Beloved Ink

by Ranae Rose

  He didn’t have to force himself to meet her eye, like he’d imagined. Instead, he couldn’t look away. His gaze was riveted to her face as he starved for any sign of how she’d taken the news.

  “You are? I didn’t realize…”

  “How would you?”

  She shrugged, then winced. “I don’t know.”

  “I was going to tell you after we got to know each other better.”

  Her face didn’t give him much of an idea of her thoughts. Her angry expression had faded, and she just looked confused, her brow furrowed and lower lip dented.

  “Are you mad that I didn’t tell you from the beginning?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? You don’t look very happy.”

  “Of course I’m not happy. How could I be after what happened tonight?”

  “I was worried about telling you. Figured there was at least a fifty-fifty chance it’d end things. I would’ve said something from the beginning if you hadn’t originally wanted sex without a relationship. I figured if you’d been interested in that, it wouldn’t be wrong to sleep with you before saying anything.”

  Despite Dylan’s advice, keeping secrets didn’t sit well with Ben. It was just too nerve-wracking. He’d rather be rejected up front than live with the fear of it. But what was done was done, and if Hannah rejected him now, it’d be a painful blow.

  Then again, he’d lose her anyway if the night’s events landed him in jail. His immediate future was rife with shitty possibilities.

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting to say anything upfront. It’d be weird to meet someone and bare your soul to them right away. There are certain things about myself I definitely wouldn’t want to tell anyone on a first date.”

  “Yeah, but probably not anything like this. Some people have things in their past they’re not proud of. And some of us have things in our past we can’t keep out of our present, or our futures.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel like we’re on a little more of an even keel, you should know that I have horrible PMS. I’m a monster five days out of the month, and that was something I’d planned to try to hide from you for a long time.”

  He snorted. “At least that’s never landed you behind bars.”

  “Oh, I’ve had a couple near misses. And I can’t promise it won’t happen someday.” She offered him a small smile that was at odds with the stress line between her eyes. “If I’d been PMSing when I caught my ex cheating, I probably would’ve used his own tattoo needles to turn him into a human pincushion.”

  “Can’t really blame you there.”

  “Just so you know…” She met his eyes, the almost-smile still in place. “I’m expecting my inner monster to emerge within the next week. So, maybe you’ll be the one who wants to rethink things.”

  She was obviously trying to make his confession less awkward. He admired her for it, but there was no dodging the fact that he’d just thrown her a curveball.

  “So you’re not rethinking things right now?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to end things because of something you can’t control.”

  He wanted to be relieved, but couldn’t be. She didn’t understand. How could she?

  “Not being able to control it is the worst part. I don’t want to think a lot of the things I think, or do some of the things I do. But I do and it’s – it’s fucking ridiculous, sometimes. I look back and it seems crazy, but at the time, it never does.”

  “You don’t seem crazy at all to me.”

  “I’m on medication. It’s been working pretty well these past few months. I hope it keeps working, but I’m always afraid it won’t. It can be hard to strike and maintain a balance with these kinds of drugs.”

  “Well, you can’t let yourself miss out on things because you’re afraid of what might happen. And I won’t let myself miss out, either.”

  “You might change your mind later. Once you get an idea of what it’s like. Like I said, today wasn’t the first time I’ve been arrested.” There was more to the story, more on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. There was still one thing he didn’t want her to know.

  “It’s not fair to count that if you weren’t being treated.”

  He shrugged. There was always the possibility of the medication failing, of his flaws and failures breaking through and seizing control of his life again.

  Neither of them said anything for a while.

  “Is that why you don’t drink?” she eventually asked.

  He nodded. “It interferes with the medicine.” Not to mention the havoc alcohol wrecked even on normal people’s moods – for bipolar people, it could be like dropping a match into gasoline.

  “I see. Well, in the future I won’t drink around you. It doesn’t feel right, and besides, I think it’d just remind me of tonight. If I never taste another tequila sunrise again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “You didn’t have that much to drink.”

  “No, but it tasted awful coming back up anyway.”

  The pain – that was what’d made her sick. Thinking of that made his head ache.

  “Tell me the truth about your shoulder. I know it’s not fine.”

  She sighed. “Can we go to my room? I want to sit down, and without a couch…”

  They went to her room and sank onto the edge of the bed.

  “How’s your face?” She touched the edge of his jaw lightly, frowning. “It looks bad.”

  “It’s not.” The swollen flesh over his cheekbone throbbed, but it was nothing compared to his non-physical agony.

  “Are you sure nothing’s broken?”

  “I’m sure it’d hurt worse if it was. Now tell me about your shoulder – what did the doctor say?”

  “It’s sore,” she said. “But nothing’s broken. The doctor said I have a muscle tear, and that’s the source of the pain. It should get better as the muscle heals.”

  Ben nodded, and his head throbbed. He still couldn’t believe someone had hurt her like that. He’d repaid her attacker in kind, but that didn’t undo her suffering.

  “What about your work?”

  “I’m going to have to take some time off. There’s no way around it, but that’s life. Sometimes you get sick or injured. My clients will just have to understand.”

  “Will you be okay financially?”

  “Yes. I have some savings. But don’t worry about any of that. You’ve got much bigger things on your plate.”

  “I don’t want to think about those things.”

  She sighed. “Shit. Ben… I’m so sorry. This whole night feels like a bad dream – one of the ones that seem so real that you wake up in a sweat, shaking because you’re so relieved it wasn’t.”

  She’d nailed it. That was exactly how he felt. But this wasn’t a nightmare; it was his reality. And the only thing that could make it worse was if he had to suffer the guilt of knowing she somehow blamed herself.

  “It’s not your fault any more than being struck by lightning would be your fault. Don’t act like you’re to blame; it’ll just make things worse.”

  She slipped her good hand over one of his and squeezed. “I can’t help it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sorry. I know I can’t make it up to you, but if there’s anything I can do—”

  “There’s not.” He shifted on the edge of the bed, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes. “You need rest. I’ll go. I just needed to see you, make sure that you were okay. Or as close to it as possible.”

  She nodded. “I wish you could stay, like last night.”

  He wished to hell and back that things could be like last night, too, but they were so far from that it felt like they were living in a shitty parallel universe. Their night of sex and togetherness seemed ages ago.

  He couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

  “Before you go…” She looked down, a dent appearing in her lower lip. “Will you help me? I can’t get in or out of this thing myself.”

  The things sh
e couldn’t do hit him then, like a ton of bricks. Not just getting dressed, but a dozen other things. Driving. Cooking. She wouldn’t be able to do any of it.

  “Of course.” He stood, feeling like a jackass. She didn’t have anyone else – he was the only one who could help her, and he’d almost walked out on her.

  He was afraid he’d hurt her. He did as she asked anyway, unfastening the brace’s straps and easing her out of it as carefully as he could.

  “Do you need help with your clothes?” It didn’t seem right to presume she’d want him to undress her, but it was obvious that she wouldn’t be able to remove her shirt herself.

  “Yes. Please.” Her face was pink.

  For all he knew, his was too. This intimacy was entirely different than what they’d shared the night before, and he felt awkward as he worked her shirt over her torso and arms, moving at a torturously slow speed, desperate not to hurt her.

  He slipped the right sleeve off last of all, then froze with the shirt in his hands. Where her tattoo sleeve ended, a livid purple bruise began, extending out to touch her collarbone, like spilled ink. Her tattoos probably hid more discoloration.

  “Jesus…”

  He undid her bra clasp for her too, then slid the straps over her shoulders and arms. “Where are your pajamas?”

  “Third dresser drawer down.”

  He found neat stacks of tank tops with tiny straps and rows of cotton shorts and pants. He chose a pink top and purple plaid pants. “Is this okay?”

  “It’s fine.”

  He turned to face her again and was stricken by the sight of her naked from the waist up. Her body drew his gaze like the moon drew the tide, but for once, he didn’t get hard. Instead, he ached in a way that had more to do with pain than desire.

  He helped her out of her jeans, revealing black lace panties that showed off more than they hid. The sight hit him like a blow to the gut, reminding him of how far the night had veered off course and what they’d missed out on.

  “You sleep in those?” They were sexy as hell, and he guessed that meant they weren’t especially comfortable.

  She hesitated – just for a second, but long enough for him to notice. “I’d rather not.”

  “Which drawer?”

  “The top one. I can get them.”

  When she opened her underwear drawer, he saw why she’d wanted to do it herself: there were dozens and dozens of pairs in there. He wouldn’t have known what to pick. She made her selection in an instant, then turned back around.

  He knelt and slid the lace fuck-me panties past her hips, and they dropped to the floor. He tried not to stare at her bare pussy, just inches from his face. No matter how god-awful he felt, she was beautiful – perfect

  He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t even deserve to see her or touch her like this, but he had to. There was no one else.

  He helped her into the cotton panties, then the pajama pants. Lastly, he slid the tank top over her head. He had to pull it down past her breasts, all the way to her hips, so she could get her right arm through the strap without having to lift it. He realized how thin the material was when he finished. Her nipples poked against it, dark and stiff beneath the pale fabric.

  Finally, he helped her back into the brace.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  For the first time since he’d started undressing her, he finally dared to meet her eyes.

  There was still a blush burning across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

  “What time do you get up in the morning?” he asked.

  “I sleep in on Sundays. I’ll probably sleep really late tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come back in the morning and help you out with whatever you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Is there anything else you want me to do before you leave?”

  For a second, she looked like she was about to say something. The moment passed, though.

  Maybe he’d just imagined it.

  “I’m going to brush my teeth and get to bed – nothing I can’t do one-handed.”

  “Call me if you need anything. I’ll come running.”

  * * * * *

  Waking up was like drifting to the surface of cold water, then having to break through a layer of ice. Ben’s body didn’t want to exert the effort, and neither did his mind. He drifted in and out of semi-consciousness for a while, then was finally, barely awake.

  His room was dark the way only rooms with heavy-duty blackout curtains were dark. The alarm clock on the stand beside his bed glowed fluorescent blue, the brightest thing in the room.

  It read 10:57 a.m.

  “Fuck!” He jerked, his heart slamming against his ribs as he gained full consciousness.

  Leaping out of bed, he stood so fast that his head spun and he stumbled. As soon as he blinked away the unnatural darkness that crowded even the clock light from his vision, he flipped on the light and flung his closet door open.

  He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. He’d already showered the night before, before going to see Hannah.

  What was she doing now?

  Probably wondering where the hell he was. He grabbed his phone and checked for missed calls or messages, but there were none.

  When he walked down the hall and out into the living room, Dylan was sitting on the couch.

  Normally, he would’ve been at the gym.

  “If you’re here, why didn’t you wake me up?” Ben asked.

  “Why would I? You needed sleep.”

  “I’m supposed to go help Hannah out.”

  “You still can.”

  Ben frowned and rubbed his temples, willing away the tension sleep hadn’t banished. “I was going to go over as soon as she got up.”

  He grabbed his jacket off the peg by the door and slipped into it, then reached for his shoes.

  “There’s coffee,” Dylan said. “Still hot.”

  “Don’t have time.”

  Ben checked to make sure his car keys were in his jacket pocket, then unlocked the door’s deadbolt.

  “Wait,” Dylan said. “Your medication.”

  Ben swore and turned for the kitchen, flinging open a cupboard. He took a pill with tap water and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, hurrying for the door.

  He’d fucked up again, let Hannah down. What the hell was wrong with him?

  CHAPTER 16

  Hannah broke an egg over the edge of a hot frying pan. It splattered, the broken yoke flecked with shell fragments.

  “Crap.” She grabbed a spoon from a drawer and began fishing the shell pieces out. It was difficult, and the egg began to turn opaque as she worked. Giving up after removing the largest pieces, she picked up a wooden spoon and began to stir.

  The skillet slid on the flat range, and she paused every few moments to slide it back by pushing the spoon against the edge of the pan. When a knock came at the door, she almost dropped the spoon.

  She looked through the peep hole just to be safe, even though she knew it had to be Ben.

  It was.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping inside whenever she opened the door. “I meant to be here sooner, but I fucked up and overslept.”

  “Your timing’s fine – I’ve been awake for less than an hour.” She probably would’ve slept ‘till noon, had the pain in her shoulder not woken her.

  “You should’ve called me when you woke up.” He was frowning. “Is something burning?”

  She turned toward the stove, her braid whipping behind her. Little wisps of smoke were rising from the pan.

  “Shit.” She crossed the kitchen, picked up her spoon and tried to resume scrambling. The eggs were clumped together, burnished an unappealing shade of brown from too much contact with the pan.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Ben said, stepping up to the stove.

  Before she could say anything, he whisked the spoon out of her hand and pulled the pan from the burner. “Does your sink have a garbage disposal?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  He got rid of the eggs and started fresh.

  “You made it sound like you couldn’t cook,” she said.

  “It’s just eggs – I’m still no chef.”

  Eggs were a hell of a lot more than her ex had ever made for himself, or her. She kept that information to herself, embarrassed to even have thought it. If the night before had taught her anything, it was that there was no excuse for wasting mental energy on him.

  Still, she couldn’t help but notice how different Ben was and what a refreshing change it made.

  “Are you making any for yourself?” she asked. He’d only cracked two eggs into the pan.

  “I didn’t think.” He paused, then added two more.

  “Did you get enough sleep?” She frowned. He was moving a little too quickly, and his jaw was visibly tense.

  “Too much.”

  “I told you, your timing was perfect.”

  He didn’t seem satisfied by her reassurance. Maybe he was still tired, or – more likely – maybe he was just upset about the purgatory last night had plunged him into.

  She couldn’t blame him.

  “Thanks so much,” she said when he sat two plates of scrambled eggs on the table. She’d already poured them both coffee despite his protests.

  Even though he had every right to be stressed, it bothered her to see him unhappy. Being bipolar had to make all of this harder on him. She was itching to look it up online and figure out what it really meant. She had a general idea, but when you were in a relationship with someone, general didn’t cut it.

  She didn’t even know what ‘type 2’ meant. She’d decided to look it up herself rather than ask him, though. Now would be a terrible time to bring up something that obviously caused him distress.

  She longed to say or do something that would give him a reason to be at least a little happy. She wasn’t naïve enough to think she could erase his worry, but maybe she could make him forget, for a little while.

  Her entire body grew hotter as she sat across the table from him, until she felt as if she’d start steaming, like her coffee. Now that she’d had rest, her body responded to his presence in ways she couldn’t control.