Lovestrong

by Nikki Groom

  “Yes, sir,” I salute playfully.

  He smirks and carefully flips the pages until he comes to the design he wants to show me. I want to tell him to slow down so I can take a really good look at all of the designs he has in that sketch pad, but he’s on a mission to get to the one. As he stops turning, he moves his hand to the side and looks at me to see my reaction. “There. What do you think?”

  “Oh my god,” I breathe.

  “You don’t like it … it’s fine. I can design tattoos all day long until we get the right one for you. That is, if you still−”

  I place my hand on his, cutting him off. “I love it,” I say with genuine enthusiasm and awe. “It’s beautiful. The color is amazing.”

  “It’s a phoenix. You know, a firebird. I thought it was very apt for you, strength, healing …”

  “I’ve never seen a tattoo as beautiful as this. Can you really do this on me?”

  He chuckles loudly, “I know I don’t get to show off my skills here very often, I’ve had to ink a lot of Celtic bands, tribal stuff and a few skulls here and there, but I love doing the more intricate work.”

  “It’s perfect. Do it,” I say resolutely.

  “Really? There’s nothing you want to change?”

  “Nothing. I love the beautiful colors and the way the feathers look like they’re moving. I even love the heart that you’ve disguised in the tail.”

  “I wondered if you would notice that straight off. I know you feel like you’re heart won’t heal, Lottie, but it will, one day.” I look up at him with tears welling in the corners of my eyes at his words of reassurance. How is it he always knows the right thing to say or do?

  He has a crooked smile, a dimple in one cheek and a couple days stubble growth, and despite his shaved head and tattoos and piercings, he can’t fool me. “You know, you’re not as mean as you make out.”

  “I make out that I’m mean?” he remarks, quirking one eyebrow. “Don’t want you thinking I’m a saint, firebird. But I’m good to my friends and we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, we’re friends.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tight. He reciprocates instantly, without any hesitation, and holds me so securely I don’t want him to let me go. There’s no intention coming from him or anything remotely sexual. It’s a hug with meaning and just when I needed it most. From the minute we met, I felt safe with him, and after working with him for the last week here in the tattoo studio, he feels like a big brother and he gives me the feeling of loyal protection that I always craved when I was growing up, but never had. One that I felt I had with Spike and the guys back home.

  “So, I have a booking due in anytime now. But after that I’m all yours for an hour or so. You wanna think about placing for your tattoo?”

  I pull back from his chest and if the amused expression is anything to go by, I look as scared as I feel. “Now? Today?”

  “No time like the present, but I’m not going to pressure you. You have to want it for yourself, one hundred percent, or you’ll regret it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll regret it, I just …”

  “You’re nervous. I get it. I’ve seen grown men cry like a baby with nerves. You’re handling the idea pretty well so far.”

  “Yeah,” I muse. “I can’t believe grown men cry over tattoos.” I shake my head at the thought.

  “Yup, they sure do.”

  “Pussies.” I roll my eyes comically while going back and forth over the idea of starting it today. I do want it. I mean, I really, really want it. And when I saw the design, I knew it was perfect and actually started to feel excited about it. “Do it,” I say firmly, picking up the pencil and writing my name in the time slot that Torran has free this afternoon.

  “You’re sure?” He quirks his brow at me and his eyes twinkle excitedly.

  “Certain.” I nod. “Ink me up.”

  Chapter 13

  My resolution to look ahead and try to be positive didn’t last long. Although I’m sick of hearing the nagging voice in my head that’s wallowing in the darkest depths of self-pity, I can’t seem to pull myself out of it no matter how hard I try. I know I should be grateful to be here. I know I should be thankful that my family has the money to make my situation easier with the best equipment money can buy. I know all of this. But yet, I still feel like I was dealt a shitty hand and a huge part of me wishes I hadn’t survived that night. It would have been kinder to my soul if they hadn’t tried so hard to save my life.

  “Morning, Mr. King,” Sue calls out as she enters my room. After the last time I yelled at her and told her to leave, I felt fucking awful. So I called her up and apologized. Truth is, I was getting used to her and her ways, and I actually kinda like her, so the thought of having to adjust to someone else was worse than admitting I need help, and I would rather it be from her. I used to make a huge effort to get myself out of bed before she got here. It was always a struggle, and pretty risky, especially when I wasn’t physically fit and recovered. It was part of my male ego to not want to accept help with the most mundane tasks. I was too proud to accept that I couldn’t do it for myself, but as we’ve gotten to know each other, Sue has made it easier for me to accept help from her, especially when I haven’t slept well and need the extra rest.

  “Hi, Sue,” I greet her as she stands in the doorway.

  “Sleep well?” she asks with a smile.

  “Same as usual.”

  “Maybe we need to see the doctor and check the levels of your meds.” She crosses the room and opens the curtains. “I’ve got your brother’s SUV as he has a few things to do this morning and can’t take you to your appointment. Okay if I take you instead?”

  “Appointment?”

  “Physical therapy. You always go on a Tuesday.”

  “Every day seems the same to me, Sue.” I shake my head gently. Do I honestly have no idea what day it is? How sad is that?

  “Maybe you need to switch that up a little.” She points her glance at me and arches a brow.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I sigh and stretch my arms above my head.

  “Brush it off all you like. The only reason every day seems to be the same is because you let it,”

  she remarks with a joking edge but I’m a little taken aback at her comment. She rarely gives a personal comment like that, as she normally stays neutral with her opinions. It’s not something I haven’t heard before, but it’s the first time for her and coming from someone that isn’t family, someone that sees it from the outside looking in, it touches a nerve. “You got something to say, Sue?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not, Mr. King. I merely meant …” She stumbles at her words and I look at her pointedly, almost daring her to continue. After speaking with Lottie last night and the lack of sleep I had due to replaying her voice over and over again in my head, I’m spoiling for an argument. She takes a breath before continuing, “If every day is the same, and you want them to be different, you have to make them different, that’s all. There’s a big wide world out there and staying within these four walls unless you’re forced out, would make anyone bored out of their brain.” She mumbles almost as if she were talking to herself, and there’s an uncertain edge to her tone, probably worried about my reaction.

  “You’re right.” I push up on my elbows then use my arms to haul me up until I’m resting against the headboard of my bed. “I know you’re right. But the fight in me has gone. I can’t find it. I’ve tried, but it’s not happening. So, what do I do now?”

  “I guess you need something to fight for,” she says with a shrug, and it’s like someone turned the lights on in my head.

  After weeks of physical therapy, I’ve gotten past the basic exercises and have started on the more strenuous stuff. I’m working toward standing upright with the help of a frame, and being able to hold at least some of my weight on my own legs. It’s not exactly what I want, but it’s moving in the right direction. Being a stubborn asshole, I refused to be watched by anyone during my sessions
, so I had them one on one with the therapist, but now I’ve progressed and we’ve moved to a bigger room with more equipment and we can no longer use it solo.

  “You ready for today’s session?” my physical trainer, Dan, asks me with a bounce in his voice.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mumble. I take in all of the equipment in the new room that we are working in today and I’m pretty impressed. There are only a few others here. All in wheelchairs, but one in particular peaks my interest. “That kid. He’s paralyzed?” He’s young. Nine, maybe ten. He’s all blonde hair and youthful innocence.

  “That’s Ben. They didn’t think he would walk again. He has incomplete motor function, but he’s doing pretty well. He’s got the determination of a hungry lion, that one.”

  Nine years old and he can’t walk? I thought life had been cruel to me, but this young kid has barely lived yet. I click my chair into use and move forward slowly as to not interrupt. There are two therapists helping him position his wheelchair, which I notice is old and shabby, at the beginning of a small walkway. They clip him into a harness and with their aid, he hauls himself up by his little arms and balances on his wobbly, unbalanced little legs. He’s concentrating so hard that I don’t think he realizes what he’s just achieved. He shows so much sheer determination that I’m in awe. He stands with his whole body tensed, but he’s standing nonetheless. The therapists speak gentle words of encouragement and then he grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and lifts his left leg before dropping it down as if it was made of lead just a few inches in front of him. I watch him with my breath held and my hands clenched tightly together. He repeats his routine, grit teeth, deep breath, step forward, until he completes six steps. The whole room is still and quiet, willing him on with every positive thought that we can muster and his eyes gleam as one of the therapists come up behind him with his wheelchair so he can sit back down and catch his breath. As his bottom touches the seat, Dan whoops and claps behind me and the few others in the room do so too. “You walked, kid!” Dan cheers giving him a thumbs up.

  Ben gives Dan a thumbs up and a beaming smile in return. I have tears in my eyes at how proud I am of what he’s just achieved, even though I don’t even know him. Now I feel like an ungrateful bastard. This kid, this young kid hasn’t experienced life yet. He will spend most of his life knowing what it’s like to make the most of every moment. That thought makes me feel grateful for him as well as sad. How can I mope around, full of self-pity and depression, when this young kid is making the most of every second and trying his hardest when he’s given the opportunity?

  “You going next?” Ben asks with a smile as he rolls towards me, pushing hard at the wheels of his chair until he’s right beside me. Fuck, his wheelchair isn’t even electric. He’s pushing those great big wheels with his spindly little arms and I can’t help but look at him in disbelief, and awe.

  “Nah, buddy. Wouldn’t want to follow up on your awesome performance. You did great,” I say genuinely. After watching him, I feel great pride for this kid.

  “Thanks. I did two steps last week, then I got sick for a few days but I wanted to beat my target.”

  “What was your target?”

  “Five,” he says simply. Five steps? The boy’s target was to take five steps? Something that no child should even have to think about, yet he’s so upbeat about it.

  “You did it! You smashed your target.” I hold up my hand for a high five and he smacks it with his, flashing me his contagious smile.

  “Yeah. I want to take ten steps next week.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal and I can’t help but wonder how he got so brave.

  “I have no doubt you’ll do it.”

  “What’s your name?” he asks innocently.

  “My name is Spike. You’re Ben, right?”

  “Yeah. My mom calls me Benji and I hate it. Makes me sound like a baby.” He screws up his nose and glances over to his mom who’s standing in the corner waiting for him.

  “Moms do that,” I chuckle.

  “Will you come and watch me next week, Spike?”

  “You want me to come and watch you?” I ask with surprise. He barely knows me but he’s so welcoming, so open.

  “Yeah, will you?” he asks hopefully.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, champ.” I give him a wink, and we bump fists.

  “See ya then. You should really give it a go,” he says, tilting his head toward the walkway he just conquered like a boss. “You can do anything if you put your mind to it.” He smiles at me and gives a small wave before pushing away on his wheels.

  “Hey, kid,” I call out after him. “You wanna swap chairs? Ya know, so you don’t wear those arms of yours out?” I feel a sudden protectiveness of this young boy who probably doesn’t even need it but I want to be protective of him all the same. No child should have to struggle to get around. I’d go without all my high tech equipment to make his life easier.

  “Nah. Not going to need it for much longer,” he calls out over his shoulder before pushing through the door. His words ring in my ears. Such innocence. Such optimism. Such an inspiration.

  Chapter 14

  “Fuck, Torran. That really fucking hurts,” I hiss as the needle pounds in to my skin.

  “Just hold still, firebird. You’ve done the worst of it. Just a few minutes and it’ll all be done for you.”

  Torran and I spent a whole evening discussing placement and he was super patient with me, placing the transfer on different parts of my body so I can see how it looks. I eventually decided to have the phoenix on my left shoulder with its tail feathers trailing down my left side. Partly because I think it looked really cool there, but after extensive research, I concluded it was one of the least painful places to get tattooed.

  Least painful, my ass.

  “A few minutes?” I ask, counting to fifty over and over in my head so I have something else to concentrate on other than the sting of this damn needle.

  “Five. Max,” he reassures. “You’ve done great. Almost five hours in total, these last few minutes should be a doddle.”

  “A doddle?”

  “Yup. Walk in the park for a badass like you.” He stops the needle to look up at me and smirk, before dipping it in the ink pot and getting right back to it.

  “I regret saying that now. I’m not badass. I’m a baby and I want it to be over,” I pout.

  “Just close your eyes and take some deep breaths,” he says quietly in that hypnotizing voice of his, brushing off my mini-tantrum.

  I put my head back down on the table and try to think about anything but the stinging pain. It’s not actually as bad as I’m making out. I’m just being dramatic, but I won’t be sorry when it’s all over and the art is complete.

  “How old are you, Torr?” I ask. It’s not something that had crossed my mind to ask before now, not that it matters. I’m trying to distract myself more than anything, but I’m really interested to know more about him. He’s very quiet about personal stuff and I’ve been trying to pry little snippets of information out of him, to no avail.

  He stops the strokes of his gun for a fraction of a second, then continues without answering immediately. “Why?”

  “Just curious, I guess.”

  “Too old,” he answers cryptically.

  His age is so difficult to guess. He has a wisdom, and a pain in his eyes that doesn’t come from youth, but when he smiles, he doesn’t look like he’s much in to his twenties. “Tell me!”

  “No,” he answers bluntly.

  “You trying to be mysterious?” I dig a little deeper, wondering if I can get him to open up this side of him just a little.

  “Nope. I just don’t think it matters. Turn your head back around. I have just a small piece to do here, and I can’t do it when your shoulder is twisted.”

  I lay there quietly and perfectly still as he finishes up the last strokes of my ink. He’s so passionate about his designs and takes every detail to perfection. I’ve never had something
that I felt so much for. Never had a passion or even a hobby that was my salvation from real life. My salvation was Spike. Even though I’ve been doing pretty well and kind of settling in here with Torran, I know it’s not a permanent solution. The room I’m renting is only for another couple of weeks, and I have no idea where to go from here. I try to avoid speaking with Arianna or Denham as it just makes me want to hop on a plane back home. They never mention Spike, so I presume he’s doing okay. Hearing his voice the other morning was both torturous and welcomed. I’ve lain awake every morning wishing for him to call again, just to hear his voice. Just to talk about the weather. Just to hear him breathing on the end of the line. Anything. I miss him. I miss his comfort, his touch. I wonder what he would think of my tattoo.

  “There,” Torran says, wiping my shoulder to clear away the last of the smeared ink. “All done. You wanna get up and look?” I nod enthusiastically and start to jump up. “Whoa. Take it slow, firebird. You’ve been lying down for the best part of an hour.”

  “Okay, mom,” I joke, taking his advice and getting up with caution.

  He holds out his hand to help me stand and leads me around to the full length mirror. I turn, closing my eyes then opening them slowly to see the art that is forever etched on my skin.

  “Oh. My. Fucking. God,” I whisper.

  “What do you think?” he asks, his voice wavering with nervous excitement.

  I don’t answer him right away. I can’t find the words. Tears find their way from my eyes in a stream of emotion.

  “Oh, shit. You don’t like it.” He swings his head low and scrapes his hand over his stubble. “Shit, look, Lottie, I−”

  “It’s perfect,” I whisper as my tears roll over my lips. “I love it.” I spin and fling my arms around his neck, burying my head in his shoulder and hugging him as tight as I can. He wraps me up in his strong arms and holds me tight before nuzzling his chin in to my shoulder and breathing in deeply. The excitement of the moment drops instantly and is replaced with a charge. I look up at him, and his gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. His eyes travel back up to mine and he moves in slowly, gently resting his lips on mine. He pulls away for a fraction of a second before his lips crash into mine and he kisses me with force and reckless abandon.