Keeping King

by Anne Jolin

  I follow him, assessing him as he moves. He has small gauges in his ears and a lip piercing that distracts me each time his lips part. His messy, slightly-too-long hair begs me to touch it. Finally realizing I’m ogling over him, I mentally kick myself and focus on my surroundings instead.

  There are four tattoo stations out front. Through a large, glass window at the back, I see what looks like a piercing room, and across the hall from that is an office perhaps. I don’t see any other people and I’m unaware if that is normal or odd, so I don’t mention it.

  Upon leading me to the station in the back right, he taps the black tattoo table. “Have a sit, love, and tell me about your tattoo.”

  “Uhm…” Wow. I didn’t think this would be so hard.

  Sitting down on his chair in front of me, he smiles reassuringly. “How about we start with where you want it and how big you’d like it to be?”

  I point to the area under my left breast, over my rib cage. “I’d like it here”—I make a circle the size of a magazine page with my hands—“roughly this big.”

  Foster nods as I talk, nibbling on his lip ring while he writes the information down as I relay it to him. “Well”—he smiles proudly—“I feel with utmost certainty that I won’t have to kick you out now.”

  “Wh-what… I…” I furrow my brow in confusion.

  “There’s no way you’re getting an infinity symbol or some equally as silly cliché girl tattoo that would be that big,” he laughs playfully. “So I think I’ll keep you.”

  I’m not really good with people—at least not anymore. But something about him puts me at ease, and I return his laughter with some of my own.

  “Okay, love. The million-dollar question: What kind of design are you thinking?”

  After swallowing hard, I start to describe it. “I want an eagle flying. One wing wrapping over here”—I point under my breast again—“and the other wrapping onto my back. I’d like for it to be black and white, shaded onto my skin, and in the wings, I’d like a quote.”

  Still writing, he nods for me to continue.

  “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

  “Shakespeare,” Foster acknowledges. “It’s a big piece. It’ll take me some time to put a sketch together for you, but I like it. Is there anything else?”

  This is it. The part that has kept me from getting one for so long.

  “I want it to cover up scars.”

  This perks his attention. He’s been gentle with me thus far, as if he suspected there was more to this than a tattoo.

  “Scar tissue is typically harder to tattoo, but it would depend on the size and where I can work them into the design we create.”

  I nod.

  “Peyton?”

  “Yes.”

  He looks uncomfortable, and I don’t blame him. “I’m going to need to see them.”

  Nodding, I shimmy my butt to the end of the table and stand. Only two people have seen them besides me—the doctor and Colt. Curling my fingers under the hem of my tank top, I pull it all the way up over my chest. Then I hook my fingers into the underwire of my bra and lift that too, worrying less about accidentally exposing my chest than about showing him the wounds that are far more mental than physical.

  Closing my eyes, I wait for his reaction. I feel his breath move over my skin, and I wince slightly when a gloved hand runs over them.

  “If we position your eagle here”—he places his hands on my body in the shape of wings—“then I think I can work the scars into the feathers of the wings.”

  Sighing in relief, I look down at him while he studies my virgin skin. Well, virgin in the sense that it is not marred by ink—only scars.

  Lost in my own head, I barely hear the chime over the front door sound as voices fill the room, one male, one female. Looking over my shoulder, I freeze.

  “What in the ever-loving fuck?” he booms, storming across the shop.

  Foster, completely in his own artistic world, doesn’t even notice the commotion as he continues to touch my skin, positioning his hands in different places, making notes as he goes.

  “H-hey,” I stammer awkwardly when he stops in front of me.

  As he looks down to my bare stomach and back up to my eyes, an animalistic sound crawls up his throat and I nervously pull my shirt down. Gripping Foster by the back of his neck, he leans down and whispers something into his ear. Foster’s eyes flash up to meet mine, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh.

  “Sure thing, boss,” he says before winking at me. “Pleasure to meet you, love. Boss man will take it from here.”

  “Oh… Uhh…okay,” I whisper. “It was nice to meet you too.”

  When we’re finally alone, I can barely even look him in the eyes. I’ve had a crush on him for a solid two years and we’ve barely spoken. He’s also never looked this murderous in his entire life. He’s usually laughing or telling awful jokes.

  “Baby, go wait in my office. I’ll be right there.”

  My head snaps up when I think he’s talking to me, but instead, I follow his gaze to the woman standing a few feet behind me. Oh. She’s much taller than I am, probably Lennon’s height—five foot ten or so. Long, black hair cascades down her back, and a tight summer dress shows off her full curves. She’s pretty—not the trashy kind, either. More like the kind you want to kick in the shins and hope she has a crap personality.

  “Okay, honey,” she purrs, dipping in to kiss him on the cheek and run her pink nails over his biceps.

  “Now,” he demands.

  Glaring at me, she turns around, sauntering into the back office.

  “What are you doing here so late on a Friday?” he questions.

  I’m shy, but I’m not a coward. Straightening my back so I stand my full five foot five, I say sarcastically, “It’s a tattoo shop. I’m getting a massage, of course.” I roll my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a moment of stupidity.

  The harsh look on his face disappears and he studies me intently. “What’s my name?”

  “Uhm… Wh-what. . . It’s . . .” I sputter, looking down at the ground. The heat of being so close to him has my heart beating out of my chest and my brain apparently fleeing the building.

  “Breathe, sugar.” His deep voice rolls over me, and I shudder. “Answer the question.”

  My mind spins, and I can barely remember the question. God, this is so embarrassing.

  His fingers press under my chin, tilting my head up to look at him. “What’s my name, Pey?”

  “Jayden,” I say in a whisper.

  He smiles, and there it goes. The rest of my dignity melts into a puddle on the hardwood floor.

  “My full name, sug.”

  I should be annoyed by the way he’s treating me, but all I can focus on is where his skin is touching me. It burns with a warmth that spreads through my body like wildfire.

  “Jayden King.”

  He stares at me as if waiting for a light bulb to go off, but it doesn’t happen. I just stand there, dumbly drinking him in.

  Jay is huge, at least a foot taller than I am, and every inch of him is solid muscle. His hair is dark, often buzzed short military-style, and very rarely is he clean shaven. Today, he’s sporting a five-o’clock shadow, and I ache to know what it feels like against my smooth skin. Tattoos cover both of his arms, snaking down onto his hands and knuckles. I’ve admired them before, but never as close as I’ve wanted to. I let my eyes drift until they finally come back to his face, and when his blue eyes pin me with a knowing stare, a blush floods my skin.

  He makes me feel like a child as I lust over this man I’ll never have, crave his innocent touches like this. Ugh. Pathetic.

  “I own the shop,” he states.

  Son of a bitch. Shit. Fuck. Christ Almighty. Of course he owns the bloody shop. Jesus! The King’s Mistress? It was practically a fucking warning sign for, Hello, your man crush is in here. Do not proceed. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Goddamnit.
r />   Finally, I come out with a lame, “Oh.”

  When he drops his hand from my chin, I practically whine at the loss of contact. He picks up Foster’s note pad, reading over the scribbled jargon before looking up at me. But not at my face—he looks below, just under my chest.

  Please don’t let him have seen the scars.

  “This will be a nice piece,” he admires. “I’ll do it for you.”

  My jaw feels like it’s going to hit the floor any minute. “Oh, you don’t have to.” I search for a good excuse. “Foster seems really great. I’d like him to do it.”

  Crossing his huge arms over his chest, he leans in until we are touching. “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Or well . . . I know you can, but . . . he’s fine.”

  His laughter coils around me, and my heart feels like its suffocating in his proximity. “I want to do it.” Reaching up, he pushes my hair behind my ear. “And, sugar, Foster is much better than fine.”

  Ugh. Asshole. He knew what I meant. I swear he’s torturing me and he loves it.

  “Perfect,” I lie. There are a million and one reasons I won’t let Jayden tattoo me. One, he’d see my scars, and two, I’d probably orgasm from having his body so close to mine for multiple hours.

  “Honey?” his black-haired “friend” calls from the office doorway.

  Eyeing me over, he seems concerned. “Where are you going right now?”

  “Home,” I mutter, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

  “It’s late.”

  Here we go again—he’s treating me like a child.

  “It’s only eight, and I’m twenty-three, not twelve.”

  “I know you’re not twelve,” he whispers. “Just, with everything that happened, maybe I should take you . . .” Jayden trails off.

  I know he’s referring to last month when Beth, my roommate, had the crap kicked out of her by her rich-ass, rotten boyfriend.

  “She has her knight in expensive Armani, Jayden. Everything’s fine.”

  Swallowing hard, he looks like he isn’t going to let it go, but he does. “Be safe.”

  “I will. Thanks.” I smile before eyeing the door to his office. “Have fun.”

  Turning on my heel, I nearly run smack into Jackson’s chest as I walk out the shop door.

  “Hey, you,” he grins, leaning down to hug me.

  Jackson is the ex of Hannah, Beth’s sister, and also Jayden’s best friend.

  “Hey. More ink?” I question with raised eyebrows.

  He nods. “Jay’s touching up some of the old work on my sleeve tonight.”

  Hmm. I guess he won’t be having that much fun with lady long legs.

  “Good luck, then,” I say, standing up on my tiptoes to hug him back.

  “Ah, luck’s for the weak. Be safe,” he calls out after me.

  I know. I know. Be safe.

  My stomach growls as I kick the door to my Sunfire shut. Heaving the overzealous amount of Chinese food, I get out of my passenger’s seat. Tonight, I am going to curl up, watch a movie, and eat myself into a food coma. That will make up for my embarrassing run-in with my crush tonight.

  While climbing the stairs to my condo, I fish around in my purse for the keys. Annoyed, I set the Chinese food down so I can use both hands to rummage around. Why did I throw them back into my bag when I got out of the car? I don’t know. Apparently, today is the day where I do an entire variety of stupid shit.

  “Aha! There you are, you sneaky little bastards.” I grin in victory, sliding them into the lock. After pushing the front door open, I rush in to turn off the alarm.

  Reaching the keypad, I pause when I notice the green light. The alarm isn’t on, but I set it when I left. Each hair on the back of my neck stands to attention as my flight response kicks in. As I lunge for the door though, it’s too late. I cry out as I’m yanked back by my hair and the front door is kicked shut.

  I can’t see my attacker. I can only hear him breathing.

  “Fuck!” he shouts, throwing me across the room into the coffee table.

  I feel the blood seeping into my eye from impact.

  “Stupid bitch! You weren’t supposed to be home!”

  Scrambling, I look around the room, sure to keep my front to him as I scan for something to defend myself with.

  “What’s the first rule, Peyton?”

  “Never turn your back on your attacker.”

  Seeing the lamp on the side table, I yank it out of the wall. It’s dark, but from what I can tell, my assailant is much larger than I am. He’s wearing a mask over his face, but it’s not hard to miss the look in his eyes. I’ve seen that before. This man will kill me if he can.

  He rushes at me, and I launch the heavy lamp at his head, sidestepping him as he curses in pain. I just have to make it to my keys. Where are my fucking keys? Then I see them, only a few feet away by the alarm pad. I just need to make it there. I try to run, but my arm is wrenched behind me.

  “You made me bleed. You’re fucking dead, bitch!” he promises in my ear.

  Then I hear it—the sound of my own arm snapping. Tears pour down my cheeks, and my vision starts to blur.

  “What’s the second rule, Peyton?”

  “Never panic.”

  Breathing deeply, I assess the situation. He’s grabbed me from behind, but he’s hurt. His grip’s not that tight. I feel his breath on the back of my neck, and my decision is made. Leaning forward, I use all the force of momentum I can and thrust my head backwards—hard.

  Crack—his nose breaking.

  “Motherfucker!” he cries, letting me go to nurse his gushing nose.

  Practically falling, I scan the floor again, crashing to it as I grab my car keys. I can barely see. The blood from my cut is pouring into my eye, and my ribs ache from the hit on the table.

  Red button.

  I can’t see it.

  I press them all until I hear it—the panic alarm on my car going off.

  Someone please call the cops, I silently beg.

  I feel his arms grip me around the shoulders, and I scream when his hands close over my broken arm. This is it. The hate in his eyes hovers over me.

  Lifting my head up, he slams it against the floor.

  Blurry.

  Again, harder.

  Too much pain.

  Once more.

  Blackness.

  “EXCUSE ME, SIR. This is an active police crime scene.”

  As I halt abruptly at his outstretched hand, my entire body vibrates. Rage is boiling over inside me, and I briefly wonder if I can clock his smug ass in the face.

  “Move,” I growl.

  He flinches at my tone. Taking advantage of my intimidating momentum, I step towards the yellow tape, but my tactics are stalled when Jackson’s hand pushes against my chest.

  “We’re family,” my best friend tells him coolly.

  The officer, who looks fresh out of the goddamned academy, eyes him suspiciously.

  “The woman who was attacked is our friend, and that paramedic”—he nods towards the ambulance parked in the driveway—“who is saving her life also happens to be our friend. Greyson Holt. I would imagine, if he had the time to step away from her, he would tell you that, but as you can see, he’s somewhat preoccupied with his job. It’s a small town”—he leans forward, flicking the name tag of the officer, who stands at least a half a foot shorter than we do—“Officer Bell. So while we understand that you have a job to do, I would highly suggest it’s in your best interest to let us through, wouldn’t you?”

  As the young cop nervously shifts his weight, his eyes flick back and forth between Jackson and me. The time it’s taking him to mentally weigh his options is enough time for my self-control to completely shatter.

  Curling my tattooed knuckles into the front of his beat-cop blues, I drag his pathetic ass against the yellow tape, lowering my head down to his. “We can stand here while you take the respectable amount of time to decide how big your balls ar
e, but frankly, sir”—I sling his formal words from earlier back in his own face—“I don’t have the fucking time or the patience for that bullshit.”

  His eyes widen in surprise at my blatant disregard for his authority.

  “So let me in to see my goddamn girl”—I roughly twist his button-down—“because so help me God, if you don’t, I can promise you that this badge you’re wearing won’t mean a fucking thing the next time I see your good-for-nothing ass.”

  I’m dangerously close to getting locked up. If this guy were less of a pussy, I’d already have cuffs on for assaulting a police officer, but luckily for me, this is Canada and most of the girls I know have a bigger pair than this guy.

  “Listen,” Jackson sighs. “It’s been a rough night. We’re anxious and worried about our friend. If you’re not going to arrest us, we’d appreciate it if you’d just let us through.”

  Officer Bell swallows hard, looking into my eyes one last time before conceding. “My apologies, gentlemen.” He concedes. “I hope your friend is all right.” He presses the wrinkles out of his shirt when I release my grip on him.

  “Thank you,” I choke out, the emotion and fear crippling my heart threatening to spill out of my mouth.

  Anger is better.

  Of the five stages of grief and loss, I’ve become well acquainted with anger.

  The stupid organ in my chest seizes. The flood of blue and red first responder lights tug at the living nightmare I keep buried in the depths of my memory.

  “Michelle?” I stroke bloody hands through her perfect, blond hair. “Baby, please,” I beg her, God, and whoever might be listening, “stay with me.”

  Glass cuts through my denim jeans and something warm flows through my eyes as I hold her close.

  “Please wake up. Please,” I sob into her still chest. “Don’t leave me.”

  The blur of lights swarm around us. I press my salted lips to her red ones, splashing parts of my soul over her sweet skin.

  Our last kiss.

  I’m rebounded back to the present when a hysterical, pregnant Hannah crashes headfirst into me.

  “Jayden!” she cries into my chest.

  “Is she . . .” I stop, swallowing the lump in my throat.