“Yeah. And way better than the fantasy.”
He looks at me, his eyes more serious than I’ve seen them. “That doesn’t happen often.”
“It was planned as a one-time thing, you know. Except we went back… Then last night…” I shut my eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t want it to be over, I guess.”
“You sure it’s over?”
My hand unconsciously rubs the stem tattooed from my heart, down my left arm, its thorns a warning. I stare down at the plump little rosebud inked into my hand. It’s my secret. My arm’s what I give the rest of the world, but the rosebud’s the tender little heart of me.
I knew it would hurt.
“It’s over.” There. Now it’s final.
Zed hums. “So… Last night? Night before?” he prods gently, head tilted.
My eyes meet his. “The last three nights.” My pencil pauses. “Why?”
“No reason. No reason at all.” With that, he gets up with a slow, showy stretch. “Sorry to love you and leave you, my dear, but all this talk’s got me riled up. I’m off to find someone to play with.”
“Okay. Have fun.”
“Oh, hey. Let me get you coffee or something tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
He puts a hand to his heart, his eyes wide and innocent. “Why? Must I have a reason to want to spoil a lovely new friend?”
“I just…feel like maybe there’s something I’m missing here. Like, what are you getting out of this?” I wave my hand between us.
“Okay. Fine. There is an ulterior motive.” He drops the wide-eyed look with a laugh. “I just figured I’d better start buttering you up now if I want you to ink me at some point.” When I open my mouth to protest, he talks right through me. “I’ll come get you at nine.” He spins, then spins back. “Might want to cover that up.” He lowers his chin towards the bite on my neck. “Unless you’re good with people thinking you’re taken.”
With that, he grins, gives me a courtly bow, and jogs off, leaving me feeling pleasantly manipulated. Of its own volition, my hand seeks out the mark my stranger left on my neck.
I don’t want to cover it up any more than my thorns. I want to show it off to the world.
23
Liev
I wakeup from my nap, roll off the studio sofa, put on a record, and go right to work, diving into the soothing clang of hammer to chisel, the raucous bass of vintage heavy metal.
A metal mood, Helen used to call it. She’d stay away for as long as it took to beat it out of my system.
My metal moods scared her, she admitted once. They scared me, too. Reminded me of the way I felt when my parents argued. Like hitting things. Like wreaking havoc.
Except, as Bob my therapist pointed out, I destroy to create.
I haven’t hated myself quite as much since I started seeing Bob. I have Kris and Zion to thank for that.
Zion. Guts roiling, I throw up the mask, head over to the sink, and shove my head under the cold water.
Kris and Zion saved my life. No doubt about it. They showed up out of the blue a few weeks after Helen was gone to find me passed out, half-naked, and bleeding on the porch. I hadn’t worked in ages, hadn’t touched a chisel or a slab of stone. I’d barely eaten, hadn’t bothered paying the bills, which led to the power getting cut off. My phone didn’t work. And here I was, artist of the fucking year, with commissions out the ass, sitting on a goddamn pile of money big enough to buy the house and camp and whatever the fuck I wanted a dozen times over.
Couldn’t buy Helen back to life, though. So, I drank and stewed in my hot metal mood until every vein felt lead-filled and vile. I wanted to die.
