All the Pretty Lies (Pretty #1)(37)
Author: M. Leighton

Sometimes, he has me work on him—shading his old tattoo, working on the new one he had me to trace onto his other side, or inking letters onto the side of his hand. I never argue, mainly because I don’t care what it is. Touching him is a treat—stroking his smooth skin, watching the muscles contract, feeling the heat of body.

He never takes his eyes off me, not even when I glance his way. Not anymore. Eventually, at some point during each of these episodes, he will stop me all of a sudden. He’ll take the gun from my hand and lay it down beside him. He’ll slide off the table and pull me to my feet. Then he’ll push me up against the cabinets where no one can see, and he’ll kiss me. With all the fire and passion and desperation I feel, he’ll kiss me. I only hope it’s not simply a reflection of my own feelings that I’m sensing. The mere thought of that is almost unbearable.

There have been a couple of times when he has helped me to tattoo myself, too. I wanted my mother’s initials on my foot with some vines that wrap around my ankle.

“Why don’t we work on you tonight?” he asked one night when only Paul and one client remained in the studio.

“Me? Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said with a smile, reminding me of other conversations we’ve shared that went by in a similar way. Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him forever. Like I was meant to know him forever.

“Like I’d say no to that.”

“I figured as much. Go ahead and prep your foot. I’ll be right back.”

I did as he asked and was sitting in the chair when he returned. He was carrying a folding screen.

“What’s that for?” I asked as I watched him set it a few feet from the end of the chair and then unfold it, further concealing us in our little corner.

“I’ve been thinking about bringing this over here for a while. Now seems like a good time,” he’d said with a shrug.

Despite his casual attitude, my stomach was a ball of butterflies just thinking about the additional amount of privacy the screen provided us. Pathetic, I know.

“You ready?”

“Yep,” I said, bending my leg and pulling my foot in close so I could work on it.

“Here, let’s do it this way,” Hemi said, lowering the back of the chair, flattening it out in a table position. When it was fully extended, he climbed up behind me, throwing one leg over me until he could scoot up flush against my back. I remember feeling the tight muscles of his chest against me. I remember inhaling and thinking that I could smell nothing but Hemi. Not alcohol from the prep, not the plastic from the new needle packages, not any other scents from anywhere in the room. Just Hemi. And it was heaven.

“We’ll do this together,” he said, his lips so close to my ear, I could feel them brush the shell.

Hemi wound his arms around me, taking my fingers in his, and together we gripped the gun and set the needles to my skin, inking the first letter. Our hands moved in a rhythm, like we had the same vision, like our art poured out in the exact same way. From the first line, the first stroke, it was beautiful.

Tonight was one of the first nights that we haven’t worked on him teaching me tattooing. I had mentioned as I was getting a granola bar out of my purse that I’d had a shitty day at school and hadn’t had much of an appetite for supper. Hemi said nothing as I wolfed down my snack, yet, less than an hour later, a pizza was delivered.

“What’s this?” I asked when the pizza guy brought it back to me.

“The guy up front said to bring it back here to the hot brunette.” That alone endeared to me both Hemi and the pizza boy. I gave him my brightest smile and happily took the box of pizza.

As he was leaving, he passed Hemi as he was bringing back a customer. Rather than bringing the girl back to his chair in his cubby, he walked the opposite direction, toward JonJon. I heard Hemi explain what the girl wanted then he handed JonJon a stencil and asked him to get it started and he’d finish it afterward. JonJon nodded agreeably, motioning for the girl to have a seat in his chair.

I found it a bit odd, as Hemi doesn’t normally let anyone else take part in his work. He does it step by step, start to finish. I watched curiously as he crossed the room to me, walking with purpose. Without a word, Hemi extended the folding screen at the foot of the bed, hoisted me up onto the counter then took a piece of pizza from the box and shoved it in my hand.

“Eat,” he barked. I was stunned by his stern command at first, but then, after a few seconds, he added, “I want to watch.”

I nearly dropped my pizza and jumped his bones. Only I couldn’t, mainly because impulsive sex is impossible for a virgin. And we were surrounded by a shop full of people. Neither of those facts was conducive to an impetuous tryst.

Dammit!

So, tonight, for the millionth time it seems, I left Hemi behind and we’re both…unsatisfied. I twist the volume dial on my car stereo, turning up the music. I don’t hear anything but loud bass, so it takes me by surprise when I see Scout’s SUV fly by me on the wrong side of the road.

“What the hell, Scout?” I mumble into the car.

That’s when I see the lights come on in our house, which is just up ahead. Like, all the lights—porch lights, interior lights, side yard lights. A prickle of unease makes its way down my spine and I see Scout blast past the house going Mach II.

I slow down and pull up to the curb, looking on with horror at the dozens of bullet holes that now dot the white vinyl siding.

My heart is thumping with fear and I hear my own blood rushing in my ears. I reach onto the seat beside me to dig inside my purse for my phone, but the little pocket where my phone lives is empty.

“Frick!”

Now what am I supposed to do? Instinctively, I know better than to get out of the car just yet. Dad would skin me alive if I did something stupid like that.

I watch, holding my breath and praying that the dear Lord above kept those bullets away from my father, who should’ve been the only one in the house tonight since Scout and I were both out and Steven and Sig are working.

Within a couple of minutes, I see the front door open and my father emerge. I exhale in relief, and even smile when I see that he’s on the phone giving someone the ass-chewing of their life. He’s waving his arm and, even from the curb, I can see the thick vein standing out in the center of his forehead.

I shift into park and cut the engine. As I make my way up the sidewalk, I have to pick through a field of empty shell casings as I go. Dad’s rant ceases shortly after I stop in front of him.