Tears of Ink (Tears of ... Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

“You’d know if I was.”

  Before I can move, or even try to duck out of his grasp, he has me pushed against the bedroom door. His lean and hard body pins me in place. His hands are on the bare skin of my arms, hard enough that if my ink wasn’t permanent, it would have smudged.

  He smells divine. Soap and musky wood notes. My heart stutters in my chest, banging loudly against my ribcage. My head whirls with his presence in my space.

  “I would never want you just once. I’d always want to know more, to discover everything. Because under these.” His fingers trail my ink. “Is a story I’m sure I’d like to know.”

  I’m lost in his eyes, floating away to some crazy place where his words make sense. I shake my head. “I can’t offer that.” My response is bitter and broken.

  His nose skims my jawline, and I hold my breath. “I know.”

  I stare at him sadly.

  “You wanted to know why I only have five Facebook friends.”

  “You have five thousand.” I quirk an eyebrow. He’s still pushed up against me, his breath fanning across my face, making my stomach do crazy flips and my palms sweat.

  “The real me,” he says.

  “Who is the real you, Eli?”

  “Come, I’ll show you.” He shifts his body from mine and surprises me by grabbing my hand and leading me out into the outhouse hallway. He doesn’t let go as he leads us through a set of doors back into the main house. I squirm my fingers. I don’t want to give anyone any more reason to judge me, but he won’t let go. “Relax,” he says. “Mum and Gran have retired to their rooms.” He sends me a sideways glance and a smirk. “They need a rest after having lots of strangers in their house.”

  I snort with laughter and he chuckles. His fingers squeeze mine tighter. At least I think they do. I could be imagining it.

  We head up the stairs. “Oh my god, are you taking me to your bedroom?”

  “Shh.” He points at a dark door down at the end of a carpeted corridor. “That’s Gran’s apartment.”

  I pale a little. And I thought she’d sleep on a broomstick. We go up another flight of stairs and then another. “Seriously, this is very Flowers in the Attic. Are you taking me to where you’ve been locked up your whole childhood?”

  He rolls his eyes. It’s cute.

  Finally, when we can go no higher and I’m close to suffering a nosebleed, he pushes on a plain wooden door. “Welcome to my room.”

  “Aha! I knew you were luring me to your room.” I’m laughing, my eyes dancing as I walk into the room. I’m so distracted, it takes me a moment to work out what I’m looking at. “Why’s this a studio?”

  There are a handful of easels. All of them placed in different shafts of light.

  I freeze on the spot. “What is this? I thought all my studios were downstairs?”

  He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. “It’s not all about you, Miss Hitchin.” I gauge his expression, but quickly work out he’s teasing.

  “I hate to inform you.” I’ve got a stupid smile plastered all over my face. “It’s always about me.”

  I step into the room, spinning on the spot. “What’s all this, Eli?” His name still sounds funny, but it’s also creeping under my skin. Whispering its sweet nothings inside my skull.

  Eli. Eli. Eli.

  “Yesterday, I was trying to explain what my family were like. Now I’m making excuses for being so evasive all the time. I figured it was just easier to show you.”

  He’s watching me with a hooded gaze. I step around an easel, my mouth open in total shock.

  Hell.

  My roses are there again. A bloom of them, beautifully recreated with oil paints. Thick and dense, they lift from the surface of the square canvas. A perfect blend of cream, peach, gold, and brown that together make a perfect dusky hue.

  “All this from that photo?”

  He shrugs and peels himself away from the doorway, filling the space—brighter, fairer, than all of his paintings. I can sense a spell of obsession weave itself around me. For his smell, for his fingers on my skin, for his kiss. Even worse than wanting all the physical things I know I shouldn’t want—I want to know his story.

  I’m rooted to the spot. Unable to run.

  “Your room was an afterthought.” He shoots me a shy smile.

  “I’m happy to be an afterthought on this occasion.”

  “You might as well look at that one.” He points to the furthest easel, and for some inexplicable reason, my stomach twists as I walk towards it.

  It’s me.

  In black chiffon.

  I’ve got a frown on my face, my lips pursed in disdain. It sums up our meeting at The Ritz in perfect accuracy.

  “I keep thinking about that day.” He’s close, his breath brushing along the back of my neck.

  “Why?” It’s nothing more than a whisper.

  “Because I was an arse, a complete fucking arse, but the thing is, Faith.” He teases me around to stare into his deep blue eyes. “That’s what this family does to me.”

  “So get out. I promise you it’s not that hard.”

  He sweeps a searching gaze over my face and I twist a little, so he can’t read me.

  “I can’t run.”

  “Why?”

  There is no excuse for having your family disallow you from speaking the truth. I want to smack Jennifer over the head with one of the canvases if it will make her see sense. Why is he a bloody lawyer when he’s so incredibly talented he could have the art society on their knees? And I’m not exaggerating here. I’ve never seen paintings like it.

  “Because my dad ran, and I have to be more of a man than him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We are sitting cross-legged on the floor of his once-bedroom-now-secret-studio. “So where did you study?” I ask. It’s impossible to keep my eyes away from the dense oil roses. I want to touch them.

  “I didn’t.” He shrugs, his face open and relaxed. Right now, he’s only the guy in sliders. His smile is bashful, and he runs long fingers through his hair. “I did my GCSE art and then I was told I needed to focus on a job which would be more appropriate for the Fairclough name.”

  I shake my head in shock. “I cannot believe that. It sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Another shrug lifts his shoulders. “I guess so. I got over it, did what I was told.”

  “So how did you manage to wrangle this summer art club idea?”

  His lips curve into a delicious smile. “It was a compromise.”

  “Between what? I can’t imagine your mother compromising about anything.”

  The attic is calm and soothing. The kind of place you could sit for hours and read a book in slanting rays of sunlight, or paint endlessly until the sun dipped down too low for natural lighting. There is something Eli about it. The man in sliders who’d turn up unannounced just to apologise.

  That growing intense craving pinches my tummy and I shift my eyes away from his golden skin and spend some time studying the wood floor. It doesn’t help. “I was engaged, as you know.”

  Don’t I just. An inexplicable stab of jealousy twists in my chest when I think of him with that stick insect socialite. Someone like Eli, the guy whose heart is smeared in paint all over these canvases will never be happy with a woman like that. I just know it.

  Not that he would be happy with me either—that’s not the way I work—but he deserves more than someone immaculately groomed and living a veneer of an existence.

  Call me judgemental.

  “And.”

  His eyes bore into mine. “It wasn’t right. There was discussion about how the situation could be retrieved and I suggested the art camp.”

  I nod, slowly trying to get the story of this man to sit right in my head.

  It’s just the two of us, and I like it… I like him. I can’t remember the last time I thought that about anyone. Normally it’s just a desire for a physical connection. But this is something else. I want to know everything about him. I
want to know what makes him who he is. Why he paints what he does. Why he does what he does.

  “So you can only date someone who is good for the family name?” I think this is what he’s hinting at.

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t nod his confirmation, but it’s right there in the depths of his eyes. “That’s bollocks,” I add. “Even Prince William married a commoner.”

  He snorts and finally shakes his head, although it’s at the wrong moment for my liking. “Rumour is Catherine was groomed from a young age to meet William. Do you think it’s a coincidence they met at uni and it was all happily ever after?”

  I stare at him in shock. “Really?”

  “Course.”

  “So, has someone been groomed to marry you?”

  He waves his hand and chuckles. “No.”

  “I’m sensing a but…”

  “But my family have made it clear, I follow family protocol, or I’m cut off.”

  “From the money?”

  “From everything—out the door, don’t come back.”

  My hands curl into tight fists when I think of the injustice of it. “So you can’t make a choice about your job, who you date, what you do in your spare time?”

  “What they don’t know doesn’t hurt them.” There’s a dangerous twinkle in his eyes. Is he talking about me? My stomach flutters but I beat it down. I’m not even considering that. His situation is even more fucked-up than mine and I’ve had enough fucked-upness for one lifetime.

  “I feel bad for you. And I thought it was crap being dragged up in a tattoo shop in Brighton.”

  He scoots closer and uses gentle fingers to lift my hand, turning my arm this way and that so he can follow the traces of patterns weaving along my skin. “They really are extraordinary. Did your uncle do them all?”

  I follow one creeping chain of flowers which runs along my inner arm. “Most of them. Some I did, but I’m awfully right-handed so it’s hard for me to do anything other than on my lower body.” I point to the small delicate flowers that create part of the chain. “Some Dan did.”

  “Who’s Dan?” The blues burn my face like a spotlight.

  “Dan is Uncle Al’s son.” I can’t help but smile.

  “And you two were together?”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “No, although Al is determined we will marry. It’s his dying wish. Or so he said the other week.”

  “I don’t like this Dan already.” Elijah smiles but my heart beats erratically. What does he care if I’m supposed to marry my old childhood friend? Not that I would.

  “We grew up together, we had an unconventional childhood. Our fathers owned a shared shop, so Dan and I were just wild over the summer months, running the streets and then eventually when we were old enough, we learned the trade.”

  “But you wanted more?”

  My shutters snap down with a bang. “I don’t talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why you ran away from Brighton?”

  He confuses me with his quick-fire questions. “No.” I shake my head.

  “Why you’re covered in tattoos?”

  “Are my tattoos a problem?” Jeez this guy.

  “Not for me, but you are the one who covers them up.”

  “It’s not ladylike to have this many.” My cheeks burn.

  “You don’t strike me as being the kind of woman who worries about being ladylike.”

  I start to get up. “What do you know about it?” I’d die if he knew about my physical cravings. The way I am when I need to pay an insurmountable price and I’ll do it anywhere with anyone.

  My breath begins to come in ragged gasps. Panic.

  “Why do you only have sex with someone once?” His hand grabs my arm and stops me from running.

  “Why do you sit in your kitchen and get drunk by yourself?”

  “Why aren’t you finishing your degree when you are so talented you could end up anywhere.”

  That does it. I slice at his grip with my arm, knocking him free. “You don’t get to say that. Why don’t you fight your family and do what you want?”

  “I do what I want. I help people.”

  I wave my hand at the easels and glorious canvases.

  His arms drop to his side. His face when it meets mine makes my heart still. “That’s just fairy-tale.”

  And then I’m flying into his arms, winding my fingers around his neck, pushing my lips against his, hungry and desperate all at once. He groans a little and grabs onto me tight, anchoring me to his firm body. Everything about him is challenging. Electric. He bites on my bottom lip, swiping it after with his tongue, and I groan into his mouth.

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” he mumbles against my lips.

  I go to wrestle away. How dare he presume.

  He holds me tight, levering me against his rock-hard body. Even from just one kiss, his desire for me is pressed against my hip. When he’s sure I’m not going to run, he releases his hold on my arms and slides his palms down my bare arms. A shudder rumbles deep inside me.

  This guy, he confuses me. Makes me want to run, makes me want to stay. Makes me question everything.

  His forehead rests against mine, his breath fanning my face. I want him to kiss me again. I also want to smack him over the head with the heaviest object I can find. “I’m not going to sleep with you, because as I said downstairs, I don’t think once will be enough. And that’s all you offer, right?”

  He bends slightly so he can stare me right in the eyes. God, I hate his directness.

  “Yes. That’s all I can offer.”

  “Then it’s no deal for me.” He presses closer, his erection painfully jabbing me in the soft stretch of skin along from my thigh. “Believe me, I want to. I’ve never met anyone like you. Not ever. You make me challenge everything. I shouldn’t even be here right now, but I am, because of you.” His eyes won’t break contact and I start to squirm. “But once won’t be enough. I will want all of you, over and over again until I know you inside out.”

  “Is that what you said to your fiancée?” My instinctive need to hurt and lash out, to protect myself flares into action.

  He grins. He actually grins in my face. “Not working.” His lips dip to my neck, kissing along my throat to my ear which he nibbles with sharp teeth. “When you are screaming for more, then I might change my mind.”

  What a cocky shit!

  “You are unbelievable.” I push against his chest and slip out of his grasp. My legs are wobbling, but I ignore them. “I suggest you go and be wherever you need to be and leave me alone.”

  I march past him onto the landing.

  “Friends don’t run away,” he calls after me.

  “Friends don’t act like arseholes,” I shout back.

  “Sometimes they do. Look it up, it’s part of the friendship definition.”

  I pause on the landing below, uncaring it’s right by the Wicked Witch of the West’s wing/ apartment/whatever. “Kiss my arse, Elijah.”

  He leans over the banister, grinning widely. “I fully intend to, Miss Hitchin.”

  What! The gall of the man.

  I stomp downstairs and out of the building by the nearest door I can find.

  This house is crazy.

  One of the pathways cutting through the formal gardens leads away from the house and I crunch down the gravel. What is he like? I can’t work out if he’s just full of it, or if that’s just some front he’s putting on.

  I hate being challenged. I like things safe, at an arm’s length, with me in control. But when Elijah is near, he blurs it all with his fast questions and those fricking blue eyes until I’m spinning.

  “Hey,” a voice calls, and I turn to find Tabitha jogging after me. “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere your brother isn’t.” I don’t stop walking but I do slow my pace, so she can catch up with me.

  “Where’s the nearest pub? I could do with a bloody strong drink. Do you want
to come with me?”

  Her face lights up for a moment before dropping in an instant. “I’m not allowed to go out really without my mum knowing where.”

  “Aren’t you eighteen?” I question her with a pointed glance.

  “Yes, but Mum’s always worried. She doesn’t want us to get into trouble.”

  “What trouble could you get into with me?”

  Tabitha sniggers a little. “Who knows?”

  I look at my tattoos. “These aren’t a statement of a corrupt youth.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “It’s fine, I’m all too aware of what your mother and grandmother probably think of me.”

  “Well, if I was you I’d take that as a compliment, because they only like the most boring people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  “I feel much better.” I grin and point to the boundary wall. “Come on. This isn’t a prison, let’s get out of here for an hour. We’ve got another exhausting day in front of us tomorrow.”

  “And the day after, and the day after that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I think everyone had fun though, right?” I sip my wine, it slides down so nicely. Chilled and crisp, it’s the perfect antidote to a long day; a stopper on my emotional overload about Al, and a good way to forget Elijah bloody Fairclough.

  “Yeah, they really did. Have you thought about being a teacher when you’ve graduated?”

  I pull a face. “I don’t think I’m going to graduate.”

  Tabitha sips at her own wine. She’d looked dubious when I’d ordered it. I’m guessing that although she’s at the legal age, she hasn’t had much opportunity for partaking in alcohol. But with every sip, she’s warming up to my rebellious tendencies. “Why aren’t you going to graduate?”

  With a highly unattractive grimace, I take another sip of wine, and then another. “Your big brother Peter let it slip my lecturer was—is—married.”

  “So? What does that matter?”

  I have to remind myself I’m not talking to Abi, who’s largely desensitised to my extreme behaviour. “Because I had a fling with him, though, admittedly short.” I gulp down another mouthful of wine, keeping my attention focused on her shocked face. “But it’s not about that.” I don’t know how many times I’m supposed to keeping saying this. It’s getting repetitive even to me.