by Kasey Lane
Another loud knock shot through the otherwise quiet room like a bullet. Her muscles tensed, hard and immovable, and her head felt dizzy.
Breathe, Gabby. Just breathe.
“Hey, Gabby, it’s me. I know you’re awake. I can see all the lights on under your door.”
She released the panicked breath she’d been holding as some of the tension melted from her limbs. Just Bowen. If she stayed quiet maybe he’d go away.
“Gabby.” He called her name in a singsong voice. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation.”
God, what if he was drunk or high from the party? Drunk people didn’t go away. High people didn’t take no for an answer.
“I can hear you in there.” His body thumped against the door. “I’ll just sit here and wait for you to get so annoyed you open the door.”
Well, he could just sleep there for all she cared. She certainly wasn’t interested in talking with some drunk bad boy about covering that damn scar anyway. It had been a stupid idea and she never should have mentioned it to anyone, especially Kevan. That girl was sweet, but she wasn’t much for secrets. Or subtlety.
She stood from her small couch and stretched. After plugging her laptop into the charger, she padded over to turn the living room lights off. But the stubborn drunk on the other side of her door called to her again. “I can hear you, little one. C’mon. Why won’t you answer the door?”
Silently she stepped to the door and undid the dead bolt and slid the chains off the two other locks. She shoved a small knife she kept on the entry table into the pocket of her sweatpants before throwing the door open. In a blurry tumble, Bowen fell backward through her doorway. His head hit the faux wood floor with a loud thud and a yelp of surprise.
“I didn’t invite you here. You’re drunk. And I don’t appreciate when you call me little one.” He stood and brushed his suit pants and his tux shirt—which was now untucked and free from the lavender cummerbund and tie all the groomsmen had worn—with his hands. His gigantic, tattooed hands.
“I don’t drink anymore,” he said rubbing the back of his head and mussing his tousled hair even more. “And you are little.” He had the decency to at least look a little chagrined. Sort of.
She crossed her arms when she realized suddenly she wasn’t wearing a bra under her tank top, and stepped back. “I don’t care. Go.”
He scrubbed his hands down his face and sighed. “Look, I just wanted to talk about the tattoo.” He took a step forward and her pulse raced. What if he was lying? That’s what addicts did. Lied. They couldn’t tell the truth any more than Bill Gates could stop being rich.
But he must have seen the panic on her face because he held up his hands and took a step back. “I’m sorry. I get it. Totally overstepped my boundaries. Old habits die hard.” He dropped his hands and turned to leave but stopped and slowly ran his fingers over the two chained locks and reinforced dead bolt on her doorjamb. He glanced back over his shoulder like he was going to say something, but then reconsidered and turned to leave again. Something about the look on his face, the concern and the instant understanding, rubbed at her. She didn’t want him to think she was a coward. Because she wasn’t, dammit. She wasn’t a victim.
“Wait,” she blurted before she could stop herself. Why had she said anything at all? She wanted him to get the hell out. He noticed too much. Was too casual around her. “I have a scar.”
He turned and stood watching her, waiting for her to continue. His light blue eyes bright in the shadowed room. He looked completely sober, totally present, if a little messy from a long day in a tuxedo. She swallowed past the words clogged in her throat, past the memories that put the scar there, past the pain. “I want to cover it.”
He nodded, but otherwise stayed completely still.
“Kevan said you’ve covered scars before.”
“I have. Where is it?”
“On my rib cage.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter.” It didn’t matter and she wasn’t about to share the story with some guy she barely knew.
“Well, it kind of does. Depends on what kind of scar tissue it is whether I can cover it or have to work around it. I take it you don’t want to show me now?”
She shook her head. Just talking about it had the bile in her stomach churning and bubbling.
“How about the shop? I have a privacy curtain I can pull around my station. Or we can use the piercing room. Totally private.”
She shrugged, but felt her face flush. Not from fear, but from the idea of taking her shirt off for him. Alone. Great, one minute she was ready to run from the room to escape him and the next she was fantasizing about taking her clothes off for him. Pick an affliction, Alvarez.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” He smiled, a full-on two-dimple grin. Holy shit. If that wasn’t a panty-dropping smile she didn’t know what was. That was the kind of smile she should run the hell away from. And fast. “Can you come by the shop? We’re usually by appointment only on Sunday so the place will be fairly mellow. You can show me where you want the tattoo and maybe we can sketch out some ideas, okay?”
He seemed so calm, so businesslike, not at all the like playful man-child she’d danced with earlier that day. He exuded a confidence she had yet to see in him in their limited interactions together. It made her want to do all kinds of silly things. The least of which was let him see her biggest mistake and then ask him to permanently erase it from her body.
But that smile. It was fucking voodoo or something because she found herself nodding.
“What time?”
“How about eleven a.m.? We can just drive over together. I don’t have any appointments.”
“I can meet you. I have an errand in the morning.” She was lying, of course. No way was she going to sit in a car with that man. The mere thought of it felt claustrophobic.
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” He left a lot more quietly than he’d entered, closing the door behind him with a gentle snick of the latch, which felt filled with ominous meaning and not just the door closing. She chained the locks and flipped the dead bolt, double and triple checking them like always. Dropping her head against the door she wondered what the hell she was getting herself into.
She walked through her third-floor apartment and performed her nightly ritual of turning out lights and checking the locks on her windows and balcony door. Choosing an apartment with a sliding glass door opening into her living room probably wasn’t the safest option for someone like her, but she hadn’t been able to resist the idea of having a balcony for watching sunsets, enjoying a quiet dinner, or reading a book on a warm Portland summer evening. Before switching off the balcony light something caught her eye on the table in the corner of the small enclosure. Something was lying there that hadn’t been there earlier when she’d sat outside after coming home from the reception.
She hesitated before unlocking the door and pulling it open. Seriously, what did she possibly have to be afraid of here? New city, great friends, good job, hot neighbor. There was no reason to be rattled, she thought as she stepped out into the small covered veranda. She was totally safe here. She rolled her eyes. Oh, she was so tired of this constant dialogue with herself.
She stopped short and gasped.
Lying on her little glass table was a pile of blood-red flower petals, arranged neatly in a circle.
Chapter Three
Really, what’s the worst thing that could happen? It’s not like it was a date or anything. It was just a tattoo. A big tattoo. A big life-changing tattoo. But still just a tattoo.
Gabby stepped through the ivy-covered brick entry into the air-conditioned shop. She’d been in Tatuaggio before and was surprised by the silence that greeted her. Other than the jingling of bells over the door, the big open space was quiet. Usually the shop pulsed with energy. People working, getting work done, music blaring. Apparently, Sunday was a day of rest for tattoo artists, too.
Counting to ten, she reminded herself to breat
he before calling out. “Bowen?” she croaked, sounding like a parched bullfrog. Awesome. “Bowen?” she called out again. Fuck it, what a flake. He wasn’t there. She turned as he stepped out of the office down a hall at the back of the studio.
“Hey. I was in back. Sorry, didn’t hear you. Come on back.” That dimpled smile was disarming and did something to her insides. It shined with a what-the-hell attitude of fun and mischief that she didn’t feel. Maybe had never felt. But it was a little bit infectious. Just a tiny bit. But mostly it was annoying. Annoying that he was so nice even though she so wasn’t. She took another deep breath.
He bunched the paper towel he was drying his hands on and dropped it into a wastebasket. She couldn’t help admiring the way his bulky muscles bunched and rolled under his snug cotton shirt when he moved. He took a few long strides through the open workroom and under the spectacular chrome and glass chandelier that dominated the shop before he flipped up the gate at the end of the long wood and glass counter bisecting the room.
She walked past him, brushing her bare arm against his, sending shivers down her arms. He snickered when she yanked her arm away and kept walking toward the office. “Where is everyone?” she asked, covering her slight discomfort and just how much he affected her. “Are we alone?”
“Yeah. I think Nathan has an appointment later today—otherwise everyone is sleeping off their hangovers from the wedding.” He led her into the piercing room that doubled as an office and private tattoo station. He plopped down at the desk and waved to the black-and-white striped chrome barber chair across from him.
“Does it make you uncomfortable that it’s just you and me?”
Yes, she wanted yell. Of course it does. But instead she shrugged, attempting an aloofness she wished she felt.
“I thought it might make you feel better if no one else was around. This is private. And I know you have some reservations about getting the work done.”
The giant knot of nerves she carried around in her belly unraveled a little and a warm feeling expanded in her chest. Maybe he was the right person for the job. She nodded.
“Let’s just talk for a minute about what you want,” he continued. “And then, if you feel like it, you can show me the area you’d like done. Sound okay?”
His voice was so calm and reassuring she thought maybe she could do this, get that horrible slash removed from her body and have something she chose drawn there instead.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He brushed his long bangs back with his fingers and then leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “What kind of artwork are you thinking? What style? Do you have any inspiration art you want to show me?”
He was so sincere, so serious. Definitely not how she pictured Bowen Landry at work. She tugged three printouts from her jeans pocket and shoved them at Bowen. He unfolded them and she tapped her finger on the top page. “I really like that one, but it’s not quite what I want. I like the style of the other two, but not all the flowery and swirly stuff.”
Bowen set the printouts on the desk next to him and spread them out, studying them. “Yeah. I really like this first one. I love the Japanese styling, but you’re right, the colors and design of the other two are solid.” He turned back to her. “Is that what you’re looking for? An Asian-style tattoo, but with brighter colors and a more contemporary design?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want, though? What does it symbolize?”
She swallowed hard. How much to tell him? Enough to convey what she wanted, but not enough to give away any of her past. “Transformation. Survival.”
He blinked. Slowly studying her. “A phoenix?”
She shook her head. “Too trendy. Same with a butterfly.”
He chuckled and the sound sent tingles up her arms that shot straight to her nipples. “Anything I do won’t look typical, I promise. If you want a butterfly, I’ll make it special. Exactly how you want it.”
She let the corners of her mouth turn up. She loved the beauty of a butterfly. And she’d seen his portfolio, seen his work on their friends—she knew he could create something amazing. Personal. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He smiled that smile again. She really wished he’d stop doing that. “Cool. Can you tell me a little about the scar?”
She shook her head and took another deep cleansing breath, like the one her counselor told her would help when she was forced to think about the past. Better just to get it done, rip it off like a motherfucking bitch of a Band-Aid. There was no way she’d be able to let him work on her if she couldn’t even get her damn shirt off. “I think I should show you.” Standing, she turned her back to him, pulled her T-shirt up and tucked it under her bra. She could do this. Her palms grew damp and her heart raced. But this was the next step in getting better, getting over her past and moving forward. He wasn’t a lover. He wasn’t here to judge her body; he was here to fix it. To help. He was an artist and she was just a flawed canvas.
Slowly she turned. God, she wanted to dip her chin and stare at the ground and not look at his face when he discovered how disfigured she was. Or when he figured out what had done the damage to her skin. But she didn’t. She held her head high and watched his face as his smile dropped. At first, she saw something alien, something new, like interest or desire. But then she watched as he tried to hide his gasp. She watched as his face reddened and filled with something, but not disgust. Wait. Bowen looked angry. Livid. Something she never would have associated with the easygoing bad boy.
“Who the fuck did that to you?” His voice was a deep growl. She didn’t step back when he moved closer and his large hand wrapped around her hip and the other went under her chin. “Who did this to you, little one? Tell me they’re dead because I swear I’ll fucking kill them myself.”
Her cheeks burned with shame and doubt. But then the heat from his hand seeped through her jeans and the finger under her chin chased the shame away. The conviction in his eyes gave her all the power she needed at that moment. She had the foreign urge to fall into his big arms and lean her head against his solid chest. Just for a minute. That’s all—then she could pull down her shirt and walk out with her head even higher.
“It was a long time ago, Bowen. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Fuck,” he mumbled, and pulled his hand back leaving a cold patch where it had been, an icy feeling she didn’t quite like. His gaze traveled down her face to the horrid white slashes running almost parallel to her ribs on the right side of her body. He raised his hand and looked up at her, asking for her okay. She nodded. Who knew why. She didn’t, that was for damn sure. She did know that he would be the first non-medical person to ever touch her scars. The first man, other than the man who’d hurt her, to touch her there. And she barely knew him.
She sucked in air as his finger touched the skin just below the thickest scar. It was the ugliest of the jagged scars, even though it hurt the least. In fact, she couldn’t feel anything there anymore. He dragged his finger up and across the scar as if tracing it could dissolve it. When he reached the top of the bunch of scars she exhaled a long, ragged breath. But when he wrapped his hand around her side, cupping the group of three scars that had been part of her body for the last six years, and pulled her close, she felt like she couldn’t breathe at all. Like all the air had been sucked from the room and her head might explode from the pressure.
This is what it must feel like to be in a crashing plane.
Raising his hand to her face he then drew it across her cheek and tucked a loose hair over her ear before resting both hands on her shoulders. He looked down into her eyes, the blue seeming darker, with his face so tight, his jaw rigid like marble. “Will you tell me what happened?”
She shook her head. No. She wasn’t telling anyone what happened.
“Can you tell me anything?”
She kept his gaze, wanting to memorize it for later, wondering fleetingly why she didn’t feel awkward. “It was a knife. There wasn’t any permanent da
mage. I’m fine.”
He smiled, but his mouth held no humor. “Somehow I doubt that,” he whispered, sending an unfamiliar ribbon of yearning into her normally hollow chest.
Pulling out of his soft embrace, she tugged her shirt down. He was getting too close. Too familiar. “I said I was fine. It was a long time ago. Do you think you can fix it?”
He moved back to the chair and sat down. “Is it over two years old?”
She nodded.
“Then, yeah I think I can. Some of it might not be coverable but I can hide it in pattern and color. And sometimes scars don’t take the ink very well.” His mouth pressed into a thin line, like he was holding something in.
“Spit it out.”
“It’s going to hurt. The ribs are really painful and you’re thin so there’s not much tissue padding the bone.”
“Yeah. Getting the scars hurt more.” The tattoo would hurt in a good way and not like the actions that put the scars there in the first place. Like forging steel with fire. She stared at him. She needed this. Needed to have new sensations to burn out the old ones. The pain of transformation.
“Okay, but it’s not the same. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I can handle it.”
The corner of his mouth turned up in a lazy smile as he leaned back in his chair, long legs splayed wide in front of him. Gah, he was so damn tall and broad. And dark and hot. “I’m sure you can, little one, I’m sure you can.”
Rolling her eyes like she was twelve and not almost twice that age, she stood in front of him, exhausted from exposing her ugliness to him. Exhausted from keeping back the memories bubbling to the top of her consciousness. Overwhelmed by his oddly possessive reaction to her body. She had expected disgust, not anger. And not that other thing that looked a lot like lust, but surely wasn’t.
“What happens next?”
“I’m going to do a little research then start sketching up some ideas.” He brushed hair back with his fingers and it promptly fell back into place. “Are you going to be home this afternoon?”