Tattoo (Take It Off #7)(19)
Author: Cambria Hebert

‘Course, him being a pansy would have been a lot easier.

They were watching from the parking lot. He was challenging me with a loaded shotgun so I shot him.

I remember getting in the car, feeling it accelerate as we ripped down the road. I had to force those chips down the back of my throat. I had to sit there and eat like I was still hungry, like shooting that man for no reason didn’t bother me at all.

It made me sick.

Sick with them, with myself.

I walked around for months wondering about that man, if he was alive or if I killed him. I walked around knowing that I shot him, knowing that if he died, it would be solely my fault. When I finally had a check-in with the PD several months later, the first thing I asked was about that man behind the register.

He hadn’t died.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

And that was just the start of my undercover career as a gangster. That was just the first instance in a long string of criminal activity in which I participated.

As time went on, it got easier. I found myself with a shorter fuse, more willing to rip into someone, more willing to get violent. I would tell myself that the scum deserved it, that he was a drug dealer or some lowlife who knocked up women only to bail on his responsibility.

I told myself that my actions were justified because I was doing it for the greater good, that in order to clean up the streets, someone had to get dirty.

And I got dirty… the kind of dirt that soap wouldn’t wash away.

I knew exactly what Taylor was thinking right now. I knew her mind was trying to process this shitty, unexpected thing that happened. I knew she was likely trying to come up with a reason for it, trying to understand how something like this could just blow into an ordinary day and completely change everything.

People live inside their own little worlds, in the bubbles they create around themselves. Sure, they know bad things happen. They watch it on TV and see it on the news. But a lot of people, people like Taylor, never imagine it will come into their own backyard. They never think their entire life could flip so unexpectedly.

I knew it could.

I didn’t want this for her.

I didn’t want her to look in the mirror tomorrow and wonder what that bullet changed that she couldn’t see. I didn’t want her to remember the panic and fear of being held up in a place where she was supposed to be safe. I didn’t want her to walk into every bank, every store and building, only to sweep her eyes around the room, looking for anything suspicious, looking for someone who might be concealing a gun.

It didn’t matter what I wanted, because that’s exactly what was going to happen.

Against me, she drew in a deep breath and slowly expelled it.

“You know I’m a really good palm reader.” I lied.

I practically felt the darkest of her thoughts skitter away. “You read palms?” she asked, doubt heavy in her tone.

“Let me see your hand.”

Taylor lifted her hand; it was completely concealed by the overly long sleeve of her hoodie. I chuckled and pulled it down, revealing slender, graceful fingers.

I cupped my hand around hers, pleased that it no longer felt icy cold, and turned it over so I could look into her palm.

I traced my fingers over the lines and curves in her skin. “Hmmm,” I said. “This is very interesting.”

She giggled.

I liked the way her skin felt in contrast to mine. Hers felt smooth and yielding, while mine seemed coarse and unforgiving. For a moment, I forgot I was supposed to be reading her palm and when I remembered, I tried to think of something that wouldn’t sound completely idiotic.

What did the lines in the palm mean again?

She glanced up at me, curiosity in her eyes.

“This line here,” I said, pointing to one of the deepest, longest lines, “is your life line.”

“Well, my life line has blood on it,” she said, amused.

I glanced down again and sure enough, toward the end was a splatter of blood. “That’s not supposed to be there,” I muttered and licked my thumb so I could wipe away the blood.

She giggled again and this time her laugh was strong enough that she wiggled against me. Desire spiked in my blood stream and something in the bottom of my stomach tightened a little bit.

I scrubbed away the blood and then held her hand out flat so I could study it anew. “It’s a very long line,” I murmured, starting at the base of her finger and lightly following the line down through the center of her palm and to the fleshy part near the base of her thumb.

“I guess that means I’m not going to die today,” she said softly.

My arms locked up around her and I scooted her in toward my body just a little bit closer. I couldn’t help but notice the way the roundness of her hip brushed right up against my cock. The pressure of her fitted against me was delicious.

“You are not dying here.” I promised and rested the side of my cheek against her head. “This here”—I pointed, moving to another deep line in her palm—“is the…” I stuttered a little, grasping for something else to say.

“That’s the love line,” she filled in, her voice slightly wistful.

“Are you a palm reader too?” I asked, ducking my head to look at her in mock surprise.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You are not a palm reader.”

“Maybe not.” I allowed. “Maybe, I just wanted to hold your hand.”

She stilled, like she was replaying my words to make sure she heard them right. I enjoyed seeing the little bit of color seep into her cheeks before she ducked her head shyly. “You can,” she said, holding out her hand once more.

All her fingers were pressed together, her palm facing me. It was more like she wanted to shake my hand. I brought my arm up and slid my palm against the back of her hand, wiggling my fingers between hers and curling them around, the tips caressing her palm.

She sighed, a contented little sound that made me feel like I just completed a marathon with the best time of all the runners, and her head fell against my chest.

Damn.

I wasn’t used to this kind of physical contact. I was used to making out with girls I barely knew in darkened corners of bars or basements. I was used to copping feels and groping wherever my hands would reach. Oftentimes, me and the flavor of the night would drink enough to not care (but never enough to make me drop my guard) I didn’t know her name. And then we would stumble somewhere more private and I would screw her without even thinking about it.

It was part of my cover. I was the guy who was too busy dicking around to pay too much attention to the business. I was the guy who would rather follow orders so I had more time with the ladies.