Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  A tremor of nervous fear prickles through my stomach and I question if I’m insane for letting him tattoo something onto me that I’ve not seen and have no control over.

  “Pull up your shirt and tuck it under your bra,” Park orders, his voice all business, just like he has been with the other clients he’s tattooed today.

  I do as he asks, sliding my shirt up to expose my stomach. The air that had felt comfortable until now, prickles at my skin causing goose bumps to coat my flesh. I can feel the slight tremble in my hands and once my shirt is tucked securely beneath my bra, I slide my hands beneath my legs to keep them still.

  “Do you still want to do this?” Park asks, a hint of amusement lacing his tone.

  “Are you going to tattoo your name or anything ridiculous on me?”

  Smirking, Park lifts his hand into the air, and offers me his outstretched pinky finger. “I pinky promise it’s not going to be my name or some cheap ass dime store tattoo.”

  Pulling in a deep breath, I lock eyes with him, link my pinky finger with his and nod. “Okay, do it. I trust you, and I think we both know that eternal damnation is the penalty for breaking a pinky promise.”

  “Of course. Everyone knows that.” he says with a nonchalant shrug.

  The tattoo machine bursts to life and the buzzing noise fills the room. “You ready?” Park asks.

  “Don’t you need to draw it on or something first?”

  “Nope, I’m going to freehand it.”

  “Oh, err, okay,” I stutter out.

  “Just relax, my wee Rosebud.”

  At the sound of my nickname on his lips, I allow my eyes to fall closed and concentrate on breathing in and out. I fill my mind with only the sounds of my own breath and the buzzing noise fades. Park’s hand gently rests on my ribs, just beneath my bra, and the warmth of his skin calms me further. When the needle touches my skin for the first time, it’s nothing like I was expecting. Rather than pain, it feels more like a scratchy, burning sensation. It’s not pleasant, but it’s bearable.

  Park’s hand rarely leaves my skin, but his fingers move up and down my ribs as he wipes away the excess ink and blood. At some point I open my eyes, but from my position laid on the bed I can’t see what he’s drawn. We don’t speak. My mind is whirring with a thousand thoughts, but I don’t want to distract him when each stroke of the needle is a permanent line on my skin.

  Nearly an hour later, my ribs are burning uncomfortably and my throat is dry and scratchy. I want to ask if he’s nearly finished, but if he says no, I think I might cry. To begin with the pain had been manageable, but for the last ten minutes my sore skin has protested each new line he’s branded onto me. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and count backwards from a hundred in my mind. When I hit fifty-six, the buzz of the tattoo gun stops and I exhale a hopeful breath.

  Cracking the lid of one eye open, I see Park spraying a paper towel with the antiseptic spray he keeps on his table and my entire body sags with relief. “Are you finished?” I ask, my voice croaky.

  “Yeah, baby, I’m finished. You sat really well for your first time.”

  Baby. I mull over the endearment and it terrifies me how much I like it on his lips. None of my ex-boyfriends have ever called me anything but Rosie, never even a sweetheart or darling, just Rosie. I mean it’s my name, but I never realized how nice it was to have a nickname or just a cute endearment.

  The wet paper towel wipes across my sore skin and I wince, both of my eyes snapping open and locking with Park’s intense ones. “You ready to take a look?”

  A pulse of excitement ripples through me. I have no idea what he’s drawn, but the man really is an artist and I truly believe that he won’t have given me something awful. Jumping from the bed, I hiss when my sore skin stretches as I move. Park holds out his hand and I take it, letting him guide me to the mirror.

  Looking at my reflection, it takes me a moment to truly appreciate the image before me. Along my ribs from the bottom of my bra is a rose. The stem is slim and delicate, but the head is an explosion of reds and oranges, each petal a blend of colors so lifelike, I want to reach out and touch the silky flesh. The rose has no black outline and the colors seem to melt into one another like a watercolor painting.

  “Park,” I say, his name a whisper falling from my lips.

  “Do you like it?” his voice is quiet behind me, his chest almost, but not quite, touching me; our eyes locked in the mirror.

  “It’s beautiful. So, so beautiful,” I say reverently.

  As I watch him in the mirror, a slight smile appears at the corner of his lips, and a heated look fills his eyes.

  I spin to face him, rise onto my tiptoes, and place a chaste kiss against his cheek. “Thank you.”

  One of his hands reaches out and lands on my waist, but he doesn’t pull me any closer. Instead he rests his lips against the top of my head. We stay frozen like this for a long, poignant moment, then as if we unconsciously agree, we separate at the exact same time.

  “Let’s get you wrapped up, Rosebud.” He wipes my skin off again, then covers my rose with a layer of Saran wrap and tapes it into place. The pain has dulled to a soreness, but I still move carefully as I lift my arms and pull my shirt down. Park quickly cleans down his station, throwing all of the ink pots, wipes, and gloves into the bin after he disposes of the needle into a medical waste box.

  “I’m ready for a drink, how ‘bout you?” Park says, as he motions for me to lead the way out of his studio and clicks off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

  I turn to head to the desk at the front of the store, but Park wraps his fingers around my arm and turns me toward the rear exit. “We need to go this way, my bikes still out back.”

  “I need to pay you.”

  “What the fuck for?” He asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “For the tattoo.”

  Park scowls. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “What? No, of course not. Why would you ask that?”

  “Then why the fuck would you offer to pay me?”

  “Err, because you’re a tattoo artist, that’s your job, and you just gave me the most amazing piece of art. So I’m paying you.” My tone is short, but I have no idea why me paying would be surprising to him.

  “You’re not a client; this wasn’t a consultation or an appointment. I’m privileged that you’d allow me to tattoo you, so your money’s no good with me. Working on your fucking beautiful skin was a treat for me. I should be thanking you. Now let’s go get a drink.”

  His tone of voice leaves no room for argument, so I just move when he gently turns me and eases me forward with a hand at the base of my spine.

  The clubhouse is heaving with people and heavy bass booms from the walls, making the floor feel like it’s moving as the sound vibrates through my body.

  I glance down at my clothes and for the first time since I spoke to Park, I feel out of place. This club, nights like this, they’re not me. Taylor fits in here—she can wear the short skirts and the high heels and enjoy the attention they garner her—but I’m too short and too curvy to be anything like the women I already know are inside.

  “Look, maybe I should go,” I say to Park.

  He turns and reaches for my hand, holding me in place. “What? Why?”

  “I’m not really dressed for it,” I say looking down at my casual outfit.

  “Who gives a fuck, unless you were looking for a hook up?” His question sounds like he intends it to be nonchalant, but the frown on his face and the way his shoulders have tensed suggested he wouldn’t be happy with his friend hooking up with any of his biker buddies.

  “Look, I have an early flight in the morning, and I have to take pictures of the guest house for the article I’m planning on writing about it. I should probably just call it a night. I can call a cab, it’s no problem.”

  Park’s scowl deepens, then it’s gone and a devastating grin replaces it. “One drink,” he cajoles, pulling me toward the doors b
efore I have chance to argue.

  “One drink.”

  I don’t know why, but I just can’t let her go yet. My fingers are still tingling from where they were running along her creamy skin as I inked her, and my heart is beating wildly. We both know that tomorrow is goodbye; that this short and unexpected friendship will end the moment she steps onto that plane. I wish it wasn’t the case, but once I’m out of sight, her fancy LA life will make her forget all about me far sooner than I’d like.

  Pulling her behind me, I entwine my fingers with hers and move us through the crowded room until I spot some familiar faces. Smoke, Nikki, and Dove are all sat around a low table talking and laughing. Without knowing their history, Nikki and Dove don’t look anything like sisters. Dove is all angelic blonde and Nikki is bright red vamp. Neither of them are what you’d call classic biker old ladies, but they each fill the role effortlessly. Dove is so guileless. She has a way of making you want to protect her. She brings people together and from the moment she arrived she united us. Her sister is a badass bitch and what she sometimes lacks in charm she makes up for in attitude. Everything about her screams ‘back the fuck off’, but once you get past the hard outer shell, Nikki has a heart of gold.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the vibrant woman behind me. Her clothes are conservative, but she doesn’t need a provocative outfit to stand out. Already I can see my brothers’ heads turning as she moves through the club, and if her hand wasn’t in mine they’d be swarming like flies.

  “Hey, Rosie.” Nikki calls when she spots us. The music is quieter at this end of the room and she barely needs to shout to be heard.

  “Hi, Nikki. Nice to see you again,” Rosebud replies politely.

  “Come, sit. This is my sister Dove, and you already know Smoke,” Nikki says.

  “Hi,” Dove says with a small wave.

  “How’s your friend?” Nikki asks, as Rosebud releases my hand and sits down on a free chair. Rosebud’s wince is barely perceptible, but I see it and curse Nikki for bringing up Taylor.

  “Err, it’s a long story,” Rosebud replies noncommittally.

  “Beer?”

  She turns to look at me and smiles. “Yes, please.”

  “Anyone else?” I say, looking at the sisters and Smoke. They all shake their heads and I quickly make my way to the bar, grabbing two bottles of beer before rushing back to the table. Time is running out and an overwhelming sense of urgency is driving me toward her. She’s a friend, platonic, but even though I’m not lusting for her, this need, this drive to be near her is different to anything I’ve ever felt for anyone, even Taylor.

  My steps falter a few feet from our group. Rosebud is sat next to Nikki, laughing, her head thrown back, her hair escaping from the braid she twisted it into earlier. She looks happy and young, free. This isn’t her world, but she fits in here effortlessly and not for a single moment has she questioned the club or our way of life. Her acceptance is surprising. I don’t remember the last time I was surprised by someone, yet Rosebud has been doing it since the first moment I set eyes on her.

  The night passes faster than I want and it’s nearly 2am when we pull up outside the guest house. I only had one beer, knowing that I’d need to bring her home, but Rosebud’s cheeks are flushed from the cocktails the girls had thrust upon her as the night progressed. If she was here for longer, I could see her and Nikki becoming firm friends. If she lived here, she could ingratiate herself so easily with my friends and family.

  But she’s not, I remind myself. She doesn’t live here, she flies home in the morning, and I have no idea if I’ll ever get to see her again. She giggles as she lifts her arms into the air for me to help her climb off my bike. She’s probably had a little too much to drink to be riding with me, but when I suggested we take the van instead, she pouted, and the look was so fucking cute I was powerless to say no.

  “I’m going to miss you, Park.”

  I pull her into my arms, holding her against me. “I’m going to miss you too.” Her sweet violet fragrance hits me, and I hold her a little tighter, not ready to say goodbye just yet. “What time’s your flight?”

  “9:30am.”

  “Are you using the car service?”

  She pulls back and frowns. “I mean we’d planned to. Taylor always uses them, but she’s at the hotel and I’m here. I suppose I’ll just call a cab.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I’ll take you.”

  “You don’t need to do that; I can easily get a cab.”

  “Rosebud,” I say, a slight hint of warning in my tone. “I said I’ll take you.”

  Looking up at me shyly from beneath her long lashes she smiles and nods. “Okay, thank you.”

  Reaching for her hand, I lift it to my lips and kiss it softly. “Goodnight, my Rosebud.”

  Her eyes widen slightly, glazing over with an emotion I can’t identify. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “Goodnight, Park.”

  Her hand slides from mine and she turns and walks up the front step, disappearing inside a moment later. My legs won’t move, and I just stare at the door, my heart leaping around in my chest. Eventually I force myself to turn away and leave.

  The sound of her laughter calls to me and I wander through the halls following the joyous noise. White walls and a grey floor twist and turn. I walk for what feels like hours, the tinkling sound of her happiness my only guide.

  Why haven’t I found her yet?

  “Park.”

  She’s calling my name and I break into a run. The need to find her, to be close to her, stronger than ever before. But the faster I run, the more hallway there is. Turning a corner, I catch a glimpse of her, a flash of red as she darts away, her laugh taunting me as she disappears again.

  “Rosebud, come here,” I call.

  Silently, I tiptoe around a corner, expecting her to be waiting for me, only again all I see is a glimpse of her hair as she rushes away. Why is she running from me? Sprinting, I chase after her, but every time I see her she’s just out of reach.

  “Rosebud,” I call, desperate, needing to reach her.

  “Come find me,” she taunts, as her fingers curl around the corner only to vanish the moment I grab for her.

  She giggles again and the sound feels like torture. To hear her laugh, but not be able to see the expression on her face is agony. I push my body harder, running faster than I’ve ever run and when I burst into an open courtyard, I finally see her.

  Her hand is twined around a statue at the center of the room and she’s smiling, her lips full of amusement. “You found me,” she says, holding out her free hand for me to take.

  Her hair is loose and flowing down her shoulders and she looks ethereal in a long, flowing white dress. I step forward, reaching to take her outstretched hand. Our fingers touch, the merest brush of skin against skin, but at the contact she starts to fade, her fingers turning to smoke and floating away.

  “No,” I cry, lurching forward and reaching for her, but my hands pass straight through her as she evaporates, leaving nothing but the melodic sound of her laugh behind.

  I bolt upright, my breath coming in ragged pants, as my heart beats furiously in my chest. I’m not sure if what awoke me was a dream or a nightmare, but the images are still there, consuming my mind and tormenting me.

  Throwing back the covers, I pull on sweats and head to the blank canvas that’s waiting for me. Tonight, the brush strokes aren’t frenzied; each touch is thoughtful and considered. When sunlight starts to dapple through the blinds, I’m almost finished, and a picture of Rosebud, half there, half a mist of smoke stares back at me.

  What the fuck is my mind doing? These dreams of her aren’t normal and neither are my feelings for her. Everything since we met has been exaggerated: instant friends, this yearning to be around her, and now these fucked-up dreams. I have no idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me, but it needs to shut the fuck up.

  I put the final touches to the painting and step back. The image is both haunting
and wonderful. The laughter in her eyes as she fades to nothingness is perfect, so her. Pulling my cell from my pocket I check the time. It’s 5:30am and as I roll my shoulders trying to release some of the stiffness in them, a glimmer of excitement at getting to see her blooms to life.

  It’s just after six when I pull up at the curb outside the guest house and the town is quiet and sleepy with only a handful of people around, opening up the early morning businesses. We didn’t arrange a time last night, so I drop Rosebud a quick text, just to let her know I’m here.

  Park: I’m outside; let me know if you need help with your stuff.

  She replies almost immediately.

  Rosie: Be right out.

  I open the car door and climb out, closing it behind me. When the front door to the house opens, I swear my heart swells when I see her. Perhaps my dream is lingering, because I want to reach for her, to check that she’s here, that’s she’s real, but I don’t. Instead, I stride forward and take her bag from her and lift it into the trunk.

  “Whose car is this?” She asks, eyeing my bright red Mustang.

  “Mine. I don’t drive it often.”

  “Oh,” she says, her eyes raking over the ridiculous vehicle.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hmm, oh nothing. You just don’t strike me as a shiny red sports car kind of a guy.”

  I snicker. “I’m not.”

  “So, err,” she points at the car.

  “I won it.”

  “You won it?” The look of incredulity etched across her face is almost comical.

  “Yeah, I got roped into doing this tattoo competition. I won and that was the first prize.”

  “Wow. I mean it’s an amazing prize. It’s just so not… you.”

  “Hence why I don’t really use it. I actually planned to sell it, but Daisy mentioned buying it for Dove for her birthday, so it’s just sat at the shop for a couple of months.”