Ink (6 page)

Five minutes in the bathroom. All it would take. It would hurt like a bitch, but then he wouldn’t have to worry about the itch anymore. And the four hundred dollars and Sailor’s artwork? Not important. Not important at all. Three minutes, if he had to. Just a few quick swipes with the fork. Just enough to make—

It stopped. One minute his arm sang out in a symphony of poison ivy and insects; the next, the musicians gave their final bow. He looked up in surprise.

“Did it stop?”

“Yes,” Jason said. The insects had marched on without an encore. They hadn’t even left their sheet music behind.

“I told you it would.”

He tapped the fork on the edge of his plate, then impaled another piece of steak.

14

Jason’s arm stayed quiet on the ride back to Mitch’s house. He helped her out of the car, and she kept her hand in his as they walked to her door.

“I think that was the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” she said. “And the company wasn’t so bad, either.”

Before he could respond, she leaned close and pressed her lips against his. Heat spread through his body as he brought his hands up around her. She wound her fingers in his hair, and when she broke the kiss, she didn’t step away. Jason kept one hand on the small of her back, and the soft ends of her hair brushed the edge of his fingers. He reached out with his other hand, tracing the pad of his thumb across the scar above her eyebrow. She shivered.

“Do you want to come in?” she said.

The same words she’d used Thursday night, but this time the question held serious intent. He shouldn’t, but when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t say no.

Chapter Three

Into the Wind

1

Jason woke up in an unfamiliar bed, with his body curled around a now very familiar body. Mitch slept, her breathing soft and even, with one hand tucked under her cheek, like a child. He kissed the back of her head and climbed out of the bed, careful not to wake her up. Should he leave? Would she want him to stay? Last night, after falling back on the bed, exhausted, she asked him to stay the night. Now, with the harsh glare of sun shining in the windows, doubt crept in.

Déjà vu hit when he walked from the bedroom and saw the clothes scattered in the hallway and on the stairs. He found one of his shirt buttons halfway down the staircase. The memory of her hands tugging at his belt sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t want to leave yet; it would feel like sneaking out. They’d had coffee with dessert, so he knew she liked it. He’d make some and wake her up with a cup. Sugar, no cream. That’s what she’d told the waiter.

When he reached the bottom landing and turned to walk into the living room, he stopped, frozen in place. The griffin, huge and menacing, stared at him with its beak raised. Sunlight danced across its feathers and turned them gold. The eyes bored into his with grim intelligence.

So real.

He took two steps closer. The talons were weathered, as if it had been on a long journey. The muscles of the back legs, the lion legs, rippled through its fur, and the claws extended just enough to reveal curved tips as sharp as the talons. Jason knew it was a male—an Alpha male. The chest puffed forward, haughty and superior. It had every right to be smug.

“I told you I loved griffins,” Mitch whispered behind him.

“Jesus.” Jason whirled around.

Mitch folded herself into his arms, laughing against his chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Did you…?”

“No, my brother painted it one year and gave it to me for Christmas.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The griffin looked ready to jump out of the canvas, which was at least three feet wide and almost as tall. This close, he could see the brush strokes and the way the colors blended into each other. It did look a lot like his tattoo, even down to the vivid green eyes.

Mitch pulled away from him and took his hand. “Come on, let’s make coffee. I’m grumpy when I’m not caffeinated.”

She kept her hand in his as they walked through her dining room. He stopped in front of a bookshelf, one of many that lined the walls, and ran his fingers over the spines. Shakespeare, science fiction, poetry, books about Henry VIII, horror novels…

“You like to read horror?”

Mitch nodded. “They’re my favorite. I love reading them when I’m curled up on the sofa with only one light on. I especially love it when I get so scared I’m afraid to go upstairs without turning on all the lights.”

“I haven’t read a good one in a while. My ex thinks they’re all crap. She used to throw them out when I wasn’t looking.”

“Ouch, that’s low. If someone tried to throw away my books, they’d have a serious fight on their hands. So this ex of yours, how does she feel about tattoos?”

She pushed him into the bright sunshine yellow kitchen, down into a chair, and ran her fingers through his hair. Her tank top was thin enough to show off the rose-pink of her nipples, and her boxer shorts—not baggy men’s boxer shorts, but short and clingy—were sexier than the most expensive silk and lace, in his opinion, but he looked away. A black-and-white cat clock with a hanging tail and moving eyes ticked away the seconds with tiny, audible clicks.
 

“She thinks they’re trash, but she thinks most everything is, unless it’s something she likes.”

Mitch moved away from him and pulled coffee from one of the cabinets. As she reached, the edge of the boxer shorts lifted a little; the curve it revealed left Jason tongue-tied. The memory of her body under his filled his mind with vivid images, almost too much to take.

“How much of an ex is she?”

Jason ran his fingers along the edge of the kitchen table, unable to meet her eyes. “A new one.”

“Should I be scared? Is she going to come here, kicking and screaming and demanding that I give you back?”

Jason shook his head. “No, it was a long time coming. I guess neither of us wanted to admit it. I should be glad she decided to leave.” Because he didn’t think he would have, no matter how miserable it made him. The damn vise grips hurt like hell, but they were a comfortable—and familiar—hurt.

She turned around. “She left you?”

“Yes, for her best friend.”

“Oh. Oh.” Mitch giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said between her fingers.

“Don’t be. I’m glad,” he said, then he, too, laughed. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Mr. Good Guy Jason, who always did as he was told, got dumped for his wife's best friend. Such a bad movie cliché. They'd been friends for years and he hadn't suspected a thing. Soon enough, both he and Mitch had tears in their eyes. She kept one hand on the counter and clutched her stomach with the other. He almost fell out of the chair.

When the laughter subsided, she finished making the coffee and brought two mugs over to the table. “Do you like scary movies?”

“Sometimes. If they’re good movies, not just hack, slash and gore.”

“Ugh, I don’t like those either. I’m not against gross stuff, but at least dress it up inside a real story. Anyway, there’s a new movie out now,” she said. “A remake of a Japanese film about a haunted house, and it looks incredibly creepy. Want to go with me to see it?” She lifted the mug to her lips but kept her eyes on his.

“Yes, I would, and I promise to hold your hand when you get scared.”

“Nope, I’ll hold your hand when
you
get scared.” She refilled his mug and touched the edge of the bandage on his arm. “Can I see it again?”

“Sure.”

She pursed her lips together when he took off the bandage. “Just amazing. It looks as real as my brother’s painting. I don’t think I’ve seen a tattoo like this one. The detail. Was it expensive?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

“I don’t mind you asking. It wasn't too bad. Four hundred bucks.”

“That’s it? For something like this? How long did it take?”

“About two and a half hours.”

“You’re joking.”

Jason shook his head. Vic had said the same thing. Mitch’s eyes widened, very blue in the bright kitchen.

“Two and a half hours for this detail? The guy is brilliant. I
so
want his name. Maybe he can redo mine.”

“I have his card.”

Jason checked his wallet but couldn’t find the card. “Sorry, I guess it’s at home.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can get it later.” She ran her finger down his arm, next to the tattoo. “Does it still itch?”

“Not now. It feels sort of like a sunburn.”

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“The griffin. He has to have a name. One like this definitely has to.”

“Okay, now you’re joking.”

“Nope. Mine is Maxwell.”

“Maxwell?”

“Yes. Maxwell the Great.”

Jason laughed, and she pushed his shoulder with her hand. “Okay, I know it’s silly.”

A name floated into his thoughts, like a ribbon of smoke in candle flame. “Geryon.”

“Geryon? Interesting. I think I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t remember where.”

“I have no idea where it came from, it just popped into my head.”

“Griffins guard treasure, you know.”

“That’s what I read.”

“So what’s he guarding? What’s your treasure?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Myself. So I don’t do anything stupid like Shelley, ever again.

“Maxwell guards my heart.”

“Against?”

“Nefarious men.”

Her grave eyes belied the tone of her voice. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m not nefarious. I promise.”

“I know. I can tell.”

2

On Sunday, he arrived at his parents’ house a little after five-thirty. The air held a promise of rain, and faint clouds hovered in the distance. His parents still lived in the same neighborhood, the same house, he grew up in, a neighborhood with well-kept lawns, towering trees, and canvas awnings over the windows and porches. Jason’s dad had handled the paperwork for a construction firm for thirty-five years before he retired. His mom worked at a bank until she got pregnant in her thirties with his older brother, Chris. The pregnancy and the two that followed were surprises. They’d married young and resigned themselves to being childless when children didn’t arrive right away. Jason followed two years after Chris and Ryan, two more after that.

His dad met him at the door and smiled at the flowers in Jason’s hand. Daisies, his mom’s favorite. His mouth watered as soon as he stepped into the kitchen and smelled his mother’s lasagna, hands down the best he’d ever had. The Italian restaurants in town couldn’t come close, even the oldest, most established ones. She made the sauce from scratch and refused to tell anyone exactly what spices she used; as a kid, Jason used to eat the sauce by the bowlful, with a slice of white bread to wipe the bowl clean.

His mom stood next to the oven with a floral apron covering her clothes and a wooden spoon in one hand. She smiled at the flowers and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume, the same one she’d worn for the past twenty-five years, made him smile. Neither expensive nor designer, but it held childhood memories in its scent, memories of ice cream after school on Friday afternoons, of Sunday matinee movies and holiday cookies covered in sprinkles.

She took the flowers and smiled a small, tight smile. “Go talk to your father while I take care of this,” she said, pushing him out of the kitchen. “I’ll call you both in when the lasagna is finished. Since it’s just the three of us, we’re going to eat in here.”

Jason sat down at one end of the sofa; his father sat on the other with his feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table and the television on, scrolling through channels at the speed of light. He finally stopped at a news channel and put the remote down. “How are you doing, son?”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Everything is okay, it really is.”

“You’re warned. Your mom is pretty upset.”

“I know,” Jason said. “I have a feeling she will be for a while.”

“She still thinks you and Shelley are going to work it out. Are you?”

Not for all the money in the world.

Jason shook his head, and his dad gave a small nod. “Well, it is what it is.”

His dad’s stock answer for everything. Had a bad day at work? Car accident? Your wife left you? It is what it is. The phrase always irritated the hell out of Jason. Such is life, another Dadism. These statements were always delivered with the little nod and the implacable feeling the matter was settled, at least in his dad’s opinion.

Except he’s right. It is
exactly
what it is. Mom might not see it, but Dad does. Just like always.

“Did you get a lawyer yet?”

Jason shook his head. “It’s only been a couple of days. A few more won’t hurt.”

“What are you waiting for? Christmas?”