The thought hits me deep, because in all this time, this is not something I’ve ever considered. I started drawing those cats after Grandma Rose died, when grief sat on my chest like a boulder and I couldn’t breathe. She was the only foster parent who didn’t flinch at what she saw. Before her, all my foster parents said I was ‘too much’ or ‘too intense’ or ‘too wild.’You’re just right, Grandma Rose used to say, pressing her hand over her heart.Just exactly right, my Billy.
I haven’t been her Billy for years. But those cats—they’re still hers. I created them in her memory.
I created an anonymous Instagram account and posted the first design at three in the morning when I was shitfaced drunk, thinking it would amount to nothing. By morning, it had ten thousand shares. Now I’ve got a website, merchandise fulfilled by a print-on-demand company, and an anonymous email full of messages from people gushing over how much they love my art.
And someone loves it enough to make it permanent.
I don’t know whether to be terrified or—
The doorbell chimes again, and I look up.
My heart stops.
A woman is standing in the doorway, looking lost, clutching a folder to her chest as if it contains the secret to the meaning of life. She looks innocent in a way that makes me want to strip that innocence away from her. Her body is soft and thick, but the look in her eyes suggests there’s more to her than is visible.
I shift my stance because without warning, a hot rush of lust surges through me.I want to be pressed against those full, gorgeous tits.
My heart opens with a recognition I can’t explain. My soul is sitting up and paying attention for the first time in years, all because of this woman walking in for a tattoo.
She’s wearing a cardigan, sleeves pulled down over her hands. Brown hair falls past her shoulders, and she’s got these blue eyes that are brighter and more piercing than I’ve ever seen. She blinks, adjusting to the dimmer interior, and I watch her gaze travel over the flash art on the walls, the gleaming equipment, the leather chairs.
When her eyes land on me, everything in me goes quiet. Then all I can hear is the pounding of blood in my veins, my heart working double-time.
She takes a tentative step forward, and I catch a glint of silver at her ears. Cat-shaped earrings. Small, delicate.
“I’m Daisy. I have an appointment?” Her voice lilts up at the end, turning it into a question. “For a tattoo? I brought the design I want...”
She’s nervous. The folder trembles slightly in her grip.
Clancy clears his throat. Loudly.
I realize I’ve been frozen in place, paper towel in hand, staring at her like I’ve never seen a woman before. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
“I’m Knight, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Chair’s there.” I jerk my chin toward my station, forcing my voice into its usual gruff register. “Show me what you want.”
She crosses the floor like she’s walking a tightrope. She settles into my chair, perched on the edge like she might bolt at any second.
Her cardigan has tiny, embroidered cats along the hem. I notice because I can’t stop cataloging every detail about her. The way she tucks her long hair behind her ear. The slight tremble of her lower lip.
“I know it might seem silly.” She opens the folder and pulls out a printout. Her fingers are shaking. “But this artist... it speaks to me, you know? I love cats.”
She holds out the page, and my throat closes.
It’s the heart-paws kitten—a small cat with crossed paws that form a heart shape. The one I drew the night I missed Grandma Rose so much I thought I’d never find anything resembling happiness. The one that meansI’m holding myself together, but barely.
“It’s your skin.” I take the printout, careful not to let our fingers brush. If I touch her right now, I don’t know what I’ll do. “Where do you want it?”
She touches her collarbone, just below her left shoulder. The gesture is almost unconscious, like she’s done it a hundred times. “Here. Where I can see it.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “Where it’s close to my heart.”
Her words stop me in my tracks. Does she really understand what this design means? She wants my arton her skin. The design that came from the deepest, most wounded part of me. She doesn’t even know it’s mine.
“I’ll draw up a stencil.” I stand abruptly, needing distance. “Give me five minutes.”
I retreat to my workstation, pulling out transfer paper even though I don’t need it, trying to steady my breathing. Behind me, I hear her shifting in the chair.
“I’m a librarian,” she says, filling the silence. Her voice is steadier now. “Elementary school. The kids love the Purrfect Kitten art.”
I nod without looking up at her, my throat too tight for me to say anything.
