Текст книги "First Ink"
Автор книги: Laura Wright
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First Ink
Wicked Ink Chronicles -1
by
Laura Wright
Addison
“Oh my god,” Lisa says, staring at the billboard covering one massive wall of the convention center. “He is the hottest thing that ever walked the earth. You should’ve warned me, Addy.”
I don’t say a thing. Just tear my gaze from the black and white photograph on the billboard and head for the virtual mosh pit of bodies stretching out in front of us. My heart is slamming furiously against my ribs as I push up on my tiptoes and try to see over the crowd, see the live version of what Lisa and I have been staring at for a good five minutes. But it’s impossible. Inked bodies with stilettos and mohawks block my view of the man—the attraction—in the center. As I hear the buzzing sound of a tattoo needle at work, I suddenly wish I had worn heels and a color other than beige.
“There must be five hundred people here,” Lisa says, awe threading her voice. “Just to watch him work. Is he famous or something?”
“Very,” I say as we walk around the circle of spectators, trying to find a way in.
Lisa is much more appropriately dressed than I am for a tattoo convention, in a pink miniskirt and tight black t-shirt that shows off her small but firm rack. More than a few guys have noticed her already, and maybe even a girl or two—something I know she loves probably more than she should. The girl is a terrible flirt, and really stands out with her long mane of nearly white blond hair and crystal blue eyes.
“Does he tattoo celebrities and rockers and models and people like that?” she asks, searching the crowd for an opening.
“That’s what I hear,” I say.
I’m clearly offering as little information as possible on what I know about Rush’s life. And the frown Lisa keeps throwing my way lets me know it’s starting to piss her off. A fact I can live with as I’m really not up for telling her how closely I follow him.
“This is bullshit.” She grabs my hand. “We’re going to cut.”
“Wait, Lis.” I don’t want to cause a scene. Really don’t want Rush to see me yet. Not when he can walk in the opposite direction.
Lisa turns those pale blue eyes on me. The ones that say, ‘Hey, girlie, I just drove six hours from L.A. to be here with you. We both know why. And I’m not hanging in the back when the action is up front.’
This, of course, is all in my mind. What she actually says is, “This is it, Addy. You’ve been working this problem for five years now. Do you want to see him or not?”
Just the thought of going face to face with Rush again makes me nauseated as hell. I fist my shaking hands and press them to my sides.
“I know this can’t be easy,” Lisa continues. “But I’m with you a hundred percent, okay?”
“Okay,” I manage to get out before another wave of nausea hits me.
“We have a plan,” she says.
“Absolutely.”
“Tell me the plan, Addison.”
Lisa is my best friend, and the one person on earth who has my back. And it’s odd because we’re complete opposites. We met the second week of classes our freshman year at UC Santa Barbara, and instantly clicked. Same English major, same desire to live off campus. This good girl from a wealthy family who wanted to be bad, and me, a girl who grew up with nothing, and was tossed around from place to place, but always dreamed of a different life. A stable life. A real life.
“The plan is,” I say, wetting my lips because they’ve gone so dry they hurt. “We go up to him after the demonstration. You chat up his handler, while I try and get him alone.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Did the plan sound better in the car?”
“Shut up!” I go off, half laughing.
She grins. “Come on.”
We try to move closer, deeper into the crowd, but before we make it to the third tier a couple of girls shoulder us back. They glare at us, copping some major attitude, thinking we’re trying take their spot. Which we kind of are, so we back off again. I’m not nearly as badass as I used to be. Back in the day I probably would’ve gotten in their faces, shared some words.
Further down, we spot a fissure in the throng and hurry toward it. Lisa heads in first, her body language all determined now, ready to take on any chick even if she has a legitimate reason to be pissed at us.
“You can’t get close to him without a special pass,” I hear a girl say to her friend as we snake through. “But they say it’s only for taking a picture with him.”
“Are you serious?” the other girl says. “He’s not doing any more ink today?”
“Just this one piece. He normally doesn’t go to conventions.”
“Fuck,” the girl said on a groan. “I’ve been on his waiting list for six months. I thought this would be my chance.”
“Well, if you get to take a picture with him maybe you can convince him to get you in sooner.”
The woman pressed her breasts together and grinned. “I do have two very powerful methods of persuasion.”
Lisa leans in and whispers in my ear. “First of all, gross. Second, we need to get you a picture with him.”
I shake my head. A picture is the last thing I want from Rush. I have plenty. Of him. Of us. What I want—what I need—is to be able to get a few minutes alone with him. To apologize for what I did five years ago. The concept sounded so simple, but so far he’s rejected my every attempt. Calls, letters, even trying to get on the waiting list at his tattoo shop, Wicked Ink. He wants nothing to do with me. And I don’t blame him.
It was a complete fluke that someone at school was talking about the Las Vegas tattoo convention, and getting some ink done before graduation in six weeks. I didn’t think Rush would be there. He seems to never work outside his shop. But when I heard he would be, I packed up the car, pretended I didn’t have finals bearing down on me and convinced Lisa to ride shotgun.
There’s a sudden shift in the crowd, and Lisa and I bump into each other. Everyone seems to be moving forward like an ocean wave. Then I see a woman being helped up onto a chair. She’s young, early twenties like me, really pretty, very tatted up and dressed like a 1950’s pin-up girl. Her dark eyes scan the crowd and she brings a microphone to her cherry-red lips.
“Okay, Assholes,” she says in the sweetest of tones, her voice booming over the din of hard-driving music and buzzing needles. “He says he’ll take one more.”
Like a clap of thunder, the crowd goes nuts. My heart flies into my throat with the intensity. Hands shoot into the air, tickets clasped in their fingers, fluttering like a mass of yellow butterflies.
The woman grins wickedly, and her diamond nose piercing flashes in the lights. She’s got some serious charisma. Like the kind that not only brings guys to their knees, but makes them want to crawl around on the floor for a while.
“But,” she says real drawn out-like. “He wants a virgin.”
The disappointment is instant. As I try to figure out what the girl is talking about, all around me, both men and women—but frankly, a lot more women—toss around the stink face and shake their heads.
“So…” Ms. Pin-Up says. “Any ink virgins here today?”
Three hands go up, and to my utter shock and horror, one of them is Lisa’s. And though I’m relieved we’re all talking about virginal tattoos here, my eyes cut to her instantly. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she laughs, her face pink and excited.
“Put your hand down,” I hiss. “Before they—”
“You!” Ms. Pin-Up calls out.
Before I even turn back, I know the girl is pointing at Lisa. Eyes wide, my crazy-assed best friend bites her lip, then grabs my hand. “Come on.”
“Don’t do this,” I said, my old nemesis nausea creeping back to stake claim to my stomach.
“Too late, Addy.” She sounds completely giddy, like her brain has turned into Skittles. “Besides, here’s your way in.”
“This wasn’t the plan,” I argue.
“Fuck the plan, Addy. Sometimes you just have to jump.”
I’m about to tell her that getting in the car and driving to Vegas, not telling anyone, no hotel room, is jumping, but Ms. Pin-Up is staring at us expectantly. Along with about a hundred other people.
“Come on up here, sweetheart,” she calls, motioning for Lisa to step forward.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” Lisa squeals softly, pulling me with her, squeezing my hand so hard I flinch.
This time, instead of blocking our way, the crowd parts, Red Sea-style, and in seconds we’re in the front of the pack. Lisa drops my hand and follows the woman, leaving me there in my conservative beige skirt and pale blue top to stare at the guy I haven’t seen in five years. The guy who has never once left my thoughts, no matter how hard I’ve tried to push him out.
My stomach rolls so painfully I feel like I might pass out. Back in high school, Rush Merrick was a shockingly good-looking kid. Tall, lean, badass attitude. Sexy brown hair, eyes so green they looked like leaves in the sun. But now he’s something else. And frankly, the photograph on the wall behind me, the one Lisa had drooled over, doesn’t do him justice. He’s utterly and totally breath-stealing. And I get the crowd now. I get the women.
As he speaks to Ms. Pin-Up, my eyes move over him, up and down. He’s even taller now, still lean, but with cords and waves of muscle that make my hands twitch involuntarily. I fist them again, inviting carpal tunnel, trying to force away the impulse to touch him. But instead my mouth starts to water.
He’s wearing really simple clothes, but on him they’re sexy as shit. A black tank top that shows off his ripped muscles and sleeves of vibrant tattoos, jeans that hang on his lean hips, black combat boots. And as I scale his hotness one more time it occurs to me that though he still has a boy’s wicked grin, he’s a man everywhere else.
Lisa steps forward, her face as pink as her miniskirt. I’ve never seen her so timid and girlie, and I kind of want to slap her. ‘What about the fucking plan?’ I want to yell. Then I hear the voice that used to make my toes curl—and my heart beat twice as fast—rise above the din.
“You my virgin skin?” he asks her, his eyes doing a sexy half-lidded thing that I remember was usually followed up by a bone-melting kiss.
I roll my eyes at my resurrected eleventh grade self.
“I may have virgin skin,” Lisa tells him, her voice shaking slightly. “But that’s the only virgin thing on me.”
He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. And my breath is stuck inside my lungs—possibly permanently.
Lisa grins really wide. “In fact, I think I might be pregnant.”
My mouth falls open, and that hostage breath is released. Okay, slapping isn’t going to cut it. Lisa is clearly having a Crazy Town moment that may require pills.
“Sorry, doll,” Rush says, glancing over at Ms. Pin-Up like maybe they should start screening the volunteer flesh. “We don’t ink anyone who might be knocked up.”
The crowd boos en masse, and in that moment I’m trying to figure out a way to get Lisa and sprint for the back of the convention center.
“Looks like we need another virgin,” Ms. Pin-Up calls. “And if you’re a true virgin, even better. No one with a bun in the oven, people, okay?”
“Wait,” Lisa calls out. “My friend’s a virgin. Hey, Addison, come here!”
Heat slams into my body and I can’t feel my limbs. Heads turn to me, eyes narrowed, and there’s nothing I want more than to get the hell out of here and plan Lisa’s very ugly, very painful demise.
What about the fucking plan, whore?
But then Rush turns, and his eyes lock to mine, and I’m rooted to the floor. Even if I wanted to move, I don’t think I could. It’s been so long, and he’s so beautiful. His lips look dark and full, surrounded by a night or two’s worth of stubble. And his hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, the dark brown edges licking his hard jawline. But it’s his eyes—always been his eyes—that make my insides tremble. They’re so green and so filled with hostility as he stares at me.
He wants me nowhere near him.
Lisa’s on her way over, her expression wary. “Okay, okay,” she says when she reaches me. “I know you hate me right now, but that plan wouldn’t have worked. I’ll be right here. Watching you.”
“Pregnant?” I grind out.
She shrugs. “It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility.”
“You’re going to totally suck as a mother,” I say halfheartedly as my feet are released from the invisible concrete and I walk past her, toward the guy I used to want more than I wanted a real family.
He watches my every step, his eyes moving down my body, taking in my clothes, my shoes. I know exactly what he sees and what he’s thinking. ‘What the hell happened to you? Where’s your boyfriend, Ken Doll? Why the fuck can’t you take a hint and leave me alone?’
And then we’re face to face. I’m standing in front of him, and he smells so good and looks so fierce, and I think I might be dizzy because the last time it was like this, I betrayed and humiliated him in front of an entire room full of people. My best friend. My only friend.
Rush
Mismatched eyes that have haunted the shit out of me for too many years to count—too many years to not call myself a gigantic pussy—stare up at me. They’re liquid and fearful, and they make me want to grab her and kiss her so hard she starts crying and runs away. Yeah, I want to make her run away this time. But I can’t. I won’t. I have an audience, and they’ve come to see a show.
I let my eyes do the work, move down her body, take in that crazy, garden party-looking shit she’s wearing. I have no idea what she’s been up to since high school, never wanted to know, because I might’ve gone after her. And there was no way in hell I was jumping on board that train again.
She fucking murdered my heart. It still beats, but not nearly as strong.
“What’s your name again?” I ask, then watch impassively as hurt flickers in her eyes.
“Addison,” she says.
Shit, her voice is like a fucking vise to my cock. My eyes narrow on her. “You pregnant, Addison?”
She looks around, at everyone who’s waiting, listening, then comes back to me, shakes her head. “No.”
The lights in the center are killer bright, and they make her brown hair shimmer. I notice that it’s gotten longer and lighter. Damn if I don’t remember what it feels like all tangled up in my fingers.
“Any other reason why I shouldn’t touch you today?” I ask.
She swallows, and I watch the movement in her throat so closely like it’s the best goddamn movie I’ve ever seen.
“No,” she says.
“Then let’s get started.”
I start to back up, but she reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Wait.”
My skin burns where she’s holding it. But even so, I don’t pull away. My eyes lift and I utter, “What’s up?”
“We didn’t talk about what I wanted.”
“No. We didn’t.” I swear to fucking god it’s like the two of us are the only ones in the joint now. I know there’s a crowd. I know Jane’s watching me from her perch on the chair, probably wondering what the hell’s my problem. But shit, I don’t hear anything but Addison’s voice, and I’m not seeing anything but her eyes, one blue, one green. The green one is almost the exact same color as mine. It’d been our thing. That eye of hers would only look at me. It belonged to me.
She belonged to me.
“Maybe something really small?” she says, her thin fingers still wrapped around my wrist. “A butterfly or a heart.”
My mouth curves into a grin. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?” she asks.
“The skin doesn’t get to choose the ink. Not here. I decide what I want on you.”
Panic glitters in her eyes, and I can’t help but get off on it.
“You really asking me to draw a heart on you, Addison?” I say.
Her teeth scrape against her top lip, and after a moment she releases me. She shakes her head. “Do what you want, Rush.”
It’s the first time she’s used my name, and every goddamn memory of her whispering it, calling it out, moaning it in my ear, comes at me like a fucking firing squad.
I lift an eyebrow at her. “Wherever I want?”
She nods.
My body is stoked up and I know I’d better cool down if I’m going to be holding a needle to her skin.
I lean in and whisper, “You trust me, Addison?”
She shivers instantly. “Trust has nothing to do with this. Nothing to do with why I’m here.”
“Yeah, I know,” I tell her. Because I do. The reason was in every email I never opened, every letter I sent back unread, every phone call I ignored. “You want something from me I’ll never give you.”
Her eyes hold me captive. They always did.
“You have to,” she says, her voice reed-thin.
I shake my head. Around us the crowd is getting restless. I don’t give a shit about them, and I know I should.
“You have to, Rush,” she says again, more impassioned this time. “I can’t…” She stops, looks away.
I hate that I care. I fucking hate it. And yet I ask, “You can’t what?”
It was her turn to shake her head. “Nothing. I’m ready. For you, for whatever you choose.” She lifts her chin. “For my first ink.”
The crowd explodes into hoots and catcalls. They’ve waited long enough. Maybe I have, too. Getting her skin under me again. Not for pleasure, but for pain.
I back up and motion to my chair. “Fine. Take off your shirt and lie down.”
Addison
I stare at him, watch him as he goes over to Ms. Pin-Up and whispers something in her ear. I have no idea what he’s saying, but when he’s done she glances up and gives me a strange look. Kind of like I just stepped out of a toilet, and she doesn’t know whether to be disgusted by me or pity me. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend. This beautiful, vibrant, tatted-up sex kitten. A girlfriend. It’s a thought I hadn’t entertained in years, if ever. But it’s a thought that makes me unbearably sad.
Heading over to his station, Rush thrusts his hands inside a pair of thin, black latex gloves, then lifts an eyebrow at me. “Are we doing this?”
“Yes,” I tell him, praying to god I don’t lose my nerve. Lisa was right. This could be the way to talk with him. Even if it is in front of hundreds of people.
Taking in my moment’s hesitation, his eyes move down my body. “You’re still wearing that shirt, and your ass is nowhere near my table.”
Wait, I think, with a sudden drop of my heart into my shoes. He was serious about that? “Do you really need my top off? Or is this just a way to humiliate me?”
“Why would that humiliate you, Addison? If I remember things right you have one extraordinarily beautiful body.” He shrugged. “Course in that blue pillowcase you’re wearing it’s hard to tell.”
My face goes hot, and his eyes flash with amusement like he’s really enjoying seeing me squirm.
“Take it off already,” some guy yells from the crowd.
I look around and catch Lisa’s gaze. From her spot in the front row, she looks guilty and worried, and she mouths the words, “Do you want to go?” followed by a grimace.
I quickly shake my head.
“No one’s here to see your tits, honey,” the same guy calls out. “Get someone else, Rush. This bitch is off.”
Rush walks past me without a word. His face is tight, so’s his body, but it’s his eyes that really freak me out. They’re dark and deadly, and ice-cold. He dips into the crowd. I don’t know how he knows where the guy is, but he does.
“Get the fuck out of here, dude,” he says with absolute calm.
The guy sniffs. He’s probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, and nearly the same height as Rush, but thicker around the middle. “I just want to watch, man. What’s the big deal? Shit.”
“Big deal is you don’t talk to a lady like that. It’s not cool, and it’s not tolerated.”
“Fuck you,” the guy says, then gives Rush a shove.
Rush sends his fist into the guy’s gut, then grabs him by the back of the head and slams his knee into the man’s stunned face.
“I really hate these conventions,” I hear Rush say.
As I watch dumbfounded, the guy goes down on his knees and remains there, intermittently wheezing and moaning. As the crowd falls quiet, Rush gestures to someone near the back, and in seconds two guys dressed in black haul Mr. Charming away.
Eyes as cool as twin emeralds, Rush heads back my way, pulling off his gloves. The knuckles on his right hand are bleeding. “Keep your bra on, baby. No one’ll see a thing.”
I turn, my eyes following him, my heart pounding fast and sick. He’s such a frighteningly, deliciously volatile creature, and I just want to know what it feels like to be taken over by him again.
As he washes up in the sink, I unbutton my shirt. My fingers shake as I work off each small, silver circle like it’s a puzzle piece. My brain isn’t working right. It wants to work out other answers to other puzzles like, why did he do that? Why did he challenge that guy? Knock him down when he hates me so much?
Rush slips on a clean pair of gloves, then looks up, locks eyes with me. He motions for me to come to him. My skin instantly reacts to the command by going hot and tight. I walk over, shrug out of my shirt and place it on the back of an empty chair. Cool air moves over my hot skin, but it’s Rush’s gaze moving over my skin that truly brings out the goose bumps. It’s hungry and dark, and I can’t help but get a little thrill that I still affect him in some way.
“Lie down,” he says, his tone as tight as his jaw.
I climb onto the table and stretch out, rest my cheek on my hands so I can watch him. Rush pushes his black swivel stool close to my shoulder blades and checks his materials all set out on a metal table by Ms. Pin-Up. Then he looks down at me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and wonder again why I’m doing this. This—as in, letting him permanently ink my skin with a design of his own choosing. Is it just to get him to talk to me? Listen to me? Or is there more? Do I want him to touch me? Be forced to touch me?
“I don’t like pain,” I say.
His eyes flash as he reaches across my back to unhook my bra. “No one does, baby. No one does.”
As I try not to obsess over his words and their obvious meaning, I watch him pick up a razor from the table and lean over me. I feel his hard stomach press against my arm as he runs the thing over my upper back a few times. Next, I feel a cool, wet cloth dragging gently across my skin. Then what feels like paper, about the size of an orange, pressing firmly into the area, then lifting away.
He reappears in my eyeline and asks, “Ready?”
My mouth is so damn dry I just nod, then brace myself.
As the needle touches my skin, and Rush draws the first line of whatever image he’s chosen, I close my eyes and breathe. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as I thought it would, but I know it’s going to be a long process and I have to prepare myself for what’s coming.
Over the next ten minutes, I let the sound of the machine lull me into a strange sense of calm. As I continue to rest my cheek on my hands, I vacillate between eyes closed and eyes open, and trying to figure out what he’s drawing by the movements of the needle. But so far, I’ve got nothing.
From what I can see, Rush is concentrating really hard, his eyes pinned to my skin, his face tight with tension. It’s incredibly hot, and I wish I had a better view.
“Rush,” I say in a quiet voice, not wanting to jolt him from his focus. “Can I talk while you work?”
“Depends on what you have to say.”
“Just…thanks.”
His nostrils flare, but his hand is shockingly steady. “You can thank me after you see it.”
“No,” I correct him. “I mean for the asshole in the crowd.”
The bite of the needle is gone momentarily. And I realize he’s lifted it off my skin. His eyes flicker to mine. “It’s nothing.”
Then he returns to his work. I settle in to watching him again, completely unaware of the crowd, of Lisa, of everyone but him. It was always like that back when we were together. He was addictive. Like sugar. Like horror movies. Sometimes after we’d have sex I’d just lie there and stare at him, tell myself over and over that he was mine. That this gorgeous, talented boy belonged to me, wanted me, loved me. I saw us together, sharing an apartment as we went to college.
And then I got moved from my aunt’s house into a foster home, and then another foster home, and then a group home, and eventually everything I wanted and hoped for and believed in got crushed. Not by anyone I knew. God, that would’ve been so much easier to forgive. But by me.
“Is it starting to hurt?” Rush asks me, lifting the needle again, cocking his head to the side, his eyes finding mine. “You’re tensing up.”
“No,” I assure him. “Just thinking.”
He doesn’t ask. Instead his eyes return to my back. When the needle makes contact again, my mind tries to follow the lines it’s making. I sense a diamond shape, but I can’t figure it out.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re tattooing on me now?” I ask.
“You’ll see for yourself when it’s done.”
“How about a hint? Like if it’s something gross or pornographic or just really, really mean.”
I see the corners of his mouth twitch. God, he’s so sexy. Forget Ms. Pin-Up. He probably has a hundred girlfriends. All on speed dial. All waiting with bated breath for him to call.
I know I would be.
“It’s not a portrait of me flipping you off or anything,” he says.
“Okay, good.” I make a face. “That’s a relief.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t get cute with me, okay? You’ve wanted to get under my needle for what…two years now?”
I sober a little at his combative mood. “I think it’s going on three. Didn’t realize your wait list was that long.”
“It’s not.” Once again, he lifts the needle off my skin, gives me a look so dead sexy my breasts tingle against the table.
“You know, I never wanted a tattoo,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. That’s why you never got an appointment.”
I release a breath. “I just wanted a chance to talk to you.”
“Well, you got it. Or your girlfriend did. Either way, I’m here, you’re here. Go.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip. It felt so easy a second ago. Now my brain doesn’t want to cooperate. “It’s just…there’s a lot of people here…”
“And?”
“And I know it’s kind of loud in here, but are you cool with someone, I don’t know, in the front row maybe, hearing how I feel about you? How what I did five years ago is tearing me up? How every time someone touches me or kisses me I wish it was you?”
The sound of the tattoo machine dies, and Rush’s eyes cut to mine. They’re like twin daggers, and I can’t tell if he’s turned on or pissed off. Either way, my heart leaps hardcore into my throat. He looks up, gestures—no doubt to Ms. Pin-Up—and in seconds, I’m cleaned off and something warm is rubbed into my back. His jaw tight, Rush places a cloth over my tattoo and tapes around it, then re-clasps my bra.
“You can sit up now and put on your shirt,” he tells me coolly, ripping off his gloves.
I’m confused. Not by his tone—that I was expecting—but by the quick work. I always assumed tats took a few hours. “That’s it?”
“For now,” he says.
For now? As in, there’s more? “What the hell, Rush?”
He’s tossing his gloves in the trash, but as soon as they hit the rim, he rounds on me and places a hand on either side of my hip, locking me into his vibrantly tattooed airspace. The breath leaves my body as my gaze travels over his collarbone, which sports a skull interwoven with the letters of his last name. As I sit there in my boring bra and my even more boring skirt, his face closes in on mine, and I swear if I lean forward an inch I can press my lips to his. Does he taste the same? I wonder. Feel the same?
“You want to talk to me,” he says, his warm breath moving over my skin, making me shiver. “You want to finish this tat? We’ll do it my way.”
His way. Oh, god, I used to love doing things his way. I contemplate sticking my tongue out and lapping at the air, seeing if I can taste him that way.
“Be at my shop at eleven tonight,” he says. “Alone.”
I nod dumbly and mumble a raspy, “Okay.”
But instead of leaning closer, giving me what I think he knows I want, he releases me, pushes away. I instantly want him back.
Sound familiar, Addison?
My shirt is shoved into my hands by Ms. Pin-Up, and I stand up and get busy putting it on, buttoning it up. My heart is still knocking against my ribs and my insides feel almost as liquid as certain parts of my outsides. I don’t care about the dissolving crowd or how Lisa’s on her way over to me with a look of utter horror. All I care about is tonight, and seeing him again. Explaining things, asking for forgiveness.
Getting his hands on me again.
“And Addison,” he calls.
I turn so easily, almost involuntarily, toward the sound of his voice, like it controls me now.
He slips on a black knit cap, his eyes flashing emerald fire my way. “Don’t look at it. If you take off the bandage, I’ll know.”
