“We’re getting matching tattoos,” he says.
Of all the things I thought might come out of his mouth, that wasn’t in the top one million.
“Matching tattoos,” I repeat.
“Yeah.” He grins, but it’s forced, his movements too casual for the intensity of his eyes. “It’s fun, right? Like…romantic shit or whatever.”
A dry chuckle bursts from me. “Okay. Sure. I could get a tattoo as long as it’s somewhere Dad won’t see. But no celebrity faces, or names, or…”
“Nothing like that. I thought maybe…Celtic knot. A hint ofyour heritage. Those old symbols have power. Might give you some extra control over your inner banshee.”
Interesting… I hadn’t considered something like that. “And you’re getting a matching one because…”
“Like I said.”
“Right…romantic shit.”
“And I like tattoos.” He climbs out of the truck. “Come on, Earnshaw. Get your little ass in there. I know you ain’t scared of needles.”
“How do you know that?”
He leans back into the truck cab briefly. Meets my eyes. “Because you’re not scared of anything.”
When he says those words, looking at me like that, I can almost believe him.
Our feet crunch across cracked asphalt littered with pebbles and grit. Heathcliff reaches for the door of the tattoo shop, then hesitates.
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” he says. “Hide things from your dad. You’re an adult.”
“Yeah, well…” I run a hand over my face, into my hair. “I’m kinda stuck there. It’s the whole ‘his house, his rules’ deal until I can move out.”
“I’d let you stay at my place if I thought it was any safer.”
A twinge of pleasure and surprise passes through my heart. “That’s sweet.”
Heathcliff’s jaw is hard. “It won’t always be like this for you or for me. I swear it. We’ll get free one day, you and I.”
“You and I,” I whisper. Impulsively I reach up, rising on tiptoe, and wrap my hand around the back of his neck, dragging him down for a kiss.
When his mouth meets mine this time, it’s like opening the door to another world, to a future I’ve never dared to imagine. His lips are hot, faintly rough. He tastes like bacon and coffee and a subtle spice I can never quite identify because it’shim—it’s justHeathcliff.
He hums over my tongue, licks softly into the dark heat of my mouth. Seals his lips firmly and tenderly to mine. This isn’t hunger—it’s a promise.
Does he know what he’s promising? Does he understand what a relationship with me would be like? Is this what he really wants, me and my mess?
When I break the kiss, he finds my hand, weaves his thick fingers between mine. “Come on.”
A bell chimes as we step inside. Sketched faces leer from the walls. Black-and-white symbols and garishly lettered words are plastered on every available surface. A couple metal chairs with brown-leather padding sit against the collage of tattoo designs. Between them stands a battered wooden end table with a plastic plant on it. There’s a tall desk, too, with an acrylic top and several three-ring binders, probably containing more tattoo options. A skinny man in his forties props pointy elbows on the desk. He’s got a bristly, reddish mohawk, heavy eyeliner, and a motley of piercings in his ears and face. Tattoos cover both gaunt arms and his skinny throat. A stack of leather bands and silver bracelets encircle each wrist.
“Heath-fuckin-cliff,” he says, chomping on a wad of gum that flashes pale between his yellowed teeth. “Good to see you, man. Been a while. This a client?”
“A client?” I frown, glancing at Heathcliff.
“This is Cathy,” Heathcliff replies, with a stern look at the man. “She’s my—she’s with me. Cathy, this is Bean. Benjamin Lockwood.”
“At your service.” Bean grins, still chewing the gum.
“We’re gonna get matching tattoos.” Heathcliff’s tone deepens with significance, and the man’s eyes widen a little.
