by Sara Cate
“If you want that ink, you could come in tomorrow,” he says, keeping his eyes on the fire.
It takes me a moment to register what he’s talking about. I almost forgot about the first time we met at the tattoo shop when I told him about the morning glory tattoo I wanted on my leg to cover the scar.
“I probably shouldn’t spend any money right now.”
His head turns and he glares at me, looking for signs that I might be joking. “I’m not going to charge you.” He almost seems offended.
“It’s your business. You can’t give away work for free.”
“To you, I can.”
His green eyes on my face and those words have me crumbling. If he’s trying to break me, it’s working.
“Okay,” I breathe.
Then he leans back, reaching his arm along the back of the sofa. His hands touch my shoulder, and he presses gently on the back of my neck. I cave easily, curling into the crook of his arm so he can hug me close. I breathe in the scent of him, burying my face in his neck, the soft space between his shoulder and his beard. If anyone were to walk in right now, they’d see what looks like a couple, deep within an intimate embrace, so comfortable with each other that they feel stranger when they are apart.
Whether or not that’s what this is, I have no idea. But I wish I knew for sure.
It feels good to be back at work. The familiarity of the day to day, monotonous things make me feel fucking human again. Of course, climbing out of bed this morning, where Savannah’s naked body kept me warm was hard as hell.
She came into my room last night without hesitation. Normally, I’d call that clingy, but when she lingered around her doorway for a moment, clearly trying to decide what she would do, I mentally begged her to come with me. I wanted her every moment.
The thought of an empty bed, hell just the loneliness made me want to lose my mind.
I told her to come in today, but I don’t actually know if she’ll do it. I don’t know how much any of our talk is genuine, but I hope she does. I’ve been thinking about her tattoo for a while, actually. Every time I have her legs around me, I find that scar, rub my thumb there over the delicate ridge. It runs up her thigh like a road I could follow home.
I hate that I don’t know where she got it. I should know. It belongs to me.
The shop is still closed when I get there. We don’t officially open until noon, but sometimes I like to get here early to do inventory, clean up, be alone in this space that is all mine.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find that Logan kept it all in perfect shape. He’s easily as tidy as me, but I like things a certain way, and it grates my nerves when people do things differently. Logan was good about keeping things in Murph fashion. I can’t stand when the counters get cluttered with shit, and he was smart enough to put everything back in the drawers like I like. Fucker deserves a raise for that.
Long before any customers come in, I turn on the radio, something classic starts playing and I just take a seat on my stool, stretching my back as the position welcomes me back after so many years away.
I suddenly remember the first time I sat in this chair. I was eighteen, had just gotten my first tattoo in this very shop and the artist at the time, an old man named Hank, let me sit here to get a feel for it. I had just finished spilling the beans about how much I loved to draw and dreamed of owning my own shop.
He was fucking crazy because after a few minutes, he handed me the gun, loaded with fresh needles next to a tiny cup of black ink.
“Give it a shot,” he had said.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I answered.
“Kid, I’m sixty-eight. What’s the worst that could happen? Draw whatever you want.” Then, he put out his arm, and there on the outside of his elbow was a blank spot, no bigger than a half-dollar.
“Whatever I want?” I asked. The gun felt heavy and awkward in my hands.
“Start with the outline. Shading and color will take you more time, but just get a feel for it.”
Steadying my hand on his arm, I pressed the foot pedal, too gently at first, and the gun came alive. The vibration in my hand sent a jolt of power through my arms that I quickly became addicted to. I managed to outline a small flower—you guessed it, a morning glory—right on his arm. It was tiny and easily covered if he ever came to his senses.
“Nice job, kid,” he said before clapping me on the back. “Why don’t you come apprentice for me? I said I wasn’t taking any artists on, but fuck it. I like your style.”
“I’m shipping out to boot camp next week,” I muttered, feeling regret for the first time over my dedication to enlist.
“When you get back, then,” he laughed.
And the rest was history. When I came home, the old man was still there, and the offer still stood. I showed up everyday for a year before Hank retired and Hazel bought the shop for me.
The doorbell chimes, stealing my attention from my trip down memory lane. I’m about to tell whoever it is that we’re not officially open yet, but I stop when Savannah steps into the shop. She has on a skirt that comes to her knees and a loose-fitting top. I immediately want to wrap my hands around her waist and press her soft body against mine.
“I didn’t make an appointment,” she says coyly, leaning against the counter with a smile on her face.
“Walk-ins are always welcome.” I stand up and walk toward her, pushing her dark brown hair behind her ears. There is a beauty mark on her cheek, and I lay a kiss there without thinking. When I pull back, she’s watching me. Her expression is guarded, but the way she’s breathing tells me she’s aroused.
“We should do this tattoo, or I’m afraid we’ll waste all of our time.”
She smiles and kisses me back. “What’s wrong with wasting time?”
This girl is dangerous.
Instead of doing what my dick wants, I lead her toward the chair and let her sit while I get my portfolio. “I worked this up for you. I think it’ll go nicely over the scar.”
When I put the sketchbook in her hands, her lips part and she stills. “You drew this for me?” Her fingers caressed the pencil marks.
“Of course. It’s just a sketch.”
“It’s beautiful.”
I take the paper from her and show her exactly where it will go on her leg. The raised bump won’t absorb color the same way, but if we position it just right, it won’t have to.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers. Her eyes linger on my face, and I do my best to keep from staring back. Things get like this when we’re alone. Charged. Downright fucking electric.
“Alright,” I say, clearing my throat. “Last chance to back out.”
“I don’t want to back out. I want the tattoo.”
I gather my things and watch her as she fidgets in the seat. I should ask where she got the scar; right now would be the perfect opportunity. It’s almost like she’s waiting for me to. But I don’t.
Why can’t I ask about it? Who the fuck knows. It’s like my gut is just protecting itself; the more I know about her, the harder it will be to push her away and get back to my real life.
The tattoo goes pretty quickly. She opts for no color, so I stick with the gray and black fade. She barely moves while I work. The inside of the leg is a sensitive area, and I half-expect her to back out once the needle touches her skin, but she doesn’t. She takes long, shaky breaths, and I find myself stopping to check in with her more often than I would normal clients. Savannah is a tough girl, and no matter how much it hurts, she keeps her face strong the whole time.
Her hand rests on my shoulder for most of the tattoo, something else I like that doesn’t normally happen during my regular ink sessions. She’s stroking my back and running her fingers through my hair. If she knew what that was doing to me, she probably would have stopped considering what I’m doing to her was permanent. But I won’t tell her to stop. I love her hands on me. As much as I love my hands on her.
When the tat is done, she marvels at th
e flower on her skin. Tears pool in her eyes as she stares at it in the mirror, standing up and pulling her skirt up to see the new ink.
“I love it,” she whispers.
Then her eyes find mine in the reflection, and something about seeing us together in mirror tugs at a string in my heart. We look fucking good together.
There’s nothing stopping me from stepping behind her, running my hand up the back of her skirt, kissing her neck, caressing her body in the mirror so we can both watch. Her hungry bedroom eyes on me tell me she wants that too, so I step closer, let my hand rest on her waist, but I stop there, getting lost in the image before us both.
I can feel the heavy breath in her chest. She must feel it too.
Just then, the back door opens, stealing us both from the moment.
Logan walks in absentmindedly and stops dead in the tracks when he sees us standing so close together. “Oh shit. Sorry,” he says too loudly as he pulls out his earbuds.
“It’s fine,” I grumble, turning toward the workstation to start tidying up and getting ready for the day’s clients.
“I didn’t know you were back,” he says before greeting Savannah with a blushing smile and wave.
“I told you I was coming back today,” I answer with too much frost in my tone.
“I know. I was just hoping you’d take it easy.”
“Well, I have a business to run. I can’t take it easy.” If Logan was in the mood to argue, he was in for a treat because I could use a good fight.
“I should get back to the house,” Savannah cut in softly.
“Okay,” I answer without looking at her. Her gaze is practically stabbing me from across the room. She’s waiting for something—a goodbye, a look, a kiss. Without even a glance in her direction, I call, “Keep the cellophane on and use that ointment I gave you.”
“Sure,” she answers. “Bye, Logan.” Then, without another word toward me, she’s out the door.
It’s quiet as I work, but I feel him watching me.
“You know…” he says carefully.
“Don’t start.” I walk back to my office after cleaning my station.
“I pushed Sierra away too,” he says, following me. “I hate to think of what my life would be like if she listened.”
Before he can say another word, I close the door in his face. I don’t need someone telling me how to live my life. I’m doing just fine fucking it up on my own.
I’ll never understand this man. Affectionate and possessive one minute—closed off and cold the next. I saw the look in his eye when we stared into the mirror. What he saw scared him. To be honest, what I saw scared me too.
I saw a couple, two people so comfortable together and happy. Potential for more.
A future.
I cannot get comfortable with Murph. I can’t. The sex is good. What am I saying? The sex is great. The companionship is better, but at the end of the day, I have to be ready to make that sale and get out of town. It’s only a matter of time before Hugo finds me, especially with the commotion this tattoo shop sale is going to create.
The thought alone, selling his tattoo shop, makes me sick. How could I just sit in there, let him tattoo me for free and plan on completely blindsiding him? How can I look at this beautiful art on my leg without wanting to tear my own heart out for the rest of my life?
Because I’ve been pushed around enough, that’s why. I’ve been burned, cut down to believe I wasn’t worth the ground I walked on, and I pulled myself out of that wreckage. Sure, Hazel gave me a second chance at life, but I was the one who survived long enough to get there. And I sure as fuck didn’t make it out of the water that day by being nice.
I just hope I can sell it to someone who will let him keep running it.
Maybe that pretty blonde from the gala… If only I could remember her name.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The walk back has been pretty quiet until a slow moving black car coasts by me on the silent suburban street.
Blood rises to my cheeks, and it becomes hard to breathe. A bead of cold sweat settles on my forehead when the car parks against the curb, the back door opening without the car turning off.
I should run. If I were going to run, I should do it now.
But I’m glued to my spot. This is what happened last time and a hundred times before. I froze when I should have acted.
If those familiar black shoes step out of the car, I have to run. As it is, I’m standing on the sidewalk, only a block away from home, and I’m just waiting for what could be nothing or the end of my life.
It feels like years pass as I wait for whoever is about to get out of this car. It’s probably more like three seconds.
Black stilettos and a tight-fitting dress climb out of the car. I let out a shaky breath as a woman, dressed up and covered in makeup steps out. Her eyes lock on me and she gives me a bright, very fake, smile.
“Ms. Young,” she says as she walks over. “I hope I didn’t scare you. Charlotte Thomas, KYOC, Channel 4 News.”
My heart starts to race, but now for completely different reasons. The woman is holding a microphone but not to her mouth.
“How do you know who I am?” I murmur.
“My cameraman recognized you from our file. I just have a few questions about the well-being of Hazel Whitaker. Our sources have indicated that she passed less than 48 hours ago. Can you confirm this information?”
Her questions are rapid fire, rehearsed, like she knows from experience that if she lets me, I’ll stop her or walk away.
“I—I don’t know anything,” I stammer.
“Are you not the same Savannah Young that has lived and worked at the Whitaker estate for the last ten months?”
“No comment,” I bark as I push past her and walk toward the house. She doesn’t try to follow me or harass me for more information, but I can’t shake the eerie feeling of hearing her say my name. If she found me...Hugo could surely find me.
I never registered as an employee of Hazel’s. She always paid me cash, under the table.
There should be no formal records of me living or working with Hazel, so how did they find me?
Nausea floods my senses. The reading of the will is not for another month, if I even make it that long.
“Please leave me alone,” I stutter, turning my face away from the van. I don’t know if the cameraman behind the window is recording or taking pictures, but he already knows too much. If they could figure out where I was, then Hugo could easily find me. I should have changed my name. I should have gone farther.
Blood is drumming so loudly in my ear that I don’t register the motorcycle until the deafening roar pulls up beside me.
“Get on,” he barks.
I don’t hesitate, not even chancing a glance back at the news truck. Watching for the exhaust pipe like he told me last time, I jump on the bike and cling hopelessly to his back, pressing my cheek to the black leather of his jacket.
He takes off in a rush but not before shouting one last “fuck off” to Charlotte Whatever-her-name-was. Finally when we make a turn that takes us back down the long side of the island, I let out a loud sigh. I’m not safe, not by a long shot, but I feel safer against his body.
The ride is longer than I expected it to be. We’re nowhere near Hazel’s anymore. We’re back near the boardwalk and his shop but still in the residential area behind the commercial zone. At first, I think we’re going on a little pleasure cruise to calm my nerves, which it does, but then he pulls into the driveway of a house I don’t know. It’s a big house, a two-story Cape Cod, perched on a hill next to a row of similar-looking houses. The street isn’t as estately as Hazel’s street, but it has the charm of the beach-town suburbs. There are kids running in the front yard a few houses down. A couple walks their curly-haired dog just behind where Murph parks his bike. Behind the house, I see what looks like a garage big enough for a yacht.
“Where are we?” I ask, although I think I already know.
&
nbsp; “I have to check on the house. I’ve barely been home all week.” He doesn’t look at me as he answers, knocking out the kickstand and pulling a set of keys out of his pocket.
I’m completely dumbfounded, looking around like I must be missing the punchline of a joke.
“You live here?” I’m hot on his heels, just as anxious to see the inside.
“Yeah, why?”
A laugh escapes my lips. “It’s the suburbs.”
“Yeah, so?” He clearly doesn’t see the humor here. I almost expect a golden retriever to come bounding out the kitchen. There’s no dog, but there is definitely a comfortable homey feeling when I walk in the door. It doesn’t appear that anyone hit up Pottery Barn when putting it together, but there is art on the walls, a comfy-looking couch, a record player next to stacks of dusty albums.
“So...it’s not really your style. You live here alone?”
“I had a roommate, but now I live alone.” He’s in the kitchen with his back to me. There’s a stack of mail on the counter, so obviously someone has been helping him care for it, maybe Logan or Rafe. And I’m too busy being nosey to register his answer.
He had a roommate.
“A girlfriend?” I ask, being intrusive on purpose.
“No.”
A smirk sneaks its way onto my lips. He’s sifting through the mail while I snoop around his living room. There’s a picture tacked up by the front door. It’s not in a frame, but it’s obvious he wanted it up to see it. It’s five young guys, and it looks like it was taken on the pier. One of them can’t be older than ten, sitting on the bench with a sour expression while the four guys around him look to be closer to their late teens. It takes me a second before I spot Murph. He’s in the back with his arm around another guy just as tall as him. Without his beard, I almost didn’t recognize him, but those emerald greens gave him away. He must have been trying to look tough because the pair of them have their chests puffed out while the boy with a buzzed head on his arm can’t keep a straight face. There’s a cigarette sticking out of his mouth and a smile in his eyes.