CHAPTER ONE
“You are so drunk!” Meghan exclaims, bumping into me and laughing. I stumble on the cobblestone street, my ankle wobbling and giving out on me for a nanosecond before I regain my balance.
“Just a little,” I laugh out with a snort.
We stumble towards North End Park, clinging to each other for stability and warmth. It’s a bitter April evening in Boston, the kind of night that braces and chills to the bone. Usually, on evenings when the weather is deathly cold, you’ll find me in the warmth of my apartment with a mug of Irish whiskey-laced coffee and my boyfriend, DVR. Though, this is not any old night. Technically, it’s early Friday morning, but that’s neither here nor there. This is my twenty-fifth birthday, and there’s no one I’d rather get sloshed and stuck out in the bitterness with than my sister. I can’t wait to fall into my warm bed, without so much as washing off my makeup, and pass out cold. I intend to sleep good and ugly tonight.
Even though the spirits sitting hot in my belly help with the chill, my face begins to burn from the frosty wind lashing it. However—it’s not nearly as bothersome as the penetrating sensation of being watched overcoming me. I discreetly glimpse behind us, hoping it’s just the alcohol giving me the heebie-jeebies. When I spot the male-shaped figure about twenty-five paces back, my heart begins to race violently.
Normally, this might not make someone nervous. It’s just another guy out for an early morning stroll—dressed in all dark clothing—with his face obstructed by the shadows he’s clinging to religiously.
Yeah.
This situation is anything but normal, and his intentions aren’t noble, something deep down in my gut affirms.
I must be really distracted because I don’t hear Meghan loudly calling my name, “Abby. Come in, Abs.”
“What did you say?” I ask as we intersect Cross Street along Hanover.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” I smile, trying to keep her from glancing back in his direction.
Even though my apartment isn’t more than a few blocks away, the distance between him and us is diminishing quickly. I decide it’s better to find somewhere safe as fast as humanly possible. Since it’s freezing out, I can use it as an excuse to get Meg off the street without letting her know what’s really going on. I just pray we can find somewhere open this late.
“We should find a place to duck out of the weather for a bit,” I suggest, trying to keep my voice composed and steady.
A glacial gust of air plays through her flaming hair, framing her lightly freckled face. She must be frozen; her naturally pale skin virtually white, like the patches of snow lining the sidewalk, the rosy blush of her cheeks gone.
“Yes, please,” she says, between chattering lips. Even after growing up in Boston, she still isn’t used to the cold. “Where?”
I search the street ahead for any sign of hope, finding only darkness. Suddenly, a neon sign lit warmly in the night appears from behind an awning, its electric colors reflecting off the glass-like cement.
“There.” I point down the sidewalk, tugging her along with urgent strides, widening the gap between us and him, almost slipping a handful of times on the icy pavement. When we get closer to the neon, she must realize it’s a tattoo parlor because she hesitates. I’ve passed it several times before, but never really gave it a second thought. I read the sign, probably for the first time since it opened in the neighborhood six years ago.
“Warped Ink,” I mumble under my breath, visible in the air.
“I don’t know about this,” Meghan gripes.
“The sign says open and the lights are on.” I gesture up and down the street to indicate it’s the only place, realizing the faceless lurker is skulking closer one elongated stride at a time. “It’s this or freeze our butts off.”
“Alright,” she whines with a groan.
When I push on the door, it gives way, sounding off a high-pitched ding as we enter. The warmth hits me immediately, seeping deep under the skin to my chilled bones. I become uneasy when I notice the place looks completely unoccupied. I lock the door anyway, ensuring the shadow stalking us can’t follow us inside. Luckily, the windows are tinted, so he won’t be able to see us either.
We take a few unsure steps inside, looking at the artwork displayed all over the navy blue walls. Taking off our jackets and scarves, we toss them carelessly over the waiting chairs lined up against the front window.
“You lost?” a rough male voice questions.
I glance over my shoulder at the deadly hot specimen of a man bathed in ink, drying his hands off with a rag.
“Yeah—I mean, no. Sorry. We needed to get out of the cold for a bit. Do you mind if we hang in here?”
He has a pitiless expression on his face, which is far too good-looking for any one man. “If you want to stay here, you have to get some ink. Those are the rules, sweetheart.”
What is his problem?
“Do you speak to all your customers like this?” I inquire. “I can’t imagine you do very well if you do.”
“You aren’t a customer, yet,” he retorts with a condescending tone.
“Let’s just go,” Meghan insists, tugging on my arm.
I gently remove it from her grasp, staring him straight in the eye, and say, “You only live once, right?” I glimpse over the wall of art and then at him. “I want that one.” I point to a design of three delicate roses on a thorny vine.
“You sure?” he asks, impressed. Honestly, he’s hard to read.
I walk up to him, standing only inches away, and smell his distinctly masculine musk. I also realize something I hadn’t when I was across the room. His eyes, they’re two different colors. The left is like an Irish ale, rich and dark, the right, a cloudy English sky, distinct and bright against the other. When he notices me ogling them, he becomes agitated. “Are we going to do this, sweetheart?”
“Where do you want me?”
With a flare of his nostrils and a twitch of his mouth, he walks over to one of six small rooms in the back, a blue velvet curtain hanging in the doorway and slides it open.
“I want you on the chair,” he says, his words roll out drenched in sex.
I give my sister a glance. She has a pleading look, shaking her head and mouthing, “Don’t do it.”
I shrug and enter, standing next to the chair with my arms crossed.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks and nods to the black leather chair. I slide on, resting against the sloped backing. He washes his hands in a sink in the corner before putting on a pair of latex gloves. “Where do you want it?”
Trying to figure out where it’ll be hidden if I dress up for a nice date or event, I decide on my hip. “Here.” I point.
He picks up a remote and with the click of a button, my chair begins to lay out flat.
“Turn on your side,” he orders, “and roll down your jeans to about mid-hip.”
Once I’ve done as instructed, he tucks tissue paper, like the kind laid out across the examination table at a doctor’s office, into the folded band of my jeans. Next, he preps my hip, shaving and cleaning it with a cold, solution soaked cloth. He picks up the tattoo gun and turns it on.
“Aren’t you going to use a stencil or whatever you use?”
“I don’t need one.”
The shrill buzzing of the gun sends a nervous tremor up my spine.
“Will this hurt?” I ask with an undeniable waver in my voice.
“I won’t lie.” He looks sincere for the first time since I walked in. “It’s going to feel like cat scratches, intense cat scratches.”
“Okay.” I nod my head and shut my eyes tight. “I’m ready.”
He places his hand on the mound of my hip, below the line of my pants, and it does little to ease me. I’m now extremely turned on. Then the sharp sting of the needles puncture my skin over and over, permanently etching the design, and all I feel is pain. My teeth bear down on my bottom lip, attempting to place my focus elsewhere. I whimper shrewdly at a particularly unpleasant stab.
What was I thinking?!
Not wanting to look like a coward in front of him, I do my best to fight through the raw agony.
“How long have you worked here?” I probe, figuring it’s fair game since he’s doing it to me. Literally.
He doesn’t look up at me, keeping his eyes pinned on the task at hand.
“Ever since I opened the place six years ago,” he answers, but I can sense the distance in his voice. It was mechanical.
“You own it?”
“That would be the idea,” he replies, paying attention to my hip. “Now, stop talking. You’re moving.”
I’m pretty positive that isn’t why he wants me to stop talking. But I use the opportunity to my advantage, studying him. The blue neon sign on the wall behind him reflects off his slicked black hair. His sizeable muscles flex under a plain gray t-shirt. I wouldn’t call him brawny in stature, but he certainly isn’t someone you’d want to mess with either. His old jeans, the same faded blue as my irises, look so dang good on him. His unique eyes focus on my hip, partially squinted with concentration; his stubbly jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry about earlier, when I was staring at your eyes. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—they’re really interesting and unusual. You don’t see it often.”
He continues working, his concentration concrete. After a painfully prolonged period, longer than acceptable for a response, he mumbles, “Heterochromia.”
“What?”
“The thing with my eyes, it’s called Heterochromia. It’s a pigmentation defect.”
“Whatever it is, I like it,” I confess. “It makes you unique.”
He glimpses up at me, his discomfort apparent, his lips tightened into a not quite smile. It’s more of a grimace actually. He doesn’t like compliments or maybe it’s attention he dislikes. Before I have time to ponder this notion, he announces, “All finished.”
“Really?”
I realize it’s been over an hour when I notice the clock on the wall.
“Take a look.” He holds up a handheld mirror, angling it for me until I catch the reflection of three blood-red roses mimicking the curve of my hip.
“Do you like?” he inquires.
I’m amazed by the detail and quality. They look unbelievably realistic, as if they’re budding from my skin. “It’s—perfect.” I glimpse at him with a satisfied smirk. “How much do I owe you?”
He pulls the latex gloves off his hands and dumps them in the barrel. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“But I thought you said…”
“If you want to stay here, you have to get a tattoo. I never said you would pay for it.”
When he smirks at me for the first time, revealing deep dimples, a lump forms in my butt. It sounds strange, I know, but it happens when a guy makes me nervous. And this guy makes me feel like a ball of nerves.
“Are you sure?”
“The owner said it was cool. Consider it a birthday present.”
How did he know it’s my birthday?
Until then, I’d forgotten I’m wearing one of those ridiculous HAPPY BIRTHDAY crowns, with pink glitter and everything. My face heats up with embarrassment.
After he’s explained the aftercare and placed clear plastic over the sensitive skin, he sees me back out to the front with everything I’ll need. Meghan sits in the waiting area by the front window, texting away, completely oblivious to me. We’re practically standing over her before she finally spots us approaching.
“Well,” she says with a flat, displeased tone, “how did it go?”
“Fine.” I pick up my coat and scarf from the chair beside her, bundling up for the nastiness outside, and then my bag. Setting the strap on my shoulder, I ask Meg, “You all warmed up?”
“Yup.” She slips the phone into the rear pocket of her jeans when she stands. “I am so ready to get home.”
I turn back to the brooding stranger. “It was nice of you to let us stay. And thanks for the free ink.”
“No problem,” he says simply.
I stand there staring at him for a lingering moment, confused why my feet, like two huge slabs of granite, refuse to move away from him. I tuck a wild piece of my chestnut hair behind my ear and clear my very dry throat.
“I should be leaving,” I state stupidly.
Because he really cares, dumbass.
“Yeah, you should,” he affirms.
It sounds like a warning or maybe a threat. However it was meant, it hurt. What did I want him to say? Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.
I walk toward the exit, disappointed, glimpsing back when I realize I don’t even know his name. I feel dumb not asking him sooner as we just spent the last hour together.
“I’m Abby,” I introduce myself, hoping he’ll be polite and respond with the appropriate exchange of information.
“Jamison,” he replies with the corner of his mouth curled up, creating a single dimple.
“It was nice to meet you, Jamison.”
I walk out without waiting for a reply, braced instantly by the frigid chill of early spring.
