Beautiful Wreck

by Kasey Lane

  “Well hello, little one. You ready to get started?” He stood and walked toward her, but she sidestepped him and walked toward the table. “Do you want the door open or closed?”

  “Closed.”

  He shut the door and waved at the table. “Go ahead and sit on the massage table.” Stepping forward he patted the plastic wrap covering a stack of pillows near the end of the table. “If you’re comfortable with it, you can tuck your shirt up under your bra and lie on your side. I’ll transfer the stencil and then we’ll try and get the outline done in this sitting. It’s a lot of ink so if we don’t get it all tonight don’t worry about it.”

  She nodded and chewed on her lip. Her heart was racing, skipping, and doing the happy dance. She’d wanted this for so long and now it was actually happening. Bowen Landry had no clue the gift he was giving her with this tattoo. Something ugly would be made beautiful. The past would be burned away and from the ashes a new Gabby would be born. This new Gabby would live for the moment and dream of a real future. This new Gabby would not be defined by her past, chaos and addiction and pain and loneliness.

  “Not gonna lie, it’s going to hurt. A lot. The rib cage is really sensitive,” he said continuing to prep the area. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

  She nodded. “Do you have any there?”

  He looked up from the inkpots he was filling. “Yeah. Would you like to see?”

  “If you don’t mind.” Because, of course, she’d like to see. For comparison. That’s all.

  “You’re gonna have to pull my shirt up. I don’t want to have to sterilize again.” He stood and raised his arms up, the color and muscles on the insides of his arms hard, defined.

  She stayed put. “Come on, little one. I’m not going to hurt you. Yet.”

  She hopped off the table. “Ha. Ha. Did I mention I took a couple years of Krav Maga?”

  “No. But that’s hotter than hell. Do you think—” He stopped short when her fingers grabbed the sides of his T-shirt and her knuckles brushed his abs—his very sculpted abs—as she tugged it up. An explosion of color spread across his chest and over his ribs, finally wrapping around to disappear on his back. Vibrant watercolors swirled across his pectoral muscles—she desperately tried to ignore the silver barbells piercing his nipples—and across his body to form a winged animal.

  His body. Holy shitballs! Bowen must work out. A lot. Her hands flattened against his chest, still holding his shirt up. The light smattering of hair there bristled under her palms and begged her to run her fingers through it. Instead she leaned around to see the tail of the creature curl up toward his smooth muscled back.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered and drew in a ragged breath. “What is that?”

  “A griffin,” he said, his voice a whisper.

  She should drop his shirt and run from the room right that minute. Forget the damn tattoo. Forget Bowen. Forget everything because Gabby knew only one thing for sure: Bowen Landry was trouble and way too much man for her to handle. Ever.

  But his skin was so warm and so smooth, and he was so still under her hands. More tempting than wet cement to a ten-year-old. Holding his shirt up with one hand, she traced the bottom edge of the tattoo with one finger. He didn’t move, but his hands fisted where he held them next to his head and his breath caught.

  Bold, courageous protector. Is that you, Bowen?

  “Once upon a time.”

  Damn. Had she said that aloud?

  As she followed the elegant lines around his side, she had the overwhelming urge to follow her finger with her tongue, to trace his tattoos with her mouth. Desire pooled in her chest and ran through her bloodstream, trailing down between her legs. Burning. Liquid. Need. A feeling she’d never felt before, was surprised she could even identify. She was not the kind of woman who ran her hands over a man like Bowen. Gabby worked hard and kept her head down. She didn’t draw attention to herself and she certainly didn’t fantasize about licking her tattoo artist. She was a woman who wrote code, listened to EDM, got excited over new bamboo yarn, and fangirled over cheesy sci-fi shows.

  Despite her raging pulse and the heat fuzzing her normally logical thoughts, Gabby dug deep, deeper than she’d had to dig in a long time, and found that reservoir of strength she kept for emergencies. She was determined not to let this man get to her. Besides he’d already made it clear how he felt about her after their kiss. She dropped his shirt and took a mind-clearing step backward, and though she was the one pulling back, she felt the stinging slap of his rejection from Sunday still. She needed to keep that feeling close to her chest as a reminder. A reminder of what, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe the reminder should be that boys, or men as in Bowen’s case, just weren’t part of the plan.

  *

  Bowen needed to get laid. Sure, they frowned upon relationships in the first year of sobriety, but he didn’t need a relationship. He needed sex. Hard, dirty fucking. It was ridiculous to think he could go cold turkey from booze and women. If he was getting a hard-on from Gabby innocently tracing his tattoos, then he obviously needed to find one of his old hookups and blow his load before this whole thing got out of hand. Pretty soon a light breeze would have him coming in his jeans. And that was definitely not cool.

  He cleared his throat and pushed down all the shit racing around in his head. This was work. And Gabby needed him to have his head in the game. She didn’t want to tell him the story behind the scar. Fine. He suspected the needle on her skin and their time together might produce a different result. The tattoo machine sometimes acted as a truth serum on people, especially those who had stories behind their ink. And fuck it all if Gabby didn’t have some huge whopper of a story behind those scars. He shuddered, again pushing away all the different ways she could have gotten them.

  “Why don’t you hop up on the table, little one?” he said and cringed at the glare she threw him. Hot and cold, this one. All sarcasm and simmer. “Did you wear a sports bra so you can take your top off or are you going to tuck your top up?”

  She nodded. “Sports bra. Turn around though.”

  When he raised a brow and didn’t move, her forehead scrunched up and she pursed her lips. “Please. I know you’ll see me anyway. I just…I don’t…”

  Realizing this was something important, but also something she was embarrassed by, he turned his back, lowered the volume on his speakers, and moved to grab the stencil off his desk. “Hey no problem. Just let me know when you’re ready.” But he still wondered why a woman with such a banging body, slim waist, small, but full breasts, gorgeous dark skin, would ever feel self-conscious. He wanted to blame it on the mind games chicks usually played with him. Coy bullshit that was all bark and no bite. But he didn’t think Gabby was like that. She seemed more likely to hide any emotion than manufacture one for sport. No, there was something deeper there behind those inscrutable eyes.

  “I’m ready,” she said softly. He twisted and his breath caught at the sight of her lying on her side in her leggings and a plain black sports bra. Good God, she was a surprise summer storm, fierce and sexy and hot.

  The expression on her face changed from something soft and a little vulnerable to something harder, sharper. “Why are you looking at me like that, pretty boy?”

  “Like what?” he asked knowing full well how he was looking at her. Like a goddamn perv and not a professional artist. But, hey, maybe she saw something else.

  She flushed and rested her head on her hand. “Nothing. Never mind. Let’s just do this, okay?”

  Yeah. Good idea. Stop drooling over your untouchable client and get to work.

  He pushed back his hair and kicked his stool in front of the table but continued standing over her. As he reached down to move her arm over her head, she flinched and yanked her arm out of his grasp.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he stammered, startled by her reaction.

  “Your hand was cold.” But he knew that wasn’t true. She seemed almost…frightened. Like she’d reacted on i
nstinct. Someone had done a number on Gabby. He suspected it when he’d seen the scar and the guarded way she held herself, but now as he saw shame flood her face he knew without a doubt that someone had hurt this woman.

  He looked away busying himself with the ink cups to give her a minute to compose herself. “Sorry ’bout that. Can you just lay your head on that pillow and pull your arm up over your head?”

  She gave a hollow chuckle. “Sure. Good thing I shaved.”

  He smiled down at her. “Yes. Thank God for that.” He held up the stencil. “I’m going to wrap this around you and transfer the outline to your skin, okay?”

  She nodded awkwardly under her arm. He wiped her side with green soap and then laid the paper on her skin. He rubbed gently to transfer the carbon to her beautiful skin. So tanned and creamy. Even the puckered lighter area where some monster had stuck her with something held its own beauty. Her skin, her body, was unique, a stunning canvas just waiting for him to add his color, his art. When his hands moved over the paper, he could feel her ribs rise as she exhaled a deep breath. Even though the lines had transferred and he could peel away the paper, he waited until he could feel her body settle as she took in another deep breath.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’ll stop whenever you need me to.”

  “I need you to just get it done,” she snapped.

  “No worries, little one. I’ll get it done.” He laughed and pulled the paper loose and set it on the table next to him. “Let’s get started then.” He stepped on the pedal of his tattoo machine and it buzzed to life, infusing him with its electricity. He smiled. That shit never got old. Once he dipped it into the purple tub and primed the needles he leaned over her and looked directly into her eyes. “Ready, Gabby?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. He nodded and brought the tiny pulsating needles down to her skin.

  She continued her deep breathing, but never flinched, never made a sound. In fact, after about an hour of working he noticed her eyes were closed and she had a soft smile on her full lips. If he hadn’t been in the middle of a tattoo he would have grabbed his phone and taken a picture of her. She was a dark angel with so many secrets and harboring so much past pain, and, yet, there she was laid out on his table with that serene tilt to her mouth. He didn’t want to break the spell or bring her back from wherever she was, but if she wanted a break she needed to take it now. “Gabby, honey, would you like to take a break?”

  ProleteR’s “April Showers” played quietly through the room. He flipped the music off and slowly she opened her eyes and stared at him for a moment. “Uhm. Yeah. That would be good.” She sat up and stretched.

  “Don’t touch your side, okay? If you need it, there’s a private bathroom right there,” he said, pointing to the door behind her. “And there’s a water jug and cups.”

  Bowen stood and stretched, but didn’t touch anything because he really didn’t want to take off his gloves and resanitize his hands. When Gabby came out of the bathroom she still had that glassy tranquil look. He liked that she wasn’t guarded or angry or even vulnerable. She seemed okay. And that was good enough for him right then.

  When she’d settled back on the table and he was close to finishing up the outline around her side and back, her eyes snapped open the second the ink hit the first small scar. Other than the unreadable look in her eyes and her deep breaths she didn’t move. He lifted his foot off the pedal and the whirring stopped. The only sounds in the room were her deep breaths and the dull pound of music from the main shop. “Do you need another break?” he asked.

  “No. Please don’t stop.” Her gaze connected with his and she swallowed hard. “I need you to keep going.”

  The way she looked at him like she was trying to tell him something more, like she was begging him to understand, sent chills down his spine. He did want to understand. And that was completely alien to him. He’d spent so many years filling his own shortcomings with booze, women, and, at the end, with drugs, not giving two fucks about anyone but himself. And his sister, when his head was clear enough.

  Now here he was being begged for understanding and he didn’t have a goddamn clue how to do that. Talk about being helpless. And useless.

  Maybe she didn’t need him to say anything. She could be counting on the fact that he wouldn’t, in fact, try to fix anything for her. So he smiled and nodded before turning the machine back on and dragging it over the first scar and then around and over the others. Her breath hitched and he glanced up at her face. She was flushed and her eyes stayed open, but still a calmness enveloped her. He really wished he could keep that look on her face. Forever.

  She mumbled something, but he couldn’t hear it over the buzz of the tattoo machine. When he turned it off and looked at her he noticed a slight tinge of pink on her cheeks.

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  “I said that Bob Little was my mom’s boyfriend a long time ago. They’re not together anymore, but we keep in touch.”

  “Whoa. You know Bob fucking Little? But why didn’t you have him do this? I mean, I’m glad you asked me, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a legend.”

  The corner of her mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. “He’s in New York now. He has a family and he’s busy. So…”

  “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “About what?”

  “About the scars and whatever happened to put them there.”

  He saw a battle play out across her face. It was subtle, but it was there. Whether or not she was going to tell him the truth or shut him down with a biting quip.

  Then he made a decision. One that took him by surprise. Maybe he’d share a little bit about himself, his past. And then she could feel free to share a little bit. He didn’t care to examine why it suddenly mattered so much. It wasn’t because she was hot or because he wanted to screw her. Because he didn’t. No way. It had to be because maybe he saw a little bit of his own darkness in her eyes.

  “I have two. Scars from a knife. One is older and one is new.”

  She swallowed hard again and her jaw ticked. “What are they from?”

  “The old one, well, that’s a really long story. But the new one I got when I got my ass handed to me the night before Jax, Nathan, and Kevan dragged me into rehab. The guy who did it, some dude I owed money to for drugs, stabbed me in the shoulder a few months before. Told me next time he’d bust up my hands. I probably wouldn’t be alive if Nathan and Jax hadn’t stopped him and his gangbanger buddies that night. I think I might have screwed his girlfriend, too, and that was probably what he was most pissed about.”

  She tilted her head and raised her brows. “You think you screwed her?”

  “Yeah. I don’t remember a lot of those last several months. I was on a pretty hardcore spiral.”

  “And now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How are you now?” she asked.

  His chest tightened. She didn’t want the truth. Hell, he couldn’t even articulate the truth yet. He was trying. The not drinking part was easy. It was learning to live life again that was so fucking hard. I’m lonely. And I hate what I’ve done to the people I love. I hate that no one trusts me, least of all me. I hate all these fucking feelings I have.

  “I’m good. You know, it’s a process.”

  She nodded. “Do you go to meetings and have a sponsor and stuff?”

  “Yep.” He stepped on the pedal and the machine starting buzzing. “Ready to get back to it?”

  “No.” Her eyes had that distant look again before she focused on his face as he turned the machine off again. “My mom’s an addict. In and out of twelve-step programs since I was five.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh? That’s all you got, pretty boy?”

  “Well it makes sense now why you don’t like me. You don’t believe in recovery or second chances.”

  “I do. Kind of. Bob got sober with my mom. He’s still sober. It works for some people.”

  “But not for your mom.”

>   “Nope.” She sighed and the soft heavy sound felt like a brick in his gut. He could only imagine what life had been like for her. Maybe it had been a lot like his and Kevan’s had been.

  “Other family? Brothers? Sisters?”

  “None.”

  “No one?”

  She shook her head.

  “That sucks. My dad was an addict. My mom died when I was a teenager, but I always had Kevan. And she had me. Until I got lost.”

  “I was in foster care until I was seventeen.”

  “One family?” he asked hopefully.

  She shook her head again. No, of course not.

  “The scars…”

  She smiled wanly and laid her head back signaling the end of the conversation. Relief flooded his body. He wasn’t sure he was ready to hear about the scars. In the meantime, he’d do his best to make them beautiful for her. To give her back the power she so desperately wanted.

  *

  “All done. For now.” Bowen’s deep voice brought her out of the trance-like state she’d been in for…damn, she had no idea how long he’d been working on her. “It’s the endorphins.”

  “Huh?” she asked sounding like an idiot.

  “That dazed, almost drugged feeling. It’s the endorphins, hormones actually. When you get a bigger piece done it happens sometimes. It’s the body’s ability to protect you from pain. Pretty cool, right?”

  Very cool. But where had those little pain relievers gone six years ago when she’d been attacked?

  She looked up and caught Bowen’s lovely gray-blue eyes appraising her. “How do you feel?”

  “Fine,” she said hopping from the table. When everything become wavy and her legs felt like pool noodles, he was in front of her holding her shoulders and looking deep into her eyes, maybe into her dark, fucked-up soul.

  “Hey, take it easy.” The concern in his eyes betrayed that soft half smile on his lips. Lips that had plagued her dreams since Sunday, making it hard to sleep, making her restless and uncomfortable. And now those lips were right there, right in front of her. All she had to do was move forward and lift up on her toes. And their mouths would be touching. One more kiss wouldn’t hurt, right? Just one.