“These don’t look very old. How long ago was the accident?” he asked.

“You said I didn’t have to answer any more questions,” I said weakly.

“That’s not—” He stopped and sighed. His arms came around my waist and he pulled me into him, my back against his chest. He rested his chin on my shoulder. “Tattooing over scars is difficult. Sometimes the ink won’t take, and the skin is far more sensitive because of nerve damage.” He pushed up his sleeve to expose the bleeding heart. “Feel here.”

I did as instructed and felt not just the slightly raised skin of the tattoo but a much more prominent series of lines traveling beneath the heart. I looked closer and noticed the red ink was slightly pinker in those areas. They were scars that showed something sharp had been raked across his forearm.

“What happened?”

“My mom’s cat.”

“It must have hurt,” I said, shifting the focus away from me.

“I didn’t even notice when it happened. Anyway, that’s not the point. I had this tattoo put over those scars a year after the wound healed. It hurt like a son of a bitch and I had to touch up the red three times before it finally took. That’s why I want to know how long the scars have been there. Even if it’s been over a year, I might have to go over those areas several times before the ink holds. It will hurt, Tenley, a lot.”

I didn’t want to put it off, although the longer we waited to start the tattoo, the more opportunities I would have to be with him like last night. Yet part of me was aware this relationship shouldn’t have happened in the first place. It was only a matter of time before Hayden started asking questions again, and when he knew how severe the losses had been, he wouldn’t want to be with me anymore. And I couldn’t blame him. I was full of fractures and fault lines inside. I doubted I could ever be repaired. Until the tattoo was completed, I would give him the barest details and preserve this uncertain bond.

“It’s been close to a year,” I said.

“How close?”

“Less than a couple of months out.”

“We should postpone the start date.”

“No!” I turned so we were face-to-face. “Please don’t do that. Please, Hayden. Can’t we modify the design so the tattoo avoids the worst of the scarring? I don’t care if it’s covered up, that’s not the point.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” he hedged.

“There has to be a way. I need this. You don’t understand.” I tried to suppress the rising panic, aware it wasn’t rational.

“Hey, relax, we’ll figure it out,” Hayden placated, nonplussed over my reaction. “I’ll take a look at the design tomorrow and see what I can do. I just don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain.”

“I can handle physical pain,” I said, embarrassed by my erratic emotions.

“It’s not the physical part I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?”

“All the stuff in here you’re not sharing.” He touched my temple and followed with his lips. “The physical discomfort isn’t the challenge, it’s the emotional stuff that comes after that’s the problem.”

“I’ll be fine.” I reached around him to retrieve my shirt, suddenly aware of my state of semi-dress and the serious slant to our conversation.

He snatched it from the arm of the couch and shoved it between the cushions, out of reach. “You say that, but you don’t really know.” He shrugged out of the button-down and pulled his shirt over his head, his endless expanse of art on display. He ran a hand down his stomach. “Every single piece has a story. Just because I’ve put them on my body doesn’t mean the emotional weight behind them is gone. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I wouldn’t be asking for the tattoo if I didn’t think I could handle it.” It wasn’t even close to the truth. His smile was sad as I traced the lines of the phoenix on his chest. It was a gorgeous piece of art on a stunning body. I wanted so badly to lose myself in him again.

“Everyone reacts differently. I want to figure out how to help you through it when the time comes.”

“How did you deal with it?”

“Not well.”

“In what capacity?”

He kissed me instead of answering, which was Hayden’s way of ending a discussion he didn’t want to have. I was done talking anyway.

“Why don’t we take this to your bedroom? There’s not enough room on the couch,” Hayden said as I made to straddle him once again.

“Okay, but I don’t think you should stay tonight.” My stomach turned to lead as hurt passed across his face. I immediately wished I could take it back.

“Right. Yeah, of course. I should go home. It’s not like I slept for shit last night anyway.” He moved me off him and snatched his shirt from the back of the couch.

I gripped his wrist. “You don’t have to leave right now.”

“It’s been a long day. It’s probably better.”

He tried to shake me off, so I held on tighter. “Hayden, stop. It’s not that I don’t want you to stay, because I do. I have these dreams most nights, and I don’t have control over them. I’m lucky I didn’t have any last night, but with all the talk about my scars, I’m pretty sure my subconscious isn’t going to be quite so forgiving tonight. I get . . . restless. I’ll keep you up.”

“What if I want to stay anyway?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he shoved his arms through his sleeves.

“I scream in my sleep,” I blurted.

He stilled, eyes rising to meet mine.

“Sarah can hear me when it’s really bad,” I said.

“Who’s Sarah?”

“My neighbor across the hall.”

Hayden looked at the door and then down the hallway to my room. It didn’t take him long to piece together how loud I must be for someone to hear me through two sets of walls.

“Jesus, Tenley, how long do you want to keep me in the dark? I need some fucking information here. How the hell am I supposed to fix—” He stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. “Look. We have a week before I start the tattoo. Tell me now if I’m alone in my desire to capitalize on your loophole.”

“You’re not alone.”

His shirt slid down his arms and pooled in his lap. “Then I don’t give a shit if you sing show tunes and juggle knives in your sleep. I’m staying.”

17

HAYDEN

I stayed at Tenley’s place every night leading up to her first tattoo session. For a student in a postgrad program, she was incredibly disorganized. It drove me batshit crazy, so I fixed the problem by setting up a filing system for her loose papers. I loved doing things like that.

Any other issues I had with her clutter I blocked out by keeping her naked—for the most part. After work I went over with snacks and beer, because Tenley didn’t keep much of either in her apartment. Aside from cupcakes, anyway. Those she seemed to have an infinite supply of.

We hung out and I told her about my day, and she avoided any discussion pertaining to the content of her thesis. Not that it mattered; I’d skimmed much of it anyway when I filed it in the first place. I assumed she thought it would bore me, which was untrue, but I didn’t push it. Based on what I’d read and the numerous books stacked on the floor, bursting with Post-it notes, most of her research centered around deviant behavior. Out of curiosity, I leafed through a couple of them while she was in the bathroom. Beyond the Post-it’s there were passages highlighted all over the place. From what I could tell, she had interesting insight into some rather extreme modification practices, and all of her ideas were rooted in philosophical principles. I wouldn’t offer my opinion, though, even if I did have one sect of the subculture well represented. I had an extensive collection of reading material on subjects ranging from anarchist philosophy and the history of tattooing to classic literature, but my education stopped at high school. My knowledge base came from practical experience and the things I read.