Beautifully Scarred

by H. P. Davenport

  His lips dance against mine, then travel to my neck. When we pull apart, he breathes in my ear, “Yes, I am confident, and I should be, and thanks for the compliments on my tats. I’d love to hear what you think of the others you can’t see.” His silky voice holds a challenge.

  I rest my forehead against his and gather some much-needed oxygen. The kiss obliterated my every thought. A low and pleasant hum warms my blood.

  “You want to get out of here?” he whispers against my lips.

  Any other time, I would take him up on his offer, but tonight I have to decline. This man makes me feel something deep, an unfamiliar feeling. When I fuck a man, it’s purely for the orgasm, the sensation of getting off. But with this man, I’m a moth to a flame, and I’m bound to get burned. I can feel it.

  Lee isn’t someone I could fuck and walk away from. From the kiss alone, I am drawn to him. When he kissed me, my clit lit on fire, and the warmth spread through my entire body like lava. I’ve fought addiction before, and I barely survived it. I’m not about to go down that road again.

  I splay my hand against his broad chest, intending to push him away, but instead I leave it there. “Not tonight, maybe some other time,” I whisper against his lips. I stare intently into his sapphire eyes. The sound of my heart beats so loudly, I feel the pulse in my ears. I feel like I’m going to explode.

  “I’m holding you to that promise, sweetheart.”

  “You go right ahead and do that,” I say between slow and shivery kisses. Stepping back, I speak in a weak and tremulous whisper. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  I turn and walk away. Looking back over my shoulder, Lee stands there, staring at my retreating body. “Or maybe you won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  With that, I push through the doors of Murphy’s. The walk home from the bar is short. When I enter my apartment, it’s dark. Quinn must be asleep or out. I shower quickly, then toss on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top.

  One kiss.

  I want him.

  I’m so fucked.

  Once I’m settled in bed, my mind wanders to the man I met tonight. How fucking stupid am I? I should have taken him up on his offer. I would be screaming his name right now as he sank into me. Instead, I reach for my trusty rabbit in my nightstand. The latter of the two won’t make me come as hard as fucking the hot guy I met tonight would have, that’s for damn sure.

  Chapter Five

  Lee

  My eyes widened when I walked in and spotted her. She was not hot. I don’t know if there is a word to describe her, but I’ll go with drop-dead gorgeous. She’s definitely not the type of girl I usually find attractive; she’s quite the opposite.

  I noticed the spot next to her was vacant and couldn’t stop myself from wanting a closer look, so I pushed my way through the crowd until I slid in next to her.

  Her short silver hair was styled perfectly, with the sides cropped short, almost shaved. Her face was soft and sweet with full, pouty lips. Her black shirt hugged her body tightly, outlining her chest and thin waist. The dark jeans she wore accent her slim figure. But her eyes, those fucking gray eyes were what stopped me when she made eye contact. They were like silver lightning or glacial ice hidden under dark brows and thick black lashes.

  Mills’ eyes tell a story, one I want to know. I once knew a girl whose eyes mesmerized me, but I haven’t seen or talked to her in almost two decades. The pain in her eyes sometimes haunted me at night when I closed mine. I shake my head to rid myself of the painful thoughts, not wanting to go down that path tonight.

  My blue eyes met her gray ones, then they slipped down her body. Mills’ permanently marked skin drew my attention to her left arm, which bore a mix of a black and gray Pointillism style tattoos with a Neo-Traditional feel by adding thicker line work. The artist who did her work is talented. Many don’t do this technique, but when done with the right precision and technique, the images are stunning.

  Mills’ piece appears to go further up her arm, as leaves of a flower peek out from the bottom of the sleeve of her shirt. On the inner part of her left arm, a hint of cursive writing is exposed, but I can’t make out what it says. Curiosity has my mind wandering. I wonder where else she has marked her body.

  When Mills’ tongue slid out to flick her lip ring, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her mouth. Not only did she have her lip pierced, but her tongue too. She bit down on the small hoop, pulling it between her teeth, causing my dick to twitch. I’ve had my fair share of women, but none of them have been pierced. I needed to know how she kissed; I needed to know what she tasted like. My cock hardened when I felt the piercing on her tongue glide against mine.

  Mills was right. Looking around the place, several sets of eyes watch me intently. Some females, some males, specifically two men in the rear of the bar.

  Not wanting any drama tonight, I toss a few bills on the bar to settle my tab. “Thanks, man.” I raise my hand to Jerry, the bartender.

  I wanted to take her home with me tonight. But she left me high and dry. If she frequents this place, I plan on visiting here again with the hopes of doing just that.

  Not wanting to be obvious, I adjust myself in my pants, praying my hard-on dissipates quickly. I’m still throbbing from Mills palming my dick.

  I turn to leave and fall short when two men step in my path to the door. Taking in the situation before me, I have two options: ignore them and turn the other way without uttering a word, or see what the fuck their problem is. I’ve never been one to walk away from assholes.

  “You’re in my way,” I growl. The larger of the two men steps closer to me. He has on a black T-shirt and jeans, with a black baseball hat turned backward. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, stretching the fabric in the process. I can tell he works out—the man’s a beast.

  The guy standing with him takes a swig of his beer. He isn’t as tall or built as his friend. His head is shaved bald, ink on the sides, and both arms are full sleeves. He sets his empty bottle on the bar. “So, I see you were talking to our girl, Mills.”

  I give him a once-over. “Your girl? Didn’t know she was taken.”

  “No need to be a smart ass. We look out for our own.”

  “Your own,” I nod my head. “She failed to tell me she was yours.”

  Asshole with the ink on the side of his head says, “Jerry! Pretty boy here seems to have an eye for Mills.”

  Jerry wipes the bar down with a rag before turning this attention to us. “He seemed to be holding his own with Mills tonight. And she didn’t seem to mind having his company.”

  Jerry tosses the rag aside. “Cut the shit, boys. If Mills needed your help, she would have asked for it. Leave him alone.”

  “Ah, come on, old man. Where’s the fun in that?” The asshole with the ink on the side of his head says. The other dude has remained silent the entire time, never taking his eyes off me.

  “Are we done here?” I raise a challenging brow.

  Asshole steps aside. “For now.”

  I stride toward the door, then stop, looking over my shoulder. Both men lift their brows, scrutinizing me. “Mills can hold her own. I don’t think she needs Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum to protect her.”

  With that, I turn and push through the door, but not before hearing Jerry yell, “That boy has a set of balls on him.”

  I laugh to myself. I sure do. But Mills left me with a raging set of blue balls, that’s for sure.

  Chapter Six

  Juliette

  “Ma, you home?” I yell from the living room, the house quiet. The wood floors are polished to a warm chestnut and exposed brick walls showcase the rich, vibrant framed pieces exhibiting my parents’ taste in fine art. A few of the pieces are my designs. They’ve always encouraged my drawing talents.

  Her footsteps echo from the back of the house. “I’m in the sunroom, Juliette,” she hollers, her voice carrying through the quiet house.

  For many of us, our mother is the most important woman in
our lives. They give us the ultimate gift, the gift of life. However, my birth mother never gave me any of that. Instead, I was blessed with Maureen, who stepped into the mother role when she fostered, then officially adopted me. When it comes to describing this woman, all I can say is Maureen is the best. The way she took care of me over the years proves she is an amazing person.

  My mom is the most beautiful person in the world to me, inside and out.

  I wasn’t the easiest child to love when they took me in. I was sometimes angry, sometimes emotionless, and always broken. I would throw tantrums, scream at the top of my lungs, and thrash out in anger when either of my parents would attempt to touch me or comfort me. I didn’t want to be touched. I wouldn’t allow myself to get close to them. Why bother when I’d eventually lose them as well? I lost my dad, I lost Brennan. They’d be taken from me too.

  Charles and Maureen were trying their best to love me. One day, Maureen stumbled upon my drawing notebook. From that moment on, they both encouraged me to draw, to find an escape from the pain I kept inside.

  I remember moving here and Maureen setting up a little nook in the sunroom for me. It was my safe haven. Fresh sketch pads were stacked on a shelf next to the drawing station in the corner facing the window, overlooking the backyard. An array of markers, colored pencils, paintbrushes, and paint-filled glass mason jars sat on the drawing table. Drawing was a way for me to express myself, a way for me to release the pain I felt inside. A way to be more expressive and less inside my own head. It was the only time I didn’t feel numb or as if I wanted to die. I spent hours there each day.

  It was months before I spoke to Maureen and Charles. I would retreat to my bedroom when I got home from school. I would eat my meals with them, then return to my sanctuary.

  For years, I didn’t want to live. What child wants to kill themselves? I was that child. I couldn’t handle any more; I wanted the pain to end. I wanted to go back to that horrible house just so I could be with Brennan. Even with the pain those people caused, having Brennan made it bearable. He was my bright safe haven.

  When I walk through the doorway of the enclosed sunroom at the rear of my parents’ house, a soft breeze stirs the sheer curtains on the open patio doors. The scent of roses permeates the air as my mom arranges flowers she must have clipped from her garden out back into a large vase. When she’s happy with the arrangement, she walks over and kisses my cheek, but when I pull away, she grabs my face. “You changed your hair. What was wrong with the silver?”

  I fall into the large overstuffed chair by the window overlooking the spacious yard. “You know me, whatever mood I’m in determines the color of my hair.”

  Before showering, I threw on hair dye. This morning when I woke up, I was in a foul mood after turning down Lee’s invitation to leave with him.

  “Red, of all colors. I don’t like it, Juliette. You know as well as I do”—she points to my hair—“red usually means you’re pissed off at the world, Jules. What happened?”

  My mom never misses a beat, always observant. I guess after all the shit I put her and Pops though over the years, she knows me too well. Every single quality she displays shows how caring, compassionate, and dedicated she is to those she loves. She stands in front of me, placing her hands on her hips, studying my face. Even with her brows furrowed, my mother is beautiful, with black shoulder-length hair, her slim frame standing about five foot six.

  Leaning back in the chair, relaxing, I close my eyes and soak up the sun. “Nothing happened. I woke up in a sour mood this morning and tossed some red dye on.”

  She exhales. “Honey. Talk to me.”

  I run my fingers through my now cardinal-red hair. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. No new piercings or tattoos will be occurring.” I open one eye and see her staring at me. “Relax. I’m fine, I promise.”

  When I fall into a funk, my go-to vice is either a new piercing or new ink. Pops stopped fighting me on it a long time ago. He preferred those over my old coping mechanism, which I haven’t succumbed to since I was sixteen.

  “Why did you wake up in a sour mood?” My mother turns, walking over to water the plants on the table by the window.

  I’m not about to tell my mom I dyed my hair because I woke up in a shitty mood, horny as hell since I was a total dumbass and walked away from a hot ass guy who stirred something inside me last night.

  “Maybe because of the bomb Pops dropped on me.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge my comment, confirming she knows where this conversation is heading. When she gets to the plant closest to me, I turn to face her. “Did you know Pops was going forward with the other shop?”

  Her face scrunches up in worry. “I was waiting for him to tell you. I told him I wasn’t getting involved, and I wasn’t going to be the one to drop this sort of news on you.”

  I exhale a deep breath. “Why did he stall in telling me?”

  My mom shakes her head as if that will bring her clarity. “You know your father. When it was first discussed, he said he saw the excitement in your eyes. You both wanted to expand for a while. He saw the chance and took it.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “He knew you would be hesitant to pull the trigger, so he took the first shot.”

  I roll my shoulders to ease the tension in the back of my neck. “I would have been on board with it. I was taken aback when he told me he already did the renovations based on what we discussed.”

  She pulls the ottoman over and sits in front of me, placing her hand on my knee. “Juliette, you know your father. You are similar in many ways. When he wants something, he can’t settle until he has it. You were the same way when the two of you opened Novocain. I think he wanted something of his own since Novocain is your baby.”

  Pushing myself up, I walk over to look out the window, staring out at the landscape. “What do you mean he wanted something of his own?” I turn to face her. “Novocain is just as much his as it is mine.”

  She reaches out, taking my hand in hers. “Novocain holds a special place in your heart. It’s different for your father. Yes, he is part owner with you, but it means so much more to you. You know it’s true, Juliette. The name itself came from you. Your father said you would run Novocain, and he will run Uniquely Inked, but the two of you own both, together.” She squeezes my hand, “Jules, make Novocain yours. Set it apart from any other shop in the area. Do something amazing with it.”

  In a flash, my pouting lips stretch into a knowing smile. She’s right.

  Pops was an artist at a shop, and when I showed interest in studying the craft of tattooing, he took me under his wing. He allowed me to apprentice under him, and when he felt I was ready, he allowed me to tattoo on him. Pops only allowed one person, a guy he’s known for over thirty years, to mark his body. So when he handed me the gun and told me to give it my all, I was more than thrilled. I was honored.

  Pops was always in awe of my drawings. I loved to draw; it was my escape from reality. As a teenager, my bedroom and the sunroom were both filled with probably over a hundred drawing pads, colored pencils, and markers. At any given time, one of my sketch pads was lying around the house.

  When Pops felt I was good enough to bring in my own clientele, he offered me an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. He offered to partner with me in our own shop. Immediately I knew the name of it. I had tucked the name away, hoping one day I would own my own shop.

  Novocain was perfect. When someone is being tattooed, after a while, the area becomes numb. The numbness was a feeling I was used to. A feeling I fought to achieve. It took years of therapy to help me conquer my urges, to help me process why I hurt. Throughout all my tantrums, Maureen and Charles loved me through it. When I hurt, they hurt. It took me a while to comprehend that.

  “I’m not angry with Pops for going forward with the project without my knowledge. I only wish he would have been upfront with me. Not wait to tell me after he hired two people, and he’s a week out from opening it.”

  An expression of satisfaction sh
ows in her eyes. “Come on, I’ll make you lunch before you head to the shop.”

  I follow her into the kitchen, pulling out a stool and settling on it.

  “Where’s Pops?” I ask as she mills around the kitchen, pulling out lunchmeat from the refrigerator and bread from the box on the counter.

  “He’s at the new shop meeting with the artists. Going over things, getting paperwork completed. You should stop over.” She pushes a plate over with a sandwich on it.

  “I will, but not today. I’ve got an appointment at two,” I say, lifting a half to take a bite.

  Her words echo in my head; they speak to my heart. ‘Do something amazing with it.’

  Should I tell my mom about my client, Stephanie? As I tattooed the woman, a part of me healed along with her. The scars that aren’t visible are the hardest ones to heal. I want to help others restore their confidence within themselves.

  I think I found a new purpose for Novocain. I’m going to open the shop on the first Sunday of every month and do something great for those who have suffered some type of tragedy at the hands of someone else or even themselves. No one wants to tell the stories of the pain they’ve endured or the fear they’ve experienced. The scars resulting from self-harm or a tragic event are stories they don’t want to share with the world at all.

  People go to great lengths to cover or hide their scars. I could give them a new decoration on their body, one to show with pride, rather than hiding their bodies in shame.

  I pause, looking at Ma, contentment pursing my mouth. “You’re right. I want to do something to set Novocain apart from other shops.”

  Chapter Seven