by K. Webster
I absently listen to him drone on, but all I keep replaying in my head are the words, “It nearly killed me, but I remembered who I wanted to be, not who I was before.”
He remembered who he was before?
“Bless you, son,” he says in conclusion and places his hand on my shoulder.
The last of my depleted energy is restored. Coming here was smart.
“Thank you, Father. I’ll stay focused.” I hate the way my voice quivers.
I hope I can stay focused.
“I’ll have some scrambled eggs,” Lark tells the waitress with hair so red that it’s almost pink.
The waitress raises a brow that suspiciously matches her hair at Lark. “That’s it?” Then she pops her gum her.
“Yep,” Lark snaps.
The two women hold each other’s glares before the waitress finally looks up at me. Her smile is bright, and she bats her eyelashes. “Hey there, handsome. What can I get you besides a side of Red?”
When she winks at me, Lark actually growls like a little puppy. It’s cute as hell.
“I’ll have the big stack of pancakes with extra butter. Four eggs over medium. Hash browns—extra crispy. Double bacon and sausage. And,” I say as I peruse the menu one last time, “a yogurt parfait. I have to watch my figure.” I wink back at her.
The waitress blushes. “Your figure is pretty perfect, but a man needs to eat.” Then she bounces off to fill our order.
My eyes follow her away for a moment as I wonder how in the heck someone gets their fake eyebrows to match their fake hair.
“You’re a pig,” Lark spits out in disgust.
I snap my attention to her and really take her in. Her dark hair hangs wildly in front of her shoulders. With the sun shining in the window, every hair holds a different shade of brown. I think I even see a few strands of gold. Green eyes flicker with anger as she glares at me. Pink lips form an annoyed pout, and I have to look anywhere besides those lips if I have any hope of keeping my job.
“I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten in ages.” That’s the damn truth. Besides that Oreo, I haven’t put one morsel of food in my mouth in six long years. Eating might be a pain in the ass, but food is pretty fucking good, so it makes up for the annoyance.
“Not your appetite, nerd. You’re a pig. A man-whore. I saw the way you watched her walk away. Was her ass cute? Her face sure as hell wasn’t.” Her brow is raised disdainfully as she meets my shocked stare.
Is she fucking kidding me right now?
“I was not checking out her ass,” I scoff. “Trust me. I’m not interested in the women around here.”
Her eyes dart away from me, and she frowns, appearing to be stung by my comment.
“Drink your orange juice,” I order.
The hurt is gone as her gaze meets mine again. She’s angry. I can’t win with this woman.
Thankfully, she appeases me and picks her glass up. Slowly, she sips the juice. After several moments, she begins to regain some of her color. I see a smile play at her lips.
“What’s so funny, baby?” I question with one eyebrow cocked in question and a smirk of my own.
“You’re so bossy. And I hate to be bossed around. Yet, somehow, here we are, having breakfast together. God’s mysterious ways,” she chuckles and downs more of her juice.
I bristle at her comment. If she only knew.
“Tell me about yourself, Lark,” I insist in an effort to change the subject. “Clearly, there’s more than meets the eye with you.”
Her file says a lot about her that I just haven’t found to be true. There’s so much about her that isn’t in that file. I’d like to draw my own conclusions.
“More than meets the eye? I’m a twenty-seven-year-old loser who works at a crummy tattoo shop. My family hates me. I hate them. And I have depression, not an eating disorder. End of story.”
I stare at the enigma in front of me. She may think she’s good at steeling her emotions, but I can see right through them. This sharp-tongued woman before me is hurting. There’s a hole in her heart as big as fucking Texas.
“Hate is a strong word,” I say softly.
She laughs bitterly. “Well, when you need someone—when your life takes a nosedive into the darkest fucking territory you’ve ever encountered—you expect your family to be by your side. You expect them to understand, not to tell you, ‘It’s time to move on.’ I’ll never move on.”
Move on from what? Her file never spoke of anything traumatic.
“Care to elaborate?” I ask.
Her eyes fly to mine and she furrows her brows in such a hateful manner that it effectively knocks the breath out of me. “No, I do not care to elaborate.”
A pop of gum alerts me that our waitress has arrived with our food, interrupting the tense moment.
“I brought you extra syrup, sugar. You look like you could use a little extra sweetness in your life.” She smiles at me and then glances contemptuously over at Lark.
Lark rolls her eyes as if the woman’s blatant rudeness doesn’t bother her in the least. Once she leaves us with all of our food, I watch Lark as she pokes at her eggs with a fork.
“You will eat all of that, woman,” I instruct in a soft yet firm tone.
Her green eyes lazily find mine, and there’s a hollowness behind them. A simple nod is what she offers, but once again, I see through her eyes.
“You will eat those eggs or I’ll embarrass the shit out of you and feed you like a child,” I threaten.
This time, she glares at me and shoves a huge forkful of eggs in her mouth. With her mouth open, she chomps exaggeratedly. Unfortunately for her, I’m a guy. Chewing with her mouth open won’t gross me out. I all but inhale my food, but my eyes never leave her. I’ll make sure she eats every last bite.
“Done. Are you happy?” she asks in annoyance after she swallows the last of her eggs.
I push the untouched yogurt parfait toward her. “Nope. Eat this too.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
I raise an eyebrow, but my face remains serious. “Do I look like I’m kidding right now?”
An exasperated sigh bursts from her before she picks the spoon up and begins to slowly eat the parfait. Finally, she sets the spoon down and looks at me.
“Why do you care if I eat or not? Why do you suddenly feel the need to insert yourself into my life? We’re neighbors. Not friends. Not boyfriend and girlfriend. Not anything. And we won’t ever be. Lark Miller doesn’t make friends. Lark Miller doesn’t date. Lark Miller just floats through life until death steals her away. And for the safety of others, I hope that happens soon,” she says wistfully.
I grimace at her words. Three long fucking months. The girl is practically ready to slit her wrists here at the table. How in the hell am I going to keep her alive for three months?
“You’re mine for three months, Lark. Then you can go on your merry little way,” I grumble.
Her eyes fill with tears, and the confusion is evident on her features.
All I need is three months. She will get her warm vacation away from this place she hates so much and then I’ll get my wings.
We’re all winners.
GO AWAY, AL.
God, will he ever leave me the hell alone? I’m sitting on my countertop in my kitchen as he slams cabinet doors.
“Where the fuck is all of your food?” he demands angrily.
I shrug my shoulders. “At the store beside the ramen noodles and Oreos.”
He scowls at me. “Don’t be a smartass.”
He’s pissed, which causes a smile to tug at my lips. For some reason, I’m learning that one of those “highs” in life is pissing Just Al off. I love the way his dark eyebrows bunch together and make him look like an angry cartoon. His normal easygoing demeanor is replaced by a fierce glint. I like pushing this button of his.
“I don’t have any food. God, will you just go back to your apartment already? I want to sleep before I have my shift,” I groan.
&nbs
p; He stalks toward me and pushes my knees apart so he can stand close. The sudden intimate movement causes my heart to flop in my chest. My heart doesn’t flop. My heart doesn’t do anything.
“Leave,” I snarl and point toward the door.
His furious, black eyes dart back and forth as he studies me. Instead of moving away, he slides his hands up the outside of my thighs and rests them on my hips. My breath pauses in my throat.
“Why do I piss you off so badly, Lark?”
I tear my eyes from his and look down at my hand. As if he understands, he slides his big, warm hand over my left one. A wicked tear escapes and splashes the top of his.
“You have three months to tell me, baby.”
Another splash.
I gasp when he raises his other hand and swipes my cheek dry. This man in front of me ruins everything. He messes up my carefully constructed world that protects the most vulnerable piece of me—my heart. I hate that he thinks he can waltz in here and practice his voodoo magic on me. The part of me that usually stays under lock and key rattles behind its door in his presence.
“Just go, Just Al.”
His fingers find my hair, tangling them into the wild mess, and tilts my head back up. The anger is gone, and compassion pours from those liquid-coal eyes. I hate the way he attempts to see inside me. Nobody is allowed there ever again.
“I’ll figure you out eventually,” he promises. With another chaste kiss to my forehead, he tears away from me.
The moment the apartment door slams, I burst into tears. I sure hope he doesn’t ever figure me out.
After hopping off the counter, I shakily make my way to my bedroom. My steps are slow and agonizing. Half of me begs me not to do it. The other pleads for me to go faster.
I need it like I need to breathe.
For so long, I denied its pull. I didn’t need to bury myself in the scents of the past. It’s been years since I’ve even opened that box.
Don’t do it, Lark.
I ignore the logical side of my brain. The craving is too strong now. After last night, just one touch of that box and I was addicted once again. The same box that pushed the final wedge between my parents and me calls out to me.
When I reach my closet, I push my ottoman inside and step onto it. The box isn’t any bigger than twelve inches by twelve inches, but my world exists inside.
“I missed you,” I say in a whispered breath as I pull down the box.
After stepping off the ottoman with it, I walk over to my bed and sit down. When I open it, the smells of my past assault me. Ignoring the pictures, I pull out the T-shirt I used to sleep in every single night. One night, though, I stopped sleeping in it and stored it in this box instead. I chose to preserve it.
My eyes flit over to the clock on my nightstand. Seven hours until my shift. I know this is a mistake, but I’m greedy today. Today, I need this one simple comfort. Carefully, I bring the shirt to my nose.
Please, God.
Tears roll from my eyes and wet the fabric as I inhale it. Then I collapse onto my pillows and bury my face in the shirt. If I close my eyes, I can pretend. I’ll allow myself this one luxury.
Black eyes instead of blue.
Just Al fills my thoughts, and I sob hysterically. This is why I don’t use that fucking wretched, useless organ. I loathe the part of my body that pumps blood to my extremities. I hate the part of me that aches suddenly after it was lying dormant for quite some time. It isn’t fair. Just Al isn’t supposed to make me feel.
Just Al is the devil.
I’m fucking late. Again.
I’m honestly not quite sure why they haven’t fired me yet, but then I remember. They know I’m a diamond in the rough. My art is beautiful and I’m cheap.
Sighing, I twist my long, dark hair into a messy bun. There’s no time for makeup, so I skip it and begin wrenching drawers open, looking for something to wear to work.
My eyes roam over to the clock again. Ten after seven. Fuck!
I settle on a loose, black tank top and a pair of cut-off, denim shorts. Once I’ve yanked my dress off, I unhook my bra and toss it to the floor. When I dive into my art, I can’t be fucking confined. Then I slip on my tank and pull my shorts up over my black panties. From across the room, I spy my combat boots, so I grab a pair of ankle socks and stride over to them. Once completely dressed, I walk over to the mirror and look at my reflection. My tattoos color my skin and mark my journey through this bullshit life. Some I wish were gone. Others I couldn’t live without.
I look like a fucking joke.
Good.
When I lean forward to tie my boots, my cleavage hangs out and I see the six tattooed stars between my breasts. My favorites. All six of them.
Six.
Beautiful.
Stars.
I snatch my huge, black bag from my dresser and storm from my bedroom. Lunch and dinner are no-gos today as I bolt out the front door. I’m already late and don’t have time for much more. With an annoyed sigh, I turn to lock my door and hear footsteps coming toward me.
Fucking Pedro.
But when I whir around, my keys bared as a weapon, I hate the feeling of relief that floods me when I see the onyx eyes of Al.
“I made dinner,” he says and hands me a fucking Hot Pocket.
“Wow,” I say sarcastically as I take the food from him. “You really went all out.”
He grins his stupidly alluring lopsided grin. “A man has to cook for his woman.”
God, I hate him.
“I’m late,” I groan as I walk past him. Then I nibble the food I’m secretly thankful for.
“I’ll walk you.”
Just Al is just so fucking annoying.
“Fine. Suit yourself. A hot little piece of meat like yourself will get hounded by every damn streetwalker along the way. Consider yourself warned,” I smart off as I bound toward the stairs.
Tonight, I am hungry, so I quickly devour the Hot Pocket. As I begin descending the stairs, Al loops his arm in mine and matches my pace as he escorts me. At the bottom, he releases me, and then we walk in silence toward the tattoo shop. It’s five blocks up, and by the time we have hoofed it over there, I’ve already burned through the energy from the food he gave me. When we step in front of the building, I wave goodbye to him and stomp up the stairs to the second floor above the bar.
“You’re late,” Gus grumbles as I burst through the front doors.
“Sorry,” I mutter, making a beeline straight for my station.
“You’ve been booked for the entire night. Big tattoo appointment,” he calls out after me.
Another pussy biker? Unfuckingbelievable.
I ignore his statement and begin prepping my tools. After fifteen minutes, I feel the presence of someone standing behind me. When I turn to greet my customer and see who it is, I frown.
Just fucking Al.
“You have to be kidding me,” I hiss and throw my hands up in the air in disbelief.
His eyes flicker, and I sense brief apprehension.
“Fine. How many tattoos do you have, Al?”
With hooded eyes, he blinks sheepishly at me. A blank canvas? The inner artist in me rubs her palms together in anticipation.
“None? Okay, Just Al. You’ve piqued my interest,” I admit. “What do you want?”
He flicks his eyes to the door and stalks over to me. I ignore how nice he looks in his tight, white T-shirt and fitted jeans. My eyes refuse to peek at his hair—the hair that seems hell-bent on begging me to mess it the fuck up with my fingers.
“I’m embarrassed,” he murmurs.
Now I am completely intrigued. The bossy man I spent the morning with is suddenly acting shy around me.
“Spill, Al.”
He groans but peels his shirt off. Peels the protection off. Peels off that one piece that separates me from his blank, untouched skin.
My eyes greedily devour every unflawed inch of it. Every contour of his chest is analyzed and catalogued by my eyes.
“Where?”
“My back.”
He turns and reveals even more perfection. Untouched skin. Tan but perfect. Not a birthmark or freckle. No moles. No scars. No hair.
The room spins even though I filled my little belly.
“Straddle the chair,” I instruct.
He doesn’t hesitate before he tosses one leg over the side of the seat. Once he sits, his hard ass pokes out.
“What do you want?” I question. I can’t imagine what a tattoo virgin would want that would take up my entire night. There’s no way he can sit here for hours as I mark him. No fucking way.
“Lark?” He turns his head to look at me. Something dark flashes his features, and I get a sick feeling in my stomach.
“What, Al?”
“I want wings. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I swallow down the emotion in my throat. Wings. Everyone wants fucking wings.
“What kind of bird?” I ask as I begin prepping my gun.
Silence.
Finally, I glance over my shoulder at him.
Sadness.
Why is he so sad?
“Not a bird. Angel wings.”
I bite my lip. Of course. Just Al would want fucking angel wings.
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m doing this. Pallas warned me that what I do while on this FA would be permanent. Do I want to live my entire existence with tattooed angel wings on my back? Wings that would eventually hide under the real ones I’ll be awarded once I become one of the elite?
“Make them beautiful, Lark.” My only request.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, I hear her tinker with her tools. I smother my face in the vinyl of the bed I’m straddling. Her smell suffocates me. The sweet scent of her shampoo. A faint scent of deodorant. A hint of pizza sauce from the Hot Pocket earlier.
What am I doing?
You’re watching your assignment . . .
Am I?
Skinny little legs climb on top of me. She can’t weigh more than a gust of wind, I think to myself as I feel her settle with her legs spread and her ass on mine. My dick thickens painfully beneath me—it certainly likes her there.
