Page 16 of Matteo

“I stayed up most of the night prepping.”

“Ouch.” I wince. I also stayed up most of the night, but for other reasons.

“I love this.” Her fingers trace gently over the four phoenix feathers inked on my lower arm. Sparks tingle along my skin. She suddenly sits up, settling back on her heels. “Do you mind?” she asks.

I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but do I mind? Hell, no. “Go ahead.”

She gently unwraps my arms so that they straighten, and then she starts to examine them carefully, closely. The feel of her soft, warm skin feels so good. Heat crawls along the back of my neck. Goosebumps sprinkle along my back.

I start to feel hot and bothered.

“This is so cool.” Her fingers dance along my heated skin, tracing over the feathers. “There’s a story behind this.” Her eyes widen as she searches my face for answers.

I don’t give them.

She goes back to her examination. At least it’s working. She’s not freaking out about being trapped. She’s gushing over my tats. Things could be worse.

“Veritas?” Her fingers slide over the Latin wording etched on the inside of my wrist.

“Truth.”

She looks up at me, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. So she goes back, and this time her warm and soft fingers trace over my left forearm and over the cracked compass.

She looks up again. “What does this signify?” Her questioning eyes meet mine, but the fear has been replaced by something else. Something softer. Curiosity and a desire to find out more.

I stare back, silent. I’m not ready to tell her, but I like her boldness. I also like the way her fingers feel so tender and soft against my skin. I wonder what it would be like to have her hands around my neck. To have her look at me, like really look at me.

I want to tell her, but ... I can’t. I won’t. These tattoos have meanings. They define my life and my values.

“You’re analyzing me,” is all I say.

“You leave me guessing.” Her hands on my arms, her fingers gently stroking … does she have any idea what she’s doing to me?

She’s only admiring your tattoos, not indulging in foreplay.

Besides, we’re strangers, and I don’t open up to strangers.

“These are so cool,” she says, finally. “You don’t have any color.”

“I like them like that.” My tats are inked in black or dark gray.

“Familia,” she says, suddenly, as if she’s just seen the inscription in my inner left wrist.

“Family.”

Her head snaps up at me. “Family?” she whispers. I detect a hint of sadness, a tremble in her cadence.

“Family,” I echo. “What?” Because she’s staring at me as if I’m saying something she doesn’t understand. “We all have family, even if they’re a pain in the butt sometimes. What’s yours like?”

Her brows push together, like she’s confused. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it. I can relate to that, because while I understand the importance and preciousness of family, mine is still pretty fucked up, to some extent.

“I’ve been in foster care since I was nine.”

I feel a punch to my chest, and it sucks the air right out of my lungs.

“Since you were nine?” I manage to croak out, while wondering what to say without sounding pitying.

I’m overcome with sadness and awe because I can’t begin to imagine what being in foster care must have been like. I’ve had my own share of childhood trauma but I’ve led a privileged life in comparison. I have Mama, and my brothers. The others, too. I have them more now than before.