fact I’ve never seen him before. I would definitely remember him. Even though I’ve never been attracted to someone like him before, he definitely has something going on about him that’s warming my insides in a very foreign way and throwing me off my inner axis.

  An adorable boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You look so familiar.” He shakes his head, sending his shaggy hair flying around like a black halo. “So, you ready?” His voice is raspy, kinda like when you’ve been at a concert all night screaming.

  “I think so,” I reply, smiling back. “This is my first . . . I’m a little nervous.” I clutch the bag I brought with me that has a pair of shorts and socks for me to change into, which he suggested when we emailed earlier this week.

  He gestures with his hand for me to follow him behind the dark heavy curtain. “I love virgins. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ll go nice and gentle. If you want to change into shorts, there’s a bathroom right through that curtain there. Just make a left.”

  I QUICKLY CHANGE my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and paper towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.

  “I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”

  He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.

  Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.

  Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”

  “Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.

  Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”

  Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”

  “Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Well?” I urge, raising my eyebrows up at him. “What happens if you make a mistake? Is there some kind of eraser thing?”

  He looks at me sideways and winks. “I don’t make mistakes. And if I did? I’d do it so well you wouldn’t even realize it happened.”

  “I see,” I grin, admiring his confidence.

  “Some things in life, you just can’t do over. They’re meant to be permanent, whether they’re what we expected or not. Doesn’t mean they’re a mistake.”

  I blink at him, allowing his words to sink in. “Very wise words, Lukas. Impressive.”

  “Yeah, I’m like a walking fortune cookie. It’s from reading too much.”

  “You can never read too much. How does that saying go? ‘He who reads lives a thousand lives’?”

  He nods and gives me his crooked yet very charming and still hauntingly familiar grin.

  “So much truth in words, Ivy.”

  Looking me over, he nods his head to the music and scoots closer. “Okay . . . why don’t you lay on your left side . . . the chair reclines back like a bed.” He flips a lever, leaning the chair back, then puts his hand on me and guides my leg slightly. “Is that comfortable for you, for now?” he asks.

  I nod, a little flustered at his hand on my thigh. “Yes, it should be.”

  “Alrighty, you let me know if you start to feel uncomfortable or woozy or any stuff like that, okay? I brought you a bottle of water, too, in case you get thirsty.”

  “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” I rest my head against my bent-up arm and bite my lip nervously, eyeing him and all his apparatus. I feel like I’m at a strange doctor’s appointment.

  As he brings the gun to my flesh, I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the unknown.

  The first few seconds, I want to scream and kick him in the face. It burns. It’s noisy. And holy shit, it hurts. How the hell do people do this? WHY do people do this? I try not to move my leg, and wonder how safe this is. It feels like he is literally digging a hole straight through my leg.

  He stops and looks up at me, peeking out from under the hair that has fallen across his face, and once again, I’m overcome by that bizarre feeling. My heart just seems to freeze . . . and then jumps back to its
rhythm again. I blink at him, trying to bring myself back to normalcy.

  “Ivy . . . you doing okay there, doll?” Laying the gun down, he hands me the water bottle, eyeing me with concern. I take it from him and drink slowly. He called me doll. I should be offended, but I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Jesus. “You’re all tensed up.” A gentle squeeze of my leg meant to comfort me sends a jolt of heat straight up my thighs. “You’re doing great. I know it feels kinda strange, kinda like a bee is attacking you non-stop, but just try to relax, okay? It’s really not as bad as it feels, and it’s not as deep as it feels, either.”

  I laugh nervously and sip the water again. “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect. It does hurt.” I look at the first part of the vine that he’s started. Even this tiny bit looks really great, and the excitement of seeing it helps distract me from the pain.

  “You have to just put your mind elsewhere,” he says. “Separate yourself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply. “I know you’re probably not used to older women in here being all scared and jumpy.” I ease my body back down, giving him the ‘go-ahead’ to continue.

  He picks up his gun and starts again, but it feels like he is being gentler and lighter now. “Old?” he repeats with narrowed eyes, wiping at my leg with a paper towel. “You’re not old.”

  “I’m pretty sure I am not your average customer.”

  “I have no average customers. How old are you, thirty? That’s not old.”

  “Try thirty-six.”

  He scoffs and re-positions my leg. “Shit, that’s not old either, and you look great. I see some young girls in here that look awful from doing drugs, abusing their bodies, baking in the sun. Hell, most of them have fake body parts. I don’t know what I’m touching half the time, and what might break off or pop.” He smiles up at me. “You have a really sweet natural beauty.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks again, and I quickly look away from him and focus on the far wall. “Thank you for saying that. I guess I’m just starting to feel old. My daughter is almost eighteen, and I feel like all the women I see around me are young and thin, with these amazing bodies, looking like they just stepped off the runway.”

  “Eh, trust me. Underneath all the makeup and the clothes, they ain’t all that. In fact, they’re pretty fuckin’ boring, too. Most of them can’t even carry a decent conversation, unless it’s about themselves.”

  His soft humming to the music as he works his gun back and forth over my leg distracts and lulls me, putting me more at ease. “So how come you wanted to get a tattoo?”

  I decide to just be honest rather than tell a silly lie. “I’ve always wanted one, but my husband said they were ugly and a waste of money.”

  He wheels closer to his bench and changes something on his gun. “Ugly, huh?” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, his arm muscles flexing and rippling while he does whatever he’s doing, and I have to tear my eyes away before he catches me. “I guess there’s a ton of ugly people walking around then. But I don’t see you as one of them.” He wheels back over to me and places his hand on my thigh, once again sending a slight tingle traveling up between my legs. Good Lord! When was the last time I was touched there? Or the last time I felt butterflies?

  His voice interrupts my butterfly moment. “And your body is yours—you can do whatever you want with it. No one should ever tell you what you should think, do, wear, or anything else.”

  “Easier said than done when you’re married.”

  “So how is he going to feel when he sees this on you?”

  “He won’t ever be seeing it. We’re separated.”

  His smile doesn’t go unnoticed. “Well then, it sounds like he won’t be inflicting his opinions on you anymore, so now you can spread your wings. Just like this little butterfly right here . . .” He taps my leg, and I follow his gaze to see the beautiful little butterfly he’s etched onto me forever.

  “It’s beautiful,” I exclaim. “It looks so real. How do you do that?”

  “See? That was supposed to be a bird, but I fucked it up and now it’s a butterfly.”

  My mouth falls open until I see the playful grin spread across his lips. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I just wanted to see your face. And it was pretty funny.”

  “Not funny,” I reply, laughing.

  I lay there for two hours while he works, but it feels like an eternity. We talk a little and then fall into a comfortable silence, just listening to the music while I try not to think about the burning, digging feeling. Finally, he backs away and announces that it’s a good place to stop until my next appointment.

  Sitting up and stretching out, I look down at my leg and notice its very red and angry looking around the artwork, but the design itself is beautiful. The vines, flowers, and butterflies look so realistic, almost 3D. I have no idea how he can make something look so realistic and pretty with that tattoo gun.

  “You like?” he asks, gently laying a large white bandage over it and taping it to me.

  “I love it. I can’t wait to see it finished.”

  “Soon enough.” He winks at me and stands up. “You feel all right to walk around?”

  I swing my legs off the chair and stretch out a bit more. “Yup.”

  “You have awesome pale skin, my favorite type to work with. The ink always looks so vivid on it.”

  “Um, thanks . . . I think,” I answer, blinking up at him.

  “Yes, it’s a compliment. . . . you’re beautiful.”

  Is he flirting with me? No, he’s just being nice and polite. He hands me my jeans and shoes, a sweet gesture that feels oddly intimate. “You can go change while I clean up, then we can book your next appointment if you still want to?”

  “Definitely. I’m not backing out now. I need to see this artistic creation of yours finished.”

  He gives me a grateful smile. “Good girl, I’m lookin’ forward to it, too.”

  I head to the bathroom to get dressed and fix up my hair a little while I’m there, because I look like I just woke up. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s nine-thirty already. I’ve been here for almost three hours. Shoving my shorts in my bag, I join him up front, my leg sore as I walk.

  He’s bent over a large day planner with a lot of scribbling on it, comparing it to his cell phone. I can’t help but smile at how determined yet confused he looks.

  He notices my sympathetic smile. “I’m trying to use this new app to keep track of my appointments, but I still rely on this paper mess,” he tells me. “Old habits die hard.”

  “I know what you mean. We’ve just had all new software installed where I work, and I still don’t trust it completely.”

  “What do you do for work?”

  “I’m a Human Resources manager.”

  “Wow. That’s really cool. Do you get to fire people?”

  I let out a laugh. “Yes, sometimes. I hire them, too. I don’t like firing people. It’s not fun at all.”

  He sighs and goes back to studying his calendar. “So how about the Friday after next, at six-thirty again?” he asks. “Then you’ll be my last appointment again, and I won’t have to rush.”

  I take out my cell phone and check my calendar. I know I have nothing to do, but want to make sure there isn’t anything going on with the kids. There’s nothing in that little square of a day on my calendar. As usual.

  “That works for me. You really shouldn’t be working on a Friday night, though. I could come a different night, or over the weekend if that’s better?”

  He writes my name down on his calendar and then types it into his phone. “I don’t usually have any plans at night. The weekends are pretty booked here for months. That’s when everyone wants to come in.”

  “That makes sense. Thank you then, for seeing me on a Friday night.”

  “No problem.” He hands me a piece of paper. “This is the care sheet. Be sure to put lotion on it twice a day. It will feel a little sore for a few days, and then it will scab up and get itchy
. Do not scratch it or pick at it. Wash it gently. If you have any questions at all, just call me. The shop number and my cell are on there.”

  “Okay . . . thank you.” The scab part sounds concerning and kinda gross to me. Lindsay didn’t mention scabs or itching. “How itchy exactly?”

  “Like really itchy. Like an itch you can’t scratch.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  He grins wickedly at me. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  He comes around the counter and walks toward the parlor door with me. “I’m going to walk you to your car. It’s late.”

  My heart jumps a little at his thoughtfulness. “You don’t have to do that, Lukas. I’m a big girl.” I smile up at him as I walk under his arm that’s holding the door open.

  “I insist. It’s dark in the parking lot, and you never know what kind of psycho could be creeping around out there, wanting to scratch your itch.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I agree as we walk together down the parlor’s walkway.

  “Were you married for a long time?” he asks, glancing down at me.

  “Eighteen years.”

  “Yikes. You got married young.”

  “Yeah . . . seemed liked a good idea at the time.” I look down at my feet as we walk. It’s surreal to think that half my life was spent with someone who let me go so easily.

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  I breathe out a long sigh. “He met someone else, and that was it. He just left.”

  “Just like that? Really?”

  My car and an older Corvette are the only cars parked in the dark lot, and he leads me right to my car. I turn to him before unlocking my door. “Yeah, pretty much just like that,” I reply. “It was devastating. I never saw it coming. I thought everything was fine.”