Clipped Wings (5 page)

“I saw you hit that guy at the bar.” I decided acknowledging the elephant in the room was a reasonable plan.

“He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“I know. I saw that, too. You were badass. It was hot.” I wished I could take the last part back. Even though it was true. “What happened to your hand?”

“What?” She hid it behind her back.

“You didn’t do that kind of damage by punching that loser. What happened?”

“I fell.” If she had claws, they’d be out right now. So much for the skittish kitten.

I smiled, which seemed to make her angrier. “I’m not buying it, but if that’s the story you want to go with, it’s cool.”

Tenley wrenched the door open and stomped down the stairs with me following close behind. I stifled a laugh. I couldn’t figure out why I felt the need to provoke her. She held the railing, leaning into it as she descended, like she was favoring one leg over the other. On the last step she lost her footing. She collided with my chest, and I wrapped an arm around her waist to prevent her from hitting the ground.

A surge of energy coursed through me at the full body contact, and I bit back a groan as her ass came flush against a suddenly very appreciative erection. I hurried to right her, as the last thing I needed was to make her more nervous or give her a reason to throat punch me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, feeling unhinged. My hands were still on her hips. I needed to let go, but my body wouldn’t obey.

“I’m fine.” She moved away and adjusted her shirt.

Even in the dim light of the basement I could see her embarrassment. Tenley pointed to a pile of boxes stacked in the corner of the room. “When you’re done, bring up what you want.”

She went to sidestep around me, but I mirrored the movement, blocking the stairs. I raised my hands in contrition, aware that once again I had messed things up. “Don’t leave yet. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Her eyes ricocheted around the room, careful to avoid resting on me. “Cassie needs me.”

“You’ve used the excuse before. I’m starting to feel like this is personal.”

She made another move toward the stairs, gingerly holding the railing with her bandaged hand as she tried to squeeze past. Some dark emotion flashed across her face. It was there for only a second before it was gone, and in that moment I watched a storm brewing inside her, threatening pain. Whatever her deal was, I wanted insight.

She met my gaze with a conflicted one of her own. She wanted to stay, maybe just as much as I wanted her to. I covered her hand with mine, careful to avoid the injury, and innocently rubbed my thumb along the underside of her wrist for the sake of contact. Like the last time, her pulse was erratic.

“Please?”

Her fragile defiance, her fear, her longing all resonated with the hollow place inside me. I wanted to know why.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Hayden’s answering smile dissolved any final reservations, like I’d done him some great service by agreeing to look through a bunch of relics with him. Spending time alone with him was probably a bad idea on my part, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. And I didn’t want to. Over the past several weeks I’d tried to avoid him, but it had become too difficult. After so many months of self-imposed exile, I craved a connection with someone. His hard exterior made him safe–he seemed just as guarded as me. He tugged on my wrist and I relented, taking him to the pile of boxes with his name scrawled on them in the corner of the basement.

“I don’t know how much you’ll want to keep, but this is the stuff that was set aside.”

“You organized all of this?” He took two chairs from a dining set and offered me one. For someone so menacing, he had manners, aside from having no concept of personal space. I dropped onto the velvet cushioned seat as he did the same.

The week after I moved into the apartment upstairs from Serendipity I asked Cassie if she knew of anyone in need of some part-time help. The issue wasn’t money but too much free time. I’d relocated to Chicago in mid-August, more than a month before the fall semester began. While I was content to research my thesis and pre-read for my coming courses, it didn’t keep me as occupied as I wanted. I could only do so much until I met with my professor and that wouldn’t happen for another week or two. Cassie showed me the basement and gave me a job, solving her problem and mine.

“You should have seen this place before I started,” I told him as he opened the closest box. “I almost couldn’t get down the stairs, there was so much stuff.”

“I’ve been down here before; it’s like an anxiety attack of clutter. It looks a lot better now, though.” He rolled his shoulders, dusting off a Victorian-era candelabra. He made a face and looked for a place to wipe his hand. “You got a cloth or something around here?”

“Why? Afraid of a little dirt?” I joked.

“I don’t have a problem getting dirty,” he said with a sly grin. “I just can’t afford to go back to work looking like I rolled around on a basement floor.”

His velvet tone made it difficult not to read innuendo into the comment. Before the mental picture developed further, I stood up and crossed to the other side of the room. The dusting cloths were in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies. Tossing a couple to Hayden, I kept one for myself and sat back down beside him.

He was organized and methodical as he inspected each treasure, wiping them down with gentle hands. The care he took as he handled delicate pieces, even the things he didn’t want, gave me insight into the kind of artist he was. I imagined he worked on his clients with the same vigilant precision.

“You want to tell me what really happened to your hand?”

I peeked up at him, thankful my hair created a barrier through which to view him and still shield my face. I didn’t know why the question surprised me. It shouldn’t have. “Nope.”

He chuckled and remained quiet for some time, sifting through the boxes. He handed me the things he didn’t want, and I put them into an empty box. Each time he did, I surreptitiously inspected the artwork on his arms.

“Lisa tells me you have an idea for some ink.” Hayden stopped sorting to focus on me.

I nodded. I had already entertained showing him the design, thanks to Lisa. Since being near him made me feel like I was having heart palpitations, I couldn’t help but be wary. There was intimacy in committing art to skin. I already found Hayden unnervingly enticing for a variety of reasons, not the least of which had to do with his severe brand of beauty. Being around him more wouldn’t lessen that, and the piece I had in mind was no small thing.

“I’d be happy to check it out if you want to stop by the shop later.”

“I’ll think about it.” After a protracted silence I finally asked, “How long have you been a tattoo artist?”

“Close to six years. I started as a piercer when I was eighteen, but it wasn’t for me.”

“Why not?”

Hayden wiped his hands on a fresh cloth and tucked my hair behind my ear, tracing the shell as he did so. The ladder of helix rings clicked dully against each other. “You’d look good with an industrial,” he said softly. I shivered even though I suddenly felt hot.

He motioned to his face and poked at the viper bites with his tongue. “If they were all this kind of thing, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

“What was the issue?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a sadist, and it takes a certain type of person to be able to stick a needle through a dick.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t holding anything breakable. “Okay. Right. I didn’t think about that.”

He laughed at my reaction. “I pierced for a few months before I started apprenticing to be a tattooist. For about a year and a half I had to do both. After a few years I built up a solid client base and a decent reputation in the business, and Chris and Jamie convinced me we should go out on our own.”

“So you opened Inked Armor?”

“We did. I was only twenty-one at the time, but it’s been four years and we’re still doing well.”

“You were so young.” I couldn’t imagine taking on that kind of responsibility at this point in my life.

He shrugged. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen, and it seemed like a smart thing to do. Anyway, I haven’t put a hole in anybody’s junk since we opened our shop.”

“So you’re not a fan of piercings from the neck down?” Heat climbed my chest toward my cheeks. I shouldn’t have asked that question, because all sorts of inappropriate images popped into my head.

“I didn’t say that.”

I opened my mouth, searching for words. None came.

“The ones from here down aren’t just decorative.” He ran his hand over his chest, down to his belt buckle.

“You’re not one for holding back, are you?”

He grinned. “It’s not really my style.”

I changed the subject. “So you like it? Being a tattoo artist?”

My curiosity was genuine, as was my long-standing interest in body art and art in general. It had played a significant role in my decision to pursue a master’s in sociology. It gave me a valid reason to focus on what most considered social deviance. After the crash I turned toward what I really loved—art and modification, delving deeper into subcultures and extreme factions. My advisor, whose school of thought was rather antiquated, seemed to have a difference of opinion on the direction my thesis proposal should take.

“I get to be an artist and not starve, so that’s a bonus. Some of the tattoos can be boring, standard shit, but the pieces I get to design? Those are the ones that make the job worth doing. I don’t think there’s anything quite as gratifying as creating art out of someone’s experiences. Well, some things are more gratifying.” He looked me over, his perusal blatant. “Are you hiding any ink under those clothes?”

“No,” I lied. I rooted around in a box to conceal my face lest he press for more information.

“I think you’d look good with my art on your body.” Judging from the rapacious gleam in his eye, his phrasing was purposeful. “Anyway, the offer stands. You should come by again when you have a chance, maybe stay longer than two minutes. I can show you my albums, and you can show me your idea for ink. Maybe I could work on you.”

“Okay, maybe.” I didn’t miss the dig at my boomerang visits, or that he’d noticed them in the first place.

“I’ll take maybe over no.”

I’d been working on a sketch for a long time; even before the crash I’d had several ideas for tattoos. Originally the piece had just been art, but it had changed in the past several months into a symbol of my loss. It would be rather revealing to hand something so personal over to Hayden.

“Did you design any of your own tattoos?”

“Most of them.” Hayden shoved the sleeve of his shirt up above his elbow and held his arm out toward me, the inside facing up.

There was an anatomically correct heart wrapped in thorny vines set close to the crease in his elbow. Blood ran down the vines in rivulets, dripping from the thorns. Budding flowers juxtaposed the darkness of the piece, tempering it. As the flowers moved away from the heart, the tiny blossoms became more vibrant and open. Hayden rotated his forearm, and on the other side, the same vines traveled from his wrist to his elbow, but they were thicker. The ones at his wrist were dry and cracking, the flowers dying, petals falling off, but as they closed in on his elbow the flowers exploded into life, pulled into a wave of water. The head of an orange-and-white fish peeked out from his sleeve, the rest of the design obscured.

I reached out to touch a length of vine on his forearm and hesitated, seeking permission. “May I?”

“You asking to feel me up?”

“Um—”

“Sorry, you’re easy to rile, it’s hard to resist. Be my guest.”

He rested his arm on his knee, palm up, hand relaxed and open. He didn’t look all that sorry with the way he was smiling, but I was too curious, and he was willing. The muscles in his arm flexed when I traced the vines leading to the heart. The inside of his forearm seemed a sensitive place to tattoo. Wherever there was color, the skin was slightly raised, not by much, but enough that I could feel the dimension of the design.

“This must have taken a long time. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Pain is relative, isn’t it?”

I gave him a quizzical look.

“These—” He skimmed my ear. “They hurt, right?”

“Sure, but not much.” Disappointment followed when he dropped his hand.

“But there’s still gratification in the pain, yeah?”

I nodded, even if I couldn’t be sure how much I agreed with that statement. Hayden must have picked up on my uncertainty.

“Any kind of modification, whether it’s to alter physical features, like cosmetic surgery, or to decorate, like piercings and tattoos, cause some degree of discomfort. But that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s cathartic because it’s the promise of change in some form or another. My tattoos give the memory related to the art a place to exist outside of my head, on my body. At least that’s my interpretation, but not everyone feels the same way I do.”

Expelling pain by giving in to it held quite the allure. The reasons I wanted to put my own art on my skin were difficult to reconcile. I swiped at an inked droplet of blood, almost expecting to feel the wetness against my fingertip.