Beautiful Ink Read online

  He grabs my arms so quickly that it literally stuns me. Something tells me he is not as drunk as I thought.

  “Do you have a tattoo? Are you marked by your men?”

  What the heck is he asking? Do I have what? Am I marked by who?

  “No, I don’t have any tattoos. And what men are you talking about?” I’m confused by his questions, but my heart nearly stops at seeing the evil glint in his eyes at my answer. I go from offended to being completely scared in two seconds flat. I don’t want to look away from him, but I need to see if Hold is coming back.

  In the second it takes for me to glance at the garage, he drags me swiftly away from the truck. I open my mouth to scream, but before I can, he hits me hard, his palm cracking loudly across my cheek. My left eyes feels like it is going to burst out of its socket. The excruciating pain radiates from my face down my body.

  “Scream and I will do that again,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Next time, I’ll knock you out, bitch. I can bust a nut either way.”

  His words scare me. He drags me into the woods, the opposite direction from the garage. I know that I need to scream, but if he does knock me out, nobody will find me. Think, Helen. Helpless tears fall down my face. While he drags me with him, I look down in search of anything I can find to hurt him. Before I can come up with a plan, he throws me to the marshy ground, covering me quickly with his agile body. He places his filthy smelling hand over my mouth, sufficiently blocking any cries for help. My stomach heaves at the scent of vomit. I try to buck him off, but he is much bigger than I am. His body lies flat over mine, pinning me to the dirt and leaves beneath me.

  I tremble with fear, my eyes frantically searching for help. I know that my time is running out. I scream beneath his hand, but it only comes out muffled. His fingers on his other hand pinch my inner thighs painfully while he tries to tug them apart. He lets out a string of curse words and I’m not sure if this is to try and still my movements or if he is trying to find my panties. I spread my hands on the ground, praying something sharp can help me. My fingers blindly search without success. When I can’t find anything, I bring them up to pummel his back.

  “Quit fighting, bitch,” he threatens quietly in my face. His sick smile makes me want to puke.

  Everything is happening so rapidly. I fight hard, but I don’t feel like I am getting anywhere. In a moment of desperation, I get my teeth around a small amount of flesh that imprisons my mouth, and bite down hard. He rears back, his hand retreating, and giving me a chance to scream loudly. I hear it echo through the night at the same time the fireworks colorfully explode in the sky above me, the thunderous bang obviously drowning out my calls for help.

  He leans up to straddle my body, before bringing his hand down to deliver a second blow. His vicious slap causes my ears to ring. It seems like minutes tick by before I can hear anything else. The taste of metal in my mouth turns my already sensitive stomach. These seconds give him plenty of time to tear my panties completely off. His fingers roughly palm me, before trying to force their way inside. I jerk back from him, but he only laughs while he unzips his jeans.

  My head swims with lurid images. I know and don’t know what is coming. He is going to take my virginity. He is going to hurt me. My tears leak toward the ground. Accepting my fate, I close my eyes. The sound of a grunt is the only warning I have before I open them to see that Hold has launched himself at my attacker. Their fists pound each other, the next one sounding louder than the one before.

  Someone is screaming. I look up to see a man obviously yelling for help over his shoulder. Several others finally make it through the trees, running toward us. They reach where Hold is pounding his fist into my attacker. Sandman tries to restrain a feral Hold. I watch one of them open his phone and I hear Ward’s name mentioned. My chest feels weighted down as precious air eludes me. Is this what it feels like to have a heart attack? My vision blurs completely, leaving only shapes of those around me.

  “Hels, look at me. Damn, I think she’s in shock,” Hold says, but his voice seems too far away to save me this time.

  The older I get, the faster time passes me by. Some days I am afraid to blink, knowing that time is a rare commodity that I don’t have a lot of. Not that I am worried about my life ending. Dying is the least of my worries. Being found would be a fate worse than death, the thought of reentering the life that I fled my darkest nightmare. He would make my life a living hell.

  I should have moved on by now. The two warnings I received when I first ran were not to stay in the same place for long and not to tattoo. I tried to heed both. At first I took up odd jobs as I moved from place to place. After the second year of running, I even ghosted some college classes, blending in with the crowd to audit art and writing courses at a local university, and, for a small amount of time, it helped fill this clawing emptiness in my soul. But then one day I realized it wasn’t ever going to be enough. Tattooing gives me a reason to keep going, a hope that human nature isn’t all evil, and that people can still shape their own destiny. I decided returning to it was a risk worth taking.

  It’s dangerous to stay this long in one place, but the life I am trying to build is worth just a small amount of danger. Just a little longer, I think to myself, looking out of the small, busy café’s glass window. I blow gently on the cup of black coffee in my hand, not wanting to burn my lip as I did only moments ago.

  Hurried people pass by outside as I sit and watch. A light blanket of snow covers the ground, making the small town look like a postcard greeting. It seems like I am in a fantasyland with everything being relatively normal. A magnificent dream of a life I never imagined, but my greedy heart longs for more. That daydream includes a home I would go back to after having my cup of coffee, with a husband who has a regular, everyday job and the two small children who mirror us both.

  A small pang of heartache grips my soul. I should be content with the piece of heaven that I’m experiencing now, instead of wishing for something that will never be. I could never be selfish enough to draw someone into this hell of hiding.

  My mind quickly drifts back to that night at Screaming Ink over a month ago and a certain customer who I have tried to forget about. I haven’t seen or heard from him since that first meeting. It is better this way. I don’t get involved ever. The times I have come close are the ones where I quickly packed my bags and left town. Not that I want to get involved with him—he certainly wasn’t my type. I only felt bad because he said he didn’t know anyone in town. I know too well that feeling of isolation and could have at least had a cup of coffee with him.

  I test the dark liquid filled to the brim inside of my cup. It has cooled just enough for me to taste the bitterness that I crave. My eyes shut in ecstasy at the jolt of caffeine that hits my system. I think I love my cup of joe just a little too much. Especially, considering I have a small teacup permanently inked within one of my sleeves to depict this addiction. It was much more feminine to get instead of a mug.

  My eyes take in the busy Monday morning crowd, getting a caffeine fix right along with me. This spot is a hub of the local crowd. You can identify the college students by their backpacks or total aloofness with their headsets blocking the rest of the world out. The business crowd is evident by their dark suits and the frenetic way they rush about, cell phone in hand.

  Then you have the loners like myself. We don’t keep banking hours or worry about our GPA. Nobody or nothing to rush off to. No, you know exactly who we are because we have never fit in. The rejects. The never-haves. We sit back to enjoy the cup in hand, either wallowing in our aloneness or envious of something we can’t have.

  A glimpse of neon green catches my attention. I turn to see Ginger bouncing in, her new shade of hair color blinding everyone. It is only mere coincidence, since she doesn’t know I’m here. I know she has classes on Monday mornings. She chats up people while in line, whether they want to or not. I think most are so entranced by her pansy-colored eyes that they are sucked into he
r conversation regardless.

  After paying for her coffee, she turns to leave when she notices me. Her elfin face lights up in a smile and she walks my way. I can’t help but return her exuberant grin.

  “Hey, you,” she says, dropping into the chair across from me. “I forgot that you have the early shift.”

  “Yeah,” I say, yawning. “I was there last night until after midnight. I had to finish that sleeve I’ve been working on for months.”

  “Malik said that it was going to be badass,” she says, taking a sip of whatever is in her cup.

  “It is.” I designed the sleeve entirely myself for this girl who works at one of the local diners. She saved for months and we worked on the concept the entire time. What she ended up having was the entire story of Snow White depicted on her arm. Not the Disney character, but this angelic, mystical tattoo of love, friendship, and loss.

  “Mmm, I really need to set up an appointment to get mine done with you.”

  I glance over my cup of coffee at her while taking a drink. “Oh, right,” I say, sarcastically. “What are you getting again?”

  “I am still thinking it over. You know, it’s a really big decision and I don’t want to rush into something I will regret.” Ginger’s face flushes pink, which clashes with her green hair.

  “Girl, I think you need to just give it up. Malik is not going to fire you over not getting tatted, if that’s what you are worried about.”

  “No, no,” she insists. “I want to. Really, I do!” Her tone emphatic, I’m not sure if she is trying to convince me, or herself.

  “Did you go out this weekend?” I ask, giving her a slight reprieve.

  “Yes. And since you had to work and couldn’t join me on my escapades, I of course found trouble. Again.”

  “Not the douche bartender,” I say, already knowing the answer.

  “He has a nice ass. It looks really good in jeans,” she says, guilty.

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Not let me freak out over him not calling me after the best sex I have ever had. And I mean ever, ever.” She starts to say something else when I notice her looking at the front of the café. “I know that guy. How do I know him?” I watch her face scrunch up as she tries to remember.

  I give a slight laugh. Knowing Ginger, he’s somebody she took home who didn’t call, which boggles the mind. She is a beautiful, intelligent woman… well, minus the hair. I take another sip of coffee while she stares someone down.

  “Oh, well,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, then looking at her watch. “Damn, I am going to be late for class. I don’t work today, but I’ll come by the shop afterward. See you later, chica.”

  “Later,” I smile and watch her hurry out. I worry that I have become too close to Ginger. My smile evaporates at the thought. I convinced myself that it was okay to have a female friend. I have always longed to have that bond with another young woman, to know what I missed as a girl—a sisterhood that I lost. My eyes tear up at the thought. It is a pain that never goes away. Until this day, even the thought of losing her robs me of oxygen. It’s like living with no air.

  “Are you okay?”

  That voice. I glance up into brown eyes. His. A sheen of tears clouds my vision and before I can blink them away, a single one falls. He watches it travel down my cheek. And I don’t see his arm move, but suddenly his finger imprisons it on the tip. Our eyes meet again.

  “Keller, right? Vin,” he says, placing his hand on his chest.

  I nod at his question. He remembers my name?

  “Can I sit?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but moves to the chair across from me. He places his cup of coffee down and then leans toward me with his elbows resting on the table. “Black coffee, huh?”

  Wait, what? I watch him point toward my cup. He wants to discuss coffee? I bring the back of my hand up to wipe my eyes and clear them before looking at him. Today he has a black wool cap covering his head and matching coat over jeans.

  “I remember how you like your coffee,” he says. “It’s how I take mine also. Can I get you some more?”

  “No, thank you,” I murmur. I feel like he has once again witnessed something too personal to share. Yet, I make no move to stand and leave.

  “You working today?”

  “I have to be there at ten,” I say. I turn to watch the snow flurries now coming down outside.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m from the South and we don’t get a lot of the white stuff. Mainly we get a lot of black ice. You from here?” He leans back in his chair while taking a sip of his coffee.

  “I’m from all over.” I give him the truth from the past four years.

  “Military brat?”

  “No, orphan.”

  He takes another sip of coffee, looking perplexed at my answer.

  “What part of the South?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

  He grins, placing his cup back on the table. “I was born in Lafayette, Louisiana.” His voice lowers before he adds. “I grew up on the bayou, living with my grandparents. I dropped the Cajun accent a long time ago. I went to school up North on a scholarship and realized pretty fast that no one across the Mason-Dixon Line could understand a word I said.”

  “What did you go to school for?”

  “Well, I received a degree in architecture. I thought I would be the next Brunelleschi, but instead of designing some dome in Italy, I was only shooting for an NFL dome,” he says, laughing.

  I don’t have any clue as to who or what he is talking about.

  He clears his throat. “I guess you don’t know or care who Brunelleschi was?”

  “Nope,” I answer.

  He nods. “Anyway, I realized that I shared the same passion my grandfather did for restoring the interior of old houses. So I called him up, went to work for him, and I have been doing it ever since. I am restoring a house off of Cedar Street, a 1904 Victorian in the Art Nouveau style. It has these amazing stained glass windows throughout. Right now, I’m scraping off yards of white paint that someone used to mutilate this ornate staircase. Can you imagine?” He shakes his head and sits up in his chair. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

  Actually, he isn’t. “No, you’re passionate about your work. It shows.” I trace the top of my cup with my finger.

  “Is that how you feel about tattooing?”

  “Yes, I feel lucky to be able to wake up each day and go do something I enjoy.”

  “Do you draw or paint in your spare time?”

  “I do,” I say, nodding my head. “I specialize in portraits.”

  “Really?” He looks surprised. “No unicorns and rainbows?”

  He has a natural joking nature. I see it, as he gives me a slow smile and wink of his eye.

  “Sadly, I have tattooed many unicorns and rainbows on sober idiots, but in my drawings the only time you will see a unicorn is if he is farting a rainbow. Or the rainbow could be strangling the unicorn. Either works for me,” I say, not cracking a smile.

  He laughs. “So tell me about yourself. How did you get into tattooing?”

  Electric chills run the circuit of my spine. Every possible warning bell goes off in my head when someone questions me on anything regarding my past. Ginger finally stopped after I shut her down time after time. In the past, when someone would start asking, I’d go running. I know everyone isn’t going to necessarily turn me over to those who hunt me, but I can’t take any chances. My best guess would be that there is a large sum of reward money offered for my safe return, safe being a loose term.

  “I really need to be getting to the shop,” I say, standing and reaching for my jacket on the back of the chair.

  “Let me walk you,” he says, rising.

  “That’s okay. It’s just a block over. I am sure you need to get back to working on your house.” I slide on my jacket before adjusting my scarf.

  “It can wait. Great thing about being your own boss�
��I’m a one-man crew most days. I actually live there while I renovate, so sometimes I even work twenty-four hours when the mood strikes me.” He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the café.

  I try to think of something to railroad him, but before I do, we are already walking down the sidewalk, side by side. Our elbows intimately touch. When I notice, I quickly inch away. Snowflakes fall carelessly all around us as we stroll.

  “Looks like they’ve de-iced the cement, but I would still watch your footing,” he says, glancing over at me.

  I nod, looking back. Our height difference has him almost hulking over me. This would normally bother me, but strangely it doesn’t at this moment.

  “So, where were we? Ah, yes. You were going to tell me how you became a tattoo artist.” His elbow closes the gap to nudge mine.

  “I used to draw when I was little, so it came naturally,” I say, not following it up with anything else.

  “That’s it? That’s all I’m going to get? Really?” he says, grinning at me. “What about your childhood? Where are you from?”

  I stop, turning to look directly at him. Several brown wisps of hair escape from underneath his hat. My own newly colored raven locks blow in the frigid wind.

  “Look, I don’t really talk about my childhood. I lost my family and I ended up an orphan—nothing special or magical about that. I survived and here I am. Nothing else really to say,” I say, turning to march angrily to work.

  “Hey, wait just one minute,” he says, reaching for my arm to spin me around.

  My struggling to jerk away from his hand only causes me to lose my footing and fall intimately against him. Heat radiating from his body warms mine, calling me to inch closer. He must have sanded wood today. He actually smells like the large trees I used to hide in when I was a child, a woodsy scent. Very clean. Very manly. Very sexy.