The last thing I want is for the tattoo to blow out or fall off, and I don’t exactly have the artistic acumen to know what the fuck I’m doing. How much pressure am I supposed to use? At what point do I wipe a tissue over it? Fucking hell.
Whatever.
This is what will make it special. Another first for us.
Then, there it is, my initial in the middle of one of the stylized crescent moons.
LD.
She’ll always know who she belongs to now.
The artist returns just as I’m taking a picture of Mina and her new tattoo. He doesn’t look at me. His attention is zeroed on the fresh ink that I quickly cover with her waistband. It’s none of his goddamn fucking business.
I fish out another stack from my jacket pocket and throw another grand onto the table.
“Finish the tattoo and don’t tell her about what happened.”
With one final look at my girl, I leave the shop, jaw ticking at the artist’s unwanted commentary about what a sick bastard I am.
He has no idea how fucked up she and I are.
The tension stringing my shoulders tight loosens as I walk to my car, hands in the pockets of my hoodie. The need to mark her has been hounding me for months. I already have her initials on my ribs; it’s only fair she gets the same. Admittedly, mine looks substantially better than hers. What with getting a professional to do it and all.
The hair at the back of my neck prickles with the familiar sensation of eyes tailing my every move. My footsteps falter as I frown at the sidewalk behind me. Mina would still be in the middle of her tattoo.
My gaze darts around the street for the source of the feeling. The midafternoon sun gives an orange tinge to my surroundings, warming the nearby red-brick walls and signs for various boutiques and shops. People mill around, heading to and fro, some carrying grocery bags, others waiting at bus stops.
No one pays me any attention.
I rub the nape of my neck and turn back around, nearly bumping into another person. I sidestep them out of reflex to avoid a full-on collision.
“Leo?”
Oh, fucking hell.
Every fiber in my body rebels at being in Jack’s vicinity. Which god did I piss off to have this fuckwit ruin my good mood?
He frowns at me not nearly as viciously as I’m glaring at him. It’s been days since I was cursed with the misfortune of having the failed one-on-one conversation with him.
Jack glances around as if reconfirming where he is. “What are you doing here?”
Actually. Yes. That is a good question. “What the fuck are you doing here, Norton?”
We both live an hour away from here. It’s highly coincidental that we’re here at the same time while Mina—the very girl he can’t seem to leave alone—is asleep a couple of blocks over.
“Meeting a friend.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets to give off the appearance that he’s just some nonchalant guy who’s innocent on all accounts. “You’re welcome to join.”
This is what I hate most about him. On paper, he sounds impeccable; he knows what to say and when to say it. I’m the bad guy in every interaction.
“Gouging my eyes out sounds more enjoyable.”
His eyes darken. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“Have you taken too many pucks to the head to work that out?”
I could play nice and be professional if it were simply a matter of listening to the verbal shit coming out of his mouth, but he’s taken it too far too many times in the short amount of time I’ve been back here.
I’m not closer to working out how he got ahold of the message from her, or how he knew she existed when not a single person in the world was aware that I stood in front of her apartment one week after she first reached out to me all those months ago.
