All the Pretty Lies (3 page)

I can’t help but laugh as I think of it. “He
couldn’t leave the house for two days. Thought he’d never come out
of the bathroom.”

“Good times,” Sig says, carefully sipping his
coffee as he looks wistfully out the kitchen window. “Good
times.”

And they were. There were always good times,
even among the bad. There usually are. I’ve just learned that you
have to look for them.

********

I leave the dark of the night behind me as I
enter the shop. The first thing I notice when I open the door to
The Ink Stain is the music. It’s an old song I’ve heard before, one
by Stone Temple Pilots called
Still Remains.
There’s
something intimate and…sexy about it. I don’t know if I’ve ever
thought of it that way before. But I do now. Tonight, I feel like
it vibrates,
resonates
somewhere deep within me.

The reception area is empty, just like it was
last night. So I walk over to ring the bell, just like I did last
night. Only this time, I don’t get that far. Hemi appears in the
doorway to the tattooing room. He’s wearing a snug black t-shirt,
snug black jeans and dull black boots. He looks dangerous. And
delicious.

When he smiles at me, my heart trips over
itself for a beat or two before righting its rhythm. “Welcome
back,” Hemi says with a smile before he peeks around my shoulder.
“You by yourself?”

“I am,” I reply.

“Your timing is perfect. I was getting really
bored.”

“Slow night?”

“Uncharacteristically,” he explains, tipping
his head for me to follow him, which I do.

In the back room, all the overhead lights are
turned off except for one set—the ones over the chair that Hemi
uses. The room seems more intimate this way, and the fact that we
are alone only accentuates that.

“Are
you
by
yourself
?” I ask,
turning his question back on him.

“Yep. Everyone else is gone.”

“I could’ve come earlier. You didn’t have to
stay late just for me.” I assumed when he made the appointment it
was either more convenient for him or the only opening he had.

He turns to look at me, patting the flattened
chair that I’ll be lying upon. “I prefer to work the late shift.
The world seems quieter at night. This probably won’t make sense to
you, but it’s like I can
feel
my artwork better. Sort of get
lost in it. Especially when I’m doing something freehand, like I’m
doing on you.”

“Actually, I understand that perfectly,” I
admit, scooting up onto the table. “I’m an art major, so I totally
get where you’re coming from.”

He smiles and, for a second, it’s like my
soul connects with his in a way that transcends words. I daresay
only an artist would understand what he means. And I do. I most
definitely do. For me, drawing or sketching is the perfect
combination of escapism and therapy. It’s consuming. It’s
cathartic. It makes me wonder what scars he needs to escape, what
wounds he needs to heal.

“I’m gonna get you to start out on your
stomach again. I’ll do the first few butterflies and then have you
roll up onto your side to do the rest. Now, let me warn you, this
hurts more over bone, so the tats over your ribs aren’t going to be
very comfortable for you.”

I nod. “That’s fine. I understand.”

“Still worth it?”

I nod again. The butterflies are more
significant than what I’ve told anyone else, so I can honestly say
that the pain is worth it for me. “Yes,” I answer.

Hemi’s eyes delve deep into mine, like he’s
trying to see where the butterflies live, where they were born and
what they’ve been through. After a few seconds, he says simply,
enigmatically, “The important ones always are.”

I stretch out on my stomach, folding my arms
under my head and resting my chin against my shoulder so I can look
down at Hemi as he works. I see him reach for my waistband, just
like he did last night. He smiles and glances up at me. “Smart
choice,” he states, tucking his finger inside the elastic band of
my yoga pants. “You know the drill,” he says. “Lift.”

I lift my hips and he eases my pants and
panties down to expose my hip. Gently, like the wings of the
butterflies he drew on my body, his fingers drift over the first
part of the tattoo. Chills spread over my stomach and onto my lower
back.

He nods. “Looks good. How ‘bout a few
more?”

I nod, too. “Ready when you are.”

I take a deep breath when I hear the buzz as
he fires up the tattoo gun.

CHAPTER FOUR- Hemi

Having my hands on this girl does nothing to
help my concentration. The way her body feels under my palms—like
she responds to my slightest touch—and the way she watches me, like
she’s wishing I was doing much more to her, is kicking the shit out
of my peace, peace that I
need
, especially when I’m
freehanding.

The thing I think that’s bothering me the
most, though, is that there’s something in her eyes, something in
the sadness that always seems to be hanging around them, that makes
me suspect she’s hiding wounds that only someone like me can see.
Someone who understands, someone who has been there. But what the
hell could a girl like this, a girl so young, so innocent, possibly
know about tragedy?

“So, you’re an art major,” I say
conversationally, anything to keep me from concentrating too much
on the feel of her.

“Yes.”

“You going to State?”

She nods. University of Georgia has a pretty
kick ass art program.

“Nice. What is it that you want to do when
you graduate?”

I hear her sigh as I ink a butterfly wing
onto her porcelain skin.

“I don’t really know.” I glance up at her.
She looks troubled over it. “I know I’m
supposed
to know
exactly what I want to do, but all I know is that I want to draw.
To create something beautiful that will last forever.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if you’re supposed to be able to
make a living doing it.”

“Hey, look at me,” I say, holding up my gun.
“I make a damn fine living doing what I love, which is basically
drawing. The canvas is just a little different than what you’ve
probably learned on.”

I see her brow wrinkle as she considers me.
“I never thought of it that way.”

“Most people don’t,” I tell her, thinking
specifically of my father.

“How did you get started doing this? I mean,
is this what you
wanted
to do?”

“Not specifically, no. I floundered for a
while, like most people, I suppose. Then, a few years back, I met
someone. I went in for a tattoo. Like you, I had my own sketch of
what I wanted. She admired my work, asked me if I’d consider
sketching a few more. After that, she sort of took me under her
wing and showed me the ropes. Didn’t take me long to realize that I
loved it. Been doing it ever since.”

Why the hell are you telling this girl your
life story? That’s more than you’ve told anybody since you moved
here.

I make a conscious effort to rein it in. I
don’t normally tell people much about myself. That could lead to
someone finding out who I am. And I can’t let that happen.

“She?”

“Yeah, she.”

“So there are women tattoo artists?”

“Of course there are. This is America after
all, right? Equal opportunity and all that shit?”

“That’s not…I mean I…That came out
wrong.”

I laugh at her stammering. “Yes, there are
women tattoo artists. Some damn fine ones, too.”

“Is it hard to learn?”

“No. Technique is something that’s developed
over time. The art part is the hardest. There are some things you
can’t teach. That can’t really be learned. At least not well. You
either have it or you don’t. The rest you can find over time.”

“So the actual tattooing part can be
learned…”

“Sure.”

“…as long as the art work is good
enough?”

“Right.”

I’m not paying attention to what she’s
getting at until she just lays it out there.

“You said my sketch was good. Would someone
like you be able to teach me the rest?”

My head snaps up and I fall headlong into her
deep, soulful,
hopeful
eyes. “Someone
like
me,
sure.”

“But not you
specifically
?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re very good at this.”

“But I don’t teach.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“No. I’ve never wanted to.”

“But you—”

“And I still don’t.”

“Oh,” she says flatly.

I make the outline of yet another butterfly,
drawing closer to the edge of her shirt. A big part of me salivates
at the thought of teaching her to tattoo, at the thought of what
could come from such close and frequent contact. There’s no
question that I’d like to discover every inch of this tight little
body. Two or three times. If I were the selfish asshole I used to
be, I’d do exactly that, consequences be damned. But I’m not that
guy anymore. I’m focused, and that part of me knows it would be a
mistake. I don’t need any distractions right now. I have one
mission, and bedding a girl like this isn’t one of them.

We fall quiet. In the silence, the buzz of
the needle seems louder than ever.

CHAPTER FIVE- Sloane

I lie still and quiet as Hemi draws the
outlines of butterflies along the curve of my waist. Then he’ll go
back and do the shading. I don’t really know what to say now. I’m
feeling a little uncomfortable, a little stung over his reaction.
It felt dismissive. Dangerously close to rejection.

While he’s working, I give myself a pep talk,
reminding myself that life is short and that, in most cases (like
this one for instance), it’s now or never. All I could do was ask.
Which I did. Now, I can move on.

But the longer I lie here and think about it,
the more I wish Hemi had agreed. I would love the opportunity to
learn how to place my art on skin, to etch it permanently onto
someone’s body, onto their soul.

I hear the buzz of the gun die and I glance
down at Hemi. “You’re gonna need to lift your shirt up a little
farther and turn up onto your side.”

He’s matter of fact, which is good. I
wouldn’t want him acting differently. That would be humiliating,
like I’d offered up something
else
to him and been shot
down. It makes me think of all that I’d
like to
offer up to
him, but that would be too risky. Too brave. Too brazen.

But life
is
short,
a quiet
voice reminds from somewhere deep inside me.

It gives me chills to think of how a scene
like that might play out, especially if Hemi were agreeable to
my…offer.

“Are you cold?” Hemi asks, interrupting my
thoughts.

I glance down at him, meeting his eyes. “No,
why?”

“You’ve got chills,” he says, stroking my
side with his warm palm, making my flesh pebble even more.

His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he drags his
hand back and forth over my side, as if to test the temperature of
my skin. But I told him I’m not cold. So why? Why touch me this
way?

I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking
behind those indigo orbs.

Ignoring his observation, I ask, “Which way
do you want me to turn?”

He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t move his
hand as he answers me. “Turn to face me.”

I roll onto my left side, facing Hemi. When
I’m comfortably situated, he lowers the table a little more,
bringing my side down to a manageable height for him. “Come toward
me some more.”

I scoot closer, close enough that I can feel
the heat of his body against the part of my stomach that’s bared to
him. I will my skin not to react, not to shrivel up in goosebumps.
“Is that close enough?” I ask, suddenly feeling breathless being
this close to him. The situation isn’t helping any—him sitting near
the curve of my body, the studio empty but for us, the lighting dim
everywhere else, midnight hovering just beyond the walls.

Hemi leans in as if to check the comfort and
his ability to work in this position before he nods. “Yes, that’s
fine. Now, your shirt.”

I reach between us to raise my shirt, pulling
it up along my ribs, exposing the area where he’ll be drawing. I
lie still, waiting, waiting for him to touch me. Unable to help
myself, I inhale when I feel his hands on me again. Heat floods me
from head to toe and everywhere in between.

“How far do you want to go?” he asks in a
husky voice.

My eyes fly to his. He’s looking at me, no
hint of playfulness in his expression. “Pardon?”

“How far do you want me to go? Up your side?
Where do you want me to stop?”

My pulse is skittering along at a rapid pace
and I try my best to jerk my wayward mind back to the present, to
the situation, and get it out of the gutter.

“Umm, maybe up to here,” I say, pointing to
what feels about right, high up on my side.

“You’ll need to unhook your bra so I can get
under the strap then,” he tells me.

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, hoping he
doesn’t think this was what I was getting at, that I’m hitting on
him or something.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. You can just stop at
the edge then.”

“I want you to be satisfied,” he says, his
words playing right into a game that I’m not even sure he’s aware
of.

Or is he?

“I’ll be satisfied either way.”

“I think it would look good if you took them
all the way up. But that’s just me. It’s up to you. If you don’t
feel comfortable…”

Is that challenge in his voice, in his eyes?
He’s just looking at me. There’s no change in his expression... But
still, there’s a subtle undercurrent here, running between us like
churning river water. At least I think there is. But I can’t be
certain it’s
real
and not imagined.