Inked Armor

by Helena Hunting

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I backed up and hit the dresser.

  Hayden planted one hand on either side of me. “Why not?”

  “Because if you see it, you’ll want to touch it, and we’re in your bedroom and the bed is so close and then we’ll be naked and I’ll want you in me and it’s not healed so we shouldn’t do that yet,” I rushed out.

  “Just a peek.” His hips pressed against mine.

  I put my hands on his chest. “Later.”

  “Now.” He nipped at my jaw.

  “Please, Hayden. It’s so sensitive—I don’t want it to take longer to heal. I’ll show you tonight.”

  His forehead dropped against my shoulder. “This is like torture. You know that, right?”

  “It’s torture for me, too.” But I needed to stay firm or I’d regret it later.

  “I knew you two were bullshitting me about the nipple ring being infected.” His hand drifted over my hip and down to the hem of my dress, sliding under and up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, panicked. “Nothing.” His hand went into my tights from behind.

  “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

  He kissed me softly.

  I gasped when his fingers glided lightly over the smooth skin. “Hayden,” I pleaded.

  “You said I could see it tonight. You didn’t say anything about touching.” His tongue slipped past my lips, penetrating and retreating at the same time as one of his fingers slipped inside me.

  I whimpered and he retracted immediately, moving higher until they reached the tiny steel ball.

  “Fuuuuck,” he muttered, circling the piercing.

  The barbell shifted, sending an electric jolt ricocheting through me. His mouth was going to feel incredible. His hand disappeared and he stepped back.

  “Maybe I should call and delay the shopping trip,” I said hopefully.

  “Nah. I think you’re right; you can show me later. And while you’re out today”—he lifted his fingers to his mouth and tasted them—“you can think about what I’m going to do to you tonight.”

  “Which would be what?” I asked, ridiculously breathless.

  “I’m going to make you come so hard, so many times; the only thing you’ll be able to think about is what it will be like when I’m finally inside you again.”

  14

  TENLEY

  The tension didn’t dissipate as we headed to the diner, but at least when he was driving, his attention was on something besides me. I was achy and irritable after his teasing. Was this what guys felt like when they were left hanging? Hayden was distracted while we had breakfast, but I didn’t think it had to do with sexual frustration.

  When we got back in the car, he tapped the steering wheel nervously. “Do we have time to go somewhere?”

  “Sure. Lisa isn’t picking me up for an hour.”

  “Okay. Good.” He kissed me on the cheek before he put the car in gear.

  Hayden drove down back streets until we reached Hyde Park. As we went deeper into the maze of streets, the houses grew progressively larger and the front gardens more elaborate. He stopped in front of a two-and-a-half-story Victorian complete with turret and a circular front porch. Huge planters were on either side of the front steps. The windows were leaded glass and the shutters were painted a sharp black, a lovely contrast to the brick. The house was beautiful.

  “This is where I grew up,” he said, shifting the car into park.

  “It’s incredible.”

  “It was. I guess it still is. I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have when I was a kid.” He took my hand, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb. “It took a long time to sell after my parents died. Nate took care of it because I was too young to do it on my own. It’s been up for sale a few times since then.”

  “Is it because of what happened?”

  Sometimes events left a shadow. When Connor and his family died, the house still retained an echo of their presence. I wondered if with Hayden’s parents’ death, the echo was more like a scream.

  “Legally you have to disclose a murder to potential buyers, so it was a deterrent. Last year it went up for sale in early fall. It was a good time of year to sell. Everything looked Norman Rockwell perfect. The leaves had turned yellow and orange and the gardens were fantastic. My mom was all about her gardens.” He paused, caught up in a memory.

  I waited for him to continue, aware Hayden didn’t share this information with just anyone.

  “I came to an open house because I was curious, you know? The family living there had turned my parents’ bedroom into an office. It didn’t look the same, but it still made me panicky to be in there.”

  “I can only imagine.” I squeezed his hand.

  “There was a safe built into the wall. My mom hung one of her paintings over it to keep it hidden. Whoever bought the house did the same thing, which was the point, I guess. But it freaked me out because the art on the wall was one of those medieval angel prints. It threw me because the one my mom had up was an angel, too, except modern. And the color scheme was way different, but it still freaked me out. . . .”

  He lapsed into silence, chewing on his viper bites as he looked out the window at the house. “I have this fucked-up memory from the night my parents were murdered.”

  I shifted to face him. Hayden rarely spoke about his parents, or the events surrounding their deaths.

  “I’ve never talked about this with anyone. And I don’t know if I’m remembering things wrong since I was so fucked up.” He played with my fingers as he gathered his thoughts. “The moment I opened the door to their room, everything became hyperclear, but at the same time I sort of . . . stepped outside of my body. You know when you’re in a dream, and it’s like you’re watching the events from outside yourself?”

  I nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “That’s what it was like. That painting that hid the safe was the same one my entire life. It wasn’t valuable or anything. It was a piece she’d done when she was in art school. Most of them were landscape paintings, except this one. It was an angel, but it was done in shades of red. It was . . . dark.”

  “Dark how?”

  He contemplated the question. “It was just different. Usually the things she painted were beautiful. This one wasn’t like that. Not conventionally, anyway.”

  “Like the tattoo on your shoulder?”

  “That was the first big piece I got after my parents died. Damen put it on me. It wasn’t meant to be beautiful at all, but the things my mom painted were. This one was beautiful and disturbing at the same time.

  “When I was a kid, like five or six, and my dad was away on business, I’d come into their room in the middle of the night. I’d make my mom sleep on his side of the bed. I told her it was so I could have her pillow ’cause I liked it better.

  “But it was really so I didn’t have to see that painting, ’cause it scared the shit out of me.” He looked away. “Anyway. The first thing I saw when I cracked opened the door was the painting. It was lying on the floor. I didn’t understand what had happened, at first. Then I saw my parents. There was so much blood.” He shuddered. “Even after I realized they were dead, I kept fixating on that stupid painting.”

  “You were in shock.”

  “I guess. There was spatter all over the wall and the floor. I worried that the blood was on that painting, but it blended in and I couldn’t see it. I knew when the police came they’d take everything that wasn’t nailed down as evidence, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing it. Not because I liked it, but because of what it meant to my mom. I couldn’t force myself to go into that room and do anything about it, though.”

  His eyes shifted from the house to me, his expression one of guilt and shame. I understood them both so well.

  “It was like if I could just put the painting back where it belonged, it would undo what happened, and I would be okay. Except I couldn’t go into the room. I went downstairs and called the police and destroyed
the living room because I was too scared to go back upstairs. I just wanted it all to be an awful trip. I kept hoping my mom would come down and tear me a new asshole because of the living room.”

  “It must have been terrifying,” I said hoarsely, imagining his pain.

  “I don’t know why all this shit is coming back now, after all these years.” He stared out the windshield, his gaze unfocused.

  I could guess as to the reason.

  “You know what the most fucked-up part is, though? In the crime scene photos, the red angel painting wasn’t there. I swore up and down it had been on the floor. I remembered it so clearly, but crime scene photos don’t lie—right?” He looked at me for confirmation. It was awful to realize he didn’t trust his own memory.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Do you know what happened to the painting?”

  “If it’s anywhere, it would be in a storage unit across town. That’s where Nate put everything that wasn’t auctioned off after we sold the house.”

  “We could look for it, if you want. I’d be happy to go with you.”

  “Maybe after the holidays or something.”

  The front door of the house opened, and a woman stepped out with five teens. They headed down the front steps to the black minivan in the driveway.

  “The house was bought by some foundation and converted into a group home,” Hayden said.

  “Was that hard for you?”

  “No. I was glad, because I don’t think a family should live there. It’s like the house is tainted by what happened.” Even though it was hot in the car, Hayden shivered. “I can sit here and look at the outside and it’s mostly manageable. But being inside wasn’t good for me. After I went to that open house, I flipped my shit.”

  He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger and watched it unfurl like a ribbon. “I hadn’t been with Sienna in months, but that night . . . I went to her. It was so fucking dumb. I was angry at myself for what happened to my parents, and I wanted to stop feeling . . . anything. It was the worst thing I could have done, and the last time I was with her.”

  He put the car in gear. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  I waited until we were a few streets away from the house. “I’m glad you shared that with me.”

  “All it does is show you how fucked up I am.”

  “We both have issues, Hayden. At least now I understand better what happened to you.”

  We drove in silence until Hayden stopped at a red light. To the right was a police station. “That’s where Cross and his partner interrogated me.”

  “That must have been horrible.”

  “Yeah. It was shitty. I was pretty out of it, though.”

  He flicked on the turning signal and checked over his shoulder before he turned into the station’s parking lot. He slid into an empty space and put the car in park, but didn’t let go of the wheel.

  I rested my hand on the back of his neck. “Are you okay?”

  His head dropped forward. “I don’t know why I stopped here.”

  “Do you want to go in?”

  I fingered the hair at his nape, dragging my nails back down repeatedly, hoping to calm him. He let go of the steering wheel and flattened his palms on his thighs.

  “I don’t know. We don’t have time. You’re going out with the girls in half an hour.”

  “Sarah’s always late. There’s no way we’ll leave on time. I’ll send a message and let them know I’m running behind.”

  This was incredible progress. I didn’t want something as inconsequential as shopping to interfere. It took another minute or two before he turned off the engine.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Of course.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “Thanks.” He opened the door and came around the car to help me, gripping my hand as we crossed the parking lot. He pushed through the first set of doors and stopped abruptly. “God, nothing has changed.”

  I peered through the second set of glass doors, wondering where Hayden had gone in his head. He squeezed my hand and tugged me forward.

  People in suits and uniforms crossed with purpose through the main foyer and down hallways. Every officer who passed us gave me a brief, curious glance, but their eyes quickly moved to Hayden and stayed there. I could feel their judgment as they took in the heavy-soled boots and the worn jeans. His black winter coat was nondescript, drawing attention up to his face.

  His hair was a mess. What once had verged on a Mohawk was now grown in on the sides. The length should have toned down the severity of his appearance, but the wind and the lack of a haircut made it wild and out of control. The piercings in his face and his hostile expression only added to the problem.

  Hayden’s tongue ring appeared and made a circuit between his lips. He ignored the stares and headed for the information desk, pulling me along beside him. The receptionist was busy answering phone calls. She glanced up at Hayden and then at me, holding up a finger. Hayden was antsy, eyes darting around the room as he leaned against the counter. His knuckles rapped restlessly on the desk, his foot joining in as the receptionist continued to field phone calls.

  A passing officer stopped, regarding us both with curious speculation. Her hands went to her hips. It seemed to be a standard pose for police, putting them in reach of their gun. She looked from Hayden to me. “I’m Officer Miller. Is there anything I can do to help you?” Her tone was soft and mild concern was in her eyes.

  I forced a smile and put a hand on Hayden’s arm. “He’s looking to speak to someone about a closed case.”

  Officer Miller asked me if we had a case number for reference.

  “I didn’t know I needed one,” Hayden said, his voice as hard as his face.

  Her eyes settled on Hayden. “It simplifies things if we have a case number. What was the offense?”

  “Murder,” Hayden replied flatly.

  I cut in to explain. “His parents were murdered several years ago. The case was never solved—”

  “I’m looking for information beyond what was in the newspapers. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” Hayden grabbed for my hand again. “Maybe I should do this another time.”

  “Whatever you want, Hayden. We can come back if that’s what you need,” I reassured him. I’d seen him distraught a few times, but this was beyond what I’d witnessed before.

  Officer Miller’s stance relaxed as she realized his abrasiveness was a result of nerves. “Do you think you might have new information?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe? There are some memories—” He stopped midsentence, looking over Officer Miller’s shoulder.

  Officer Cross passed through the lobby, spoiling any progress we’d made. As soon as he saw Hayden, a flashing red beacon of mutiny amid the regimented, he altered his course and headed for us like a missile aimed at a target. Ready for destruction.

  “Miss Page, how are you?” His smile was calculated as he extended a hand. I shook it out of obligation.

  Hayden bristled beside me, his eyes narrowing. Officer Miller picked up on it immediately, and her demeanor changed, the easygoing nature replaced by suspicion.

  “Officer Cross. It’s nice to see you, again,” I lied.

  “I heard you went back to Arden Hills to take care of some family things. I hope everything’s all right.”

  My smile faltered. “Um, yes. Everything’s been dealt with.”

  “Well, that’s certainly good to hear.”

  “How would you know that?” Hayden asked the question I’d been wondering, his tone icy.

  Officer Cross turned to Hayden and smiled arrogantly. “I stopped in at that little antique store. What’s it called? Serenity?”

  Officer Miller’s focus was on Hayden as his eyes drilled holes into Officer Cross.

  “What brings you here, Stryker? Another parking infraction? Maybe an indecent-exposure charge?” Although Cross was smiling, no humor was in it.

  Officer Mi
ller gave him a dubious look. “He’d like some intel on a case.”

  “Oh? What case is that?”

  “My parents’ murder.”

  Cross’s arrogant smile dropped. “The case is closed.”

  I jumped in, worried he might push Hayden’s buttons and set him off. “Hayden was hoping to access public records. I’m not sure how to go about having a case reopened, but if he could just see whatever files are available—”

  Cross caressed the butt of his gun. “That would require new evidence.”

  Officer Miller frowned at Cross. “To reopen the case, that is. Typically it’s best to start with the investigating officer.”

  Hayden exploded, just as I feared. “Fuck that! I’m not talking to the dick who screwed up the investigation in the first place.” Hayden’s voice rose as his anger gathered steam and railroaded ahead, oblivious of the damage he was doing. “This fucker had me in a room for three hours, showing me close-ups of my father’s gray matter splattered all over the goddamn wall, while the person who put the bullet in him got away with it.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “Hayden, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t helping.”

  He shook me off, fists clenched. “I knew this would happen,” he spat.

  “You need to take a step back,” Cross said, chest puffing up, his satisfaction obvious.

  Hayden’s head snapped toward him. “Pardon me?”

  “You need to step away from Miss Page.”

  “What? Why?”

  People were staring; hands moved unnecessarily toward hips where Tasers and guns were located. Hayden was many things, but he wasn’t violent. Although where Cross was concerned, he might make an exception.

  “It’s okay.” I moved closer to Hayden, latching on to his arm.

  Officer Miller frowned, watching the interaction with professional detachment.

  “Miss Page, I advise you to step back,” Officer Cross said.

  “Are you serious? You think I’m going to hit her?” Hayden asked, incredulous.

  “I think you’re forgetting that I’ve seen you worked up before, Mr. Stryker. You’re very agitated right now,” Officer Cross replied, calm and rational.