Her mouth flattened into a line. “So that’s it? You’re coming in here just to get a tattoo of a sun?”
“No. Actually I thought we could talk while you’re doing it.”
She’d turned toward the row of tattoo chairs. “I don’t talk while I work.”
“Bullshit you don’t.”
Moving over to the long counter where all the tattoo gear was stored, she began pulling out various items. “Sit down,” she said shortly.
He walked over to the chair she’d indicated, but didn’t sit, not quite yet. “I want to talk about this building.”
Rachel stilled, then flicked him a surprised glance. “What about it?”
“You wanted it.”
“Yeah, and you told me you’d give it to me, then I got nothing but silence.”
“I’m considering doing it.”
She stopped what she was doing, staring at him. “What?”
He didn’t answer immediately, sitting down in the chair as she’d asked him to, stretching out, and crossing his ankles. “I think you heard.”
Rachel stared at him a moment longer, then she reached for the rolling chair at her station and sat down at the long counter than ran the length of the room. She’d gotten out a piece of paper while he was sitting down, and now she pulled a pen from the cup at the edge of the counter. She looked down at her paper for a second.
Then she began to draw. “You’ve been considering all week. Has something changed?”
He watched her as she drew, her hand strong and sure and without hesitation as it moved over the paper. A sense of familiarity reached into him and held on tight.
He remembered this, sitting and watching her draw. She was never without a pen in her hand or a ratty old notebook, and some nights, when her gran had finally been put to bed and Rachel had needed company, he would come to her apartment and sit with her, and they’d talk. Or after one of his father’s binges, Levi cleaning up while she cooked him dinner, then he’d sit and eat while she’d drew.
He was always amazed at the pictures that took form beneath her hand, at the sheer creative talent that poured out of her. He’d found it humbling that someone so gifted could be his friend, could create such beautiful pictures in a place where there was no beauty at all.
Those moments had been precious, and he’d used to daydream about the time when they would be together in their own place, and he could watch her in her very own studio, creating magnificent pieces of art.
Like now?
No, not like now. Because even though this was her studio and she was creating art, it wasn’t the kind of art he’d ever imagined for her. He’d envisaged her in New York, showing paintings to the artistic elite, or even in Paris, studying the works of the great artists.
Certainly not in a tattoo studio in shitty Royal, in abandoned Detroit.
Something had happened to make her settle for this, and he was going to find out what it was.
“I want to know why didn’t you go to art school like you planned.”
She didn’t look up from her drawing. “I told you; I had to use the money for Gran’s funeral.”
The way she said it didn’t sit well with him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. A funeral was expensive, so it made sense. Maybe it was how she said it, as if it were no big deal. As if spending the money she’d been saving to achieve her dreams hadn’t been important to her. And that was weird, because they’d had conversations about her going to art school. Her eyes would light up whenever they discussed it, all her barriers and walls dropping, revealing the passionate, excited girl behind the sarcasm and the barbs.
But now . . . it was like that didn’t mean anything at all.
“I thought you had your heart set on it.”
“People change. And so do circumstances.” She leaned over the picture she was drawing, making some tiny, precise movements. He couldn’t see what it looked like yet, as her hand was in the way. As she shifted over the paper, a lock of glossy black hair drifted over her shoulder, and he wanted to touch it. Then he found himself getting distracted by the pull of her T-shirt across her breasts, by the lace of her bra clearly visible beneath it.
Goddamn. Sex, for once, wasn’t what he was after here.
“Tell me why,” he said, shifting his attention back to her face, drawn in tight lines of concentration. “The real reason, not that funeral bullshit.”
“There is no other reason.”
He ignored that. “I’m considering giving you a permanent lease for Sugar Ink. I know it’s not the entire building, but it means you won’t be able to be kicked out.”
Her hand slowed, then came to a stop. She turned, flicking him a glance, the look in her eyes unreadable. “Why would you do that?”
“I’d do it if you told me what you’re hiding from me.”
“I’m not hiding anything from you.”
“Give me that shit again, and the offer’s off the table.”
Her expression tightened. She looked away, back down at her drawing, studying it a moment before making a few last adjustments. Then she put down her pen, picked up the paper, and got to her feet, moving down the counter a little way to where a small machine sat. She pulled out another piece of paper and began messing around with the machine, looking as if she were preparing to send a fax. One push of a button later and she was coming back to her station with a perfect copy of her drawing on a piece of carbon paper. She put down the drawing, then began to pull out various different things—a pair of disposable gloves, a razor, and some wipes.
He watched, fascinated as she put the gloves on with a series of short, sharp movements, then got a disinfectant wipe and stepped over to his chair. She said nothing as she leaned over him, pushing aside the fabric of his business shirt and studying the area above his heart.
“So you’ve got nothing to say?” he asked.
Rachel bent and gave his skin a couple of passes with the wipe, leaving behind it a cool feeling. “I’m not quite sure what you want me to say.”
“I thought you wanted your ownership of this place to be secure.”
“I wanted the entire building.” She got rid of the wipe and picked up the razor, bending lower over him, her breath warm on the area she’d cleaned.
He almost shivered at the feel of it, her scent mixing with the astringent smell of the disinfectant. Fuck, this was different from those times with the guy who’d inked him in prison. He preferred Rachel. Much.
“Why the entire building?” he asked, trying to concentrate on their discussion and not on the soft press of her breasts as she leaned over him. “What’s so important about it?”
She was silent a moment, moving the razor across his skin. “I wanted to turn it into an art gallery. Like, have the studio along with a café and maybe a hair salon or something on the ground floor. Then the other floors could be artists’ studios and galleries for exhibitions. I thought I could even run art classes from here as well. Work with the outreach center to get some kids along too.” She paused. “I always wished there had been something like that when I was younger, but there wasn’t.”
He stared at her dark head bent over his chest, at the way the light glossed her hair. At the fierce look of concentration on her face.
A fucking art gallery. And art classes. Studios and hair salons. Hardly aiming for the moon and hardly anything that was going to make a difference to the neighborhood, surely?
“Why art?”
“Because there are a lot of artists here. Because art kind of saved me, and I think it could save a lot of other people too. Because people need beauty, especially when there isn’t any.” She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. “It gives people hope, Levi. Makes them see there’s more to life than mere survival.”
“So you’re doing this for other people?”
Her gaze flicked away. “Someone gave me hope for a better future once, showed me that I had talent and made me believe it. Why can’t I do the same for others?” She straightened
, turning back to the counter where the drawing was.
Someone . . .
Was she talking about him?
You know she is.
“Rachel—” he began, starting to say God knows what.
But she interrupted. “What about you?” She’d picked up the piece of carbon paper she’d gotten from the machine, a copy of her drawing on it, and moved back to the chair with it. There was something fierce in her eyes. “What do you want the building for? Something to do with your little business meeting maybe?”
He hadn’t wanted to tell her yet, not when he hadn’t quite got things in place. Then again, she’d find out soon enough, so there wasn’t any point being cagey about it.
“I want to develop it. So, yeah, it had something to do with my ‘little business meeting.’ I’m trying to get some investors to turn this place into apartments. I also own another building down the street I’m thinking would be great for some big-box stores to move into.”
Her shock was obvious. “Apartments? Big-box stores?”
“It’s been great for plenty of other neighborhoods, so why not Royal? And this is the perfect time, while real estate is cheap and construction costs are low.” He watched her face, conscious that a part of him was looking for something in her expression and not seeing it. Excitement or enthusiasm or agreement at the very least.
Christ, you want her approval.
Levi shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the thought. No, fuck, why would he need anyone’s approval, least of all hers? He didn’t. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted, and he didn’t give a shit.
So why are you still looking for it?
Rachel frowned, and there was no approval and definitely no agreement there. “You’re talking about gentrification.” She said the word with a certain amount of distaste.
“Yeah, so?” He couldn’t keep the belligerence from this tone.
“So you want Royal to be like all those other neighborhoods? With fancy apartments and pricey stores?”
He scowled, irritated. “I’m talking about encouraging more money to come into a neighborhood that could fucking use it.”
“No,” Rachel snapped. “What you’re talking about is pricing locals out of the market and forcing them to move into even shittier neighborhoods than the one they’re in already.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Bullshit it isn’t.” She leaned over him again, making a couple of passes over his skin with a stick of deodorant, then dumping it back on the counter before pressing the piece of carbon paper onto his skin, right above his heart. “Why, Levi? Is it the money?”
Her fingers were on his skin, and the way she was leaning over him made him so aware of the heat of her body and the delicious vanilla scent of her. She was looking up at him as she held the stencil to his chest, temper sparking in her dark eyes.
Yeah, she definitely didn’t like his plans, not one bit.
“No,” he said roughly. “It’s got nothing to do with money. It’s about making Royal a place where people want to live. A safe place for people to bring their kids up in. It’s about making it the kind of neighborhood we dreamed about, Sunny. Don’t you remember? A place where there aren’t fucking drug dealers on the corners and whores near the school and trash in the streets. So you didn’t fear for your life every time you opened the damn door.”
“We can have that without building fancy apartments and expensive stores. Without making it worse for the people living here already. I mean, that’s what my art gallery idea is all about. I want to involve the locals, not alienate them. Get them excited about their own neighborhood and give them hope.”
His irritation grew. Okay, so he hadn’t thought she’d be as excited as he was about his plans, but he’d expected that she’d be a little more enthusiastic about them.
You more than expected it—you wanted it.
That fierce spark glowed in her eyes, the one he usually associated with her when she talked about her dreams of being a famous artist. Except the spark wasn’t about those dreams now; it was for all this neighborhood art gallery bullshit.
“You’ve given up,” he said abruptly. “All those dreams you had, the ones of going to New York or Paris and studying art, of having a career as an artist, you’ve given them up.” And he didn’t make it a question because it was obvious that’s exactly what she’d done.
She looked away from him, back down at the stencil on his chest. “I haven’t given them up.”
“Sure you have. That’s why you’re settling for this local art gallery crap.”
“It’s not crap, asshole.” Another sharp, dark look. “It’s important.”
“It’s not what you wanted, Rachel.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve changed.” She lifted the paper from his chest, not even looking at the design she’d drawn, her gaze burning into his. “I’ve decided there are other things more important than stupid dreams.”
His hand flashed out as she began to turn away, gripping her wrist, holding her tight. “Stupid dreams? Is that what you really thought they were?” Because he remembered her excitement and her passion for art. Remembered the hours he’d spent with her discussing plans for how she could turn those dreams into reality—how they both could. They hadn’t been stupid dreams then.
Rachel froze, half turned away from him. “Let me go, Levi.”
“No.” He tightened his grip. “Something happened. Something killed those dreams for you. Tell me what it was.”
“Why?” She turned her head, glancing at him, her tone bitter. “So you can rub my nose in them again?”
“No. So I can help you reach for them.” And he meant it; in that moment, he meant every word. “Why the hell do you think I came back?”
She didn’t look away, a ripple of what looked like pain moving in those dark chocolate eyes. “Wasn’t it to pay me back for every mistake I ever made?”
His heart lurched, missing beats like an old engine trying to start and failing.
Something in the way she said it, something in her voice made him suspect she wasn’t talking about that night in the alley behind Gino’s, the night they’d both made the biggest mistakes of their lives.
She was talking about something else. Something she was never going to tell him.
Not the man you are now. But she would have told Levi, her friend.
The realization made that tight, uncomfortable feeling in his chest shift. How the hell could he be that friend anymore? He’d forgotten how.
If you want this, you’ll have to try.
Fuck.
Levi adjusted his grip, gently tugging her back against the chair as he did so. “Tell me, Sunny,” he said softly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Chapter 13
He wasn’t holding her so tightly anymore, but his fingers around her wrist felt like an iron manacle all the same. But that wasn’t even the worst part of it. The worst part was the look in his eyes, the look that reminded her of the old Levi, whenever he’d been trying to get her to tell him something. Direct, level, understanding. And yet somehow uncompromising too, as if he wasn’t going to leave without an explanation.
She hadn’t wanted to tell him then. She desperately didn’t want to tell him now.
In fact, she’d been going along quite happily not thinking about it at all for eight whole years until he’d shown up and started making her feel things she didn’t want to feel.
She should have said something to him all those years ago, when he’d still been her friend and not the terrible, intense stranger he was now. But she’d been so ashamed of herself, so afraid of disappointing him that she’d kept quiet and pushed it to the back of her mind.
Maybe it’s easier now. Because now you don’t care what he thinks of you.
That was a fucking good point. And maybe that was the way to see him. As a stranger she didn’t care about, his opinions of her utterly irrelevant. In fact, what was the point of worrying about the friend who was dead and
gone? There was only the stranger, and he didn’t matter.
Except . . . he wasn’t looking at her as if he were a stranger anymore, and, if she didn’t notice the ring in his eyebrow, his tats, or the fact that one of his eyes had gone dark, he might have been the Levi she had known and loved once.
It hurt.
“Why should I?” she asked, unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice. “When you’ll probably use it against me at some point.”
His jaw hardened, and the darkness of that one pupil seemed to swallow the light from the other. But the gentleness of his hold didn’t change. “I won’t. That’s over and done with now, I promise.”
“Sorry, but I’m not sure I believe your promises anymore, Levi.”
Anger leapt briefly in his eyes, but then, weirdly, it vanished, leaving nothing but that direct, level look. The one she knew so well. “You can believe this one.”
Her heart wanted to so badly. But if she got it wrong now, if she trusted him and he used that trust to hurt her like he had been doing with everything else, she didn’t know if she’d ever recover. “So, that’s it? You’ve got your pound of flesh now? Sure you don’t need any more?”
“Something’s wrong,” he said quietly, ignoring her sarcastic questions. “Remember, Sunny, I know you. I know you like no one else does, and I can tell when you’re feeding me bullshit.”
He did know her. At least, he used to.
She didn’t want to look at him, meet that understanding, knowing gaze. Her friend was dead and gone—that’s what she’d told herself; that’s how she’d gotten through this. Yet now, he was looking at her like that.... She didn’t know what to do.
“Okay,” she said, her throat feeling dry. “But if I tell you, I want my goddamn building. And I want you to promise in writing that you’ll give it to me.” At least if she kept some part of this as a transaction, she’d have something left at the end. Right?
He gave her a long, intense look, and she thought he was going to protest or object. But all he said was, “Give me a piece of paper and a pen.”
She didn’t hesitate, turning to grab both from her station and handing them over. He released her wrist and took them, scribbling something quickly down on the paper before signing and then handing the paper and pen back to her.
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