Inked in the Music

by Kitt Rose

  Ty snickered.

  “Where are you from?” Dennis asked.

  “Oh, um, up north. Minnesota, you’ve never heard of the town though, trust me. We didn’t even have a stoplight. I sure like your idea of almost October though.”

  “Yeah,” Dennis said with a wide smile. “Summer can be a real bitch though. You ain’t seen heat and humidity ’til you live through August here.” He walked closer to me, those infinitely dark eyes on mine. They drew me in and made my pulse rate climb. “What time did you get here? I was in at ten and don’t remember seeing a moving truck.”

  “Oh, no. I took a bus down. Well, three buses really. But I only brought what I could carry.”

  “Is your apartment furnished? You got a bed?” Dennis asked. When I shook my head, he said, “I’ve got an air mattress you can borrow if you want. And a ratty old couch that I was going to put out on the curb. It’s not pretty, but it’s comfortable. It’s yours if you want it.”

  These people don’t know me, and they’re just going to give me food and a couch and lend me a bed? “Wow. You guys are so nice. Thank you.”

  “Let’s get you fed,” Trina said, starting toward a door in the far back corner.

  I trailed after her. Dennis followed me.

  “Do you do tattoos?” I asked Trina.

  She laughed. “No. I poke holes in things.”

  “I’m a tattoo artist. She’s the piercer,” Dennis said.

  Nodding, I followed Trina through a door and into a break room set up with a small card table. I took a seat and tried hard not to react when Dennis sat next to me, his leg bumping mine. I tucked my legs closer to the chair, out of his way.

  “Um… Why do people normally get a tattoo?” I clamped my mouth closed, wanting to take the question back. What an idiot!

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that. I got mine because I like the way they look. It’s art and my skin’s the canvas, ultimate self-expression. Some people get their eyebrows or lips done so they don’t have to mess with makeup. Some use tattoos to remember someone. Ty’s wife has a little fox on her wrist to remember her mom who died. And then there are some people who cover up scars or things that they see as flaws. Depends on––”

  I’d been staring at the soft vinyl of the table, but when he said scars, I whipped my gaze to his. He stopped talking abruptly.

  “You can cover scars?” My heart lodged in my throat. Something buoyant filled my chest, something that felt like hope.

  Chapter Three

  Drawn

  Dennis

  I looked at the girl, considering her more than her question. Zirah, such an unusual name. She looked young, fresh-faced, and innocent. Couldn’t be much more than twenty, though there was something in those big eyes that suggested she was older. The fact that she didn’t smile, had only almost smiled once, backed my impression up.

  Here was someone who’d seen some shit, lived it, and come out the other side. But considering her question, maybe she hadn’t made it unscathed.

  “Depends on how bad the scar tissue is, but most times, yeah,” I finally said.

  I looked into those unusual eyes, from one to the other. That different-colored ring around the iris was central heterochromia. One of the weird random facts that had stuck in my brain. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen eyes as beautiful.

  “You’ve got really pretty eyes.”

  Her face flamed, and I grinned at the shyness that jerked her gaze down to the table. Blunt white teeth bit into her bottom lip, and the motion teased dimples. I’d bet money she had a beautiful smile.

  “How can you tell if you can cover something?” she asked, peeking up at me through her lashes.

  On another girl, I would call that glance flirting. Not her though. I got the sense she didn’t know how to flirt. That was okay, I’d teach her.

  “Well, I’d have to see the area. Even if I can’t cover the scar completely, I can generally work to make them part of the piece. I used to do a lot of mastectomy scars at my last shop. You got something you want covered?” I asked the last question quietly so Trina, who was busy reheating the chicken, couldn’t hear.

  Zirah met my eyes, barely maintaining eye contact, and nodded once. Slowly, she pushed away and angled out from under the table. With a shaking hand, she grabbed the bottom of her black dress and raised the material up her thigh a few inches.

  I sucked in a breath.

  A series of straight lines covered the skin underneath, crisscrossing over each other. Either she was a cutter, or someone did that to her. I wasn’t sure which.

  “They go to about here,” she told me, pointing to the very top of her thigh. “And I’ve got some on my back and chest too.”

  Not her then. Can’t cut your own back. Someone had done this to her. Knife or belt or something else entirely?

  Who did this to her?

  My mind boggled. My parents had never so much as slapped me, and I’d been a bit of a shit. And this sweet young girl bore scars. Insane world.

  She smoothed her dress back into place. Tucking back under the table, she clasped her hands in front of her. She had elegant hands. Narrow with long fingers, her nails were brutally and meticulously clean. Her hands reminded me of my mother’s.

  I looked closer, noticing her fingertips. Now her hands really reminded me of Mom’s. Zirah played a string instrument. The hard fingertips, not calluses but something like them, was a dead giveaway. I looked at her neck, searching for a Fiddler’s neck. The small mark wasn’t easy to see under her chin, but there it was. The small, hickey-like spot where a violin or viola would repetitively rub. My dad had one as he played the violin. Mom had the lesser-known cousin on her sternum from playing the cello for so many years.

  But my mind was stuck on those scars on her legs. Tentatively, I touched her left hand, knowing that I shouldn’t ask. Wasn’t my business. But I couldn’t help asking.

  She jumped at the contact.

  “What happened?” I whispered.

  She shook her head, once—clear and definitive. It was the perfect way to say it wasn’t my business.

  I hesitated for a long moment, the silence awkward and charged. “Do you have any idea what you want?”

  Her laugh sounded bitter more than humorous, and she glanced up at my face.

  I was right. The small smile on her face was beautiful. Those damn dimples triggered every protective instinct I possessed.

  “Until a minute ago,” Z said, with a thread of something ironic in her tone, “I’d never considered getting a tattoo. Probably not an issue because I doubt I could afford it. Just forget it. I was only thinking out loud.”

  A dozen responses, including that I’d do the tattoo for free if she’d just smile at me again—fucking idiot that I was—ran through my head, but I said nothing. Then Trina placed a plate of chicken in front of her, and Z murmured a thank you, turning her attention to the meal.

  She devoured the food, putting away the two pieces faster than even Hank had. She must have been starving.

  Z noticed Trina and I staring because she blushed. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning,” she explained.

  “No wonder you’re so skinny,” I said, and she looked up sharply.

  “I’m not skinny,” she said.

  “Yeah. You are,” I said, softening my words with a smile.

  She frowned at me, but Trina cut in. “Yeah. He’s right, you’re swimming in that dress. Eat however much you want. I swear Joey’s trying to fatten us up, always bringing us food. Lord knows I don’t need the extra.”

  “It’s probably this dress. I’m really not that skinny.”

  I reached back over and wrapped my hand around her bird-boned wrist, pinky meeting my thumb. “Yeah. Tiny.”

  Z glared at me. “Only because you have freakishly large hands.”

  Trina snorted a laugh.

  “Freakishly large hands, huh?” I grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you know what they say about guys with big hand
s…”

  Her face turned a pretty shade of pink. She pulled her arm free and rubbed her wrist.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s feet, not hands,” Trina said.

  I propped a foot on the table. I’d had to special order my size sixteen black Chucks. “Still big…” I wagged my eyebrows and her face darkened from pink to red.

  “Oh, stop. You’re embarrassing the poor girl.” Trina walked around and swatted me on the back of the head. “I swear he’s harmless. He doesn’t understand how to flirt without thoroughly embarrassing himself and others around him.”

  I frowned at Trina. I wasn’t a hopeless flirt. No one had ever accused me of that. But, looking at my behavior from the outside, that was exactly what I was doing. Flirting like some love-sick fourth-grader, who had no finesse and thought pulling a girl’s pigtails was foreplay. She wasn’t even my type.

  But I had ended my last two relationships because things hadn’t felt right. Ella, my most recent ex, had been too much of a party girl. While I liked a good time as much as the next person, I was twenty-eight. An occasional Saturday night at the bar or club was one thing, five nights a week was another. I didn’t see a future with her, so I’d ended our relationship. I needed to figure out what I wanted before I ventured down that road again.

  Yet here I was, flirting with the antithesis of every single woman I’d ever dated. Because I was flirting. Something about this girl, with her big wounded eyes and quiet presence, drew me in.

  She looked surprised at the idea of my flirting. Clearing her throat, she shifted in her seat, wiping her hands. “Thank you for the chicken. It was really good. I hate to run out after you fed me, but I really must get to the store. I have nothing. Not even toilet paper.”

  I stood up. “Let me take you. I can drop you off and run home and get that mattress. If Hank will lend me his truck, I can even get the couch for you.”

  “That’s not—” Z started.

  “How are you going to get a couch in the back of a truck by yourself?” Trina asked.

  I flexed a muscle. Even if lanky, my workouts with Ty four times a week showed. “I think I’ll manage. I’ve got a board I can use as a ramp. Just push it in. Those stairs will be another issue though.”

  “How about I go with? You drop Z off and we go load up?” Trina asked.

  Trina might be a pipsqueak, but she was strong. “Yeah, that’d be a lot easier. And you both are little people so getting three of us in the cab shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s go before it gets too late.”

  Z sat there, looking a little like a fish out of water with her gaping mouth. She stood up slowly. “I can’t… It’s really unnecessary. But I appreciate the help. Really. Thank you.”

  She flashed me a smile, a real smile. It was the size of Texas—deep dimples, shining eyes, and a crinkle of her nose.

  Damn.

  Zirah was gorgeous. Not conventionally pretty, but her beauty was pure sweetness.

  And it hit me right in the gut, a sucker punch that took my breath away.

  I stared at her back as she washed her hands in the sink after dumping her plate. When she turned back around, I was still staring, hoping to get another glimpse at that smile.

  Her forehead creased. “What? Do I have grease on my face?” She self-consciously wiped at her face.

  “No. Not at all,” Trina said.

  Even Trina had been affected by that smile, the evidence clear in the way her eyes had softened. Z’s smile had been a gift, and even Trina saw it.

  Trina turned to me and said, “I’m gonna go snag Hank’s keys. Meet me around back?”

  I saluted her and walked to Zirah. With my fingertips resting lightly on her back, the knobs of her spine made it clear that she needed to eat a lot more. She took a deliberate step forward. I tried again. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her toward a door tucked away on the back wall. As soon as we got outside, she tugged her hand free. Hint received, no touching.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and leaned against the brick wall.

  “Are you… I don’t want to be rude, but I was wondering, are you Native American? Or is it American Indian? I don’t know what the right term is.”

  I shrugged and smiled, trying to set her at ease. “Think either works. Yeah, I am. I don’t know anything more than that. My mom was white. She gave me up for adoption, so I don’t know more than the fact that she was young when she had me.”

  She nodded, her face blank.

  Trina came bouncing around the corner. “Gumby, catch.” She tossed a set of keys at me and I snapped them out of the air.

  Z trailed behind me to Hank’s pickup. I opened the driver’s door and stepped back.

  “Ladies first,” I said, shamelessly ogling her ass as she climbed in.

  Getting in after her, I started the truck and shook my head. I had this horrible feeling that I was in trouble with this girl. Her innocence was a magnet pulling me toward her.

  On the drive over, Trina peppered Z with questions. I listened, noticing Zirah’s eyes on me. She was staring at the tattoos covering my arms. I had full sleeves on both. Water and marine life on one, birds and a blue sky on the other.

  “You play pool?” Trina asked.

  “Hmm, what, sorry?” Zirah said.

  “I asked if you played pool.”

  “Oh. I’ve never tried,” Zirah said. “So, do you have earth and fire somewhere?”

  My eyebrows rose. “Yeah. On my legs. I normally have to explain it.”

  She shrugged. “I read a lot of fantasy books, and tons of them involve magic. They always come back to four, or five elements.”

  “Five?”

  “Yeah. Earth, air, water, fire, and sometimes depending on the story, spirit,” she said.

  “Hmm…” That was interesting. I’d never considered spirit. What could I use to represent that?

  I pulled into Walmart’s parking lot and stopped at the curb. As I twisted in the seat, my knee brushed hers. She smelled like strawberries. “Give me your phone number,” I said. “We’ll call when we get back, or if you finish before we do, you call us.”

  Pink infused her cheeks. “Um. I don’t have a cell phone.”

  My jaw dropped.

  She rushed to explain. “I’ve never needed one before, so it seemed like an unnecessary expense.”

  “Fuck. I don’t think I could live without my cell phone,” Trina said. “Here, take mine. We’ve got to find you when we get back.”

  Z took the phone and held it like she was afraid to break it. “How do you…?”

  “Seriously?” Shock coated Trina’s voice. She recovered a moment later and walked Z through placing a call.

  Chapter Four

  Our Girl

  Dennis

  “How is it that someone in this day and age, that isn’t like a thousand years old, doesn’t know how to use a cell?” Trina asked.

  I shrugged, turning out of the Walmart parking lot. “She said she didn’t know how to use an iPhone, not a cell phone. Besides, Hank can’t change his ring tone.”

  Last week, Song had been nursing a grudge about a doughnut. She’d wanted it, he’d eaten it. Sneaky woman had snagged Hank’s phone from his station and changed the ringtone to a song from the Spice Girls. We’d all had way too much fun calling him. Three days of zig-a-zig-ah-ing and Trina had finally taken mercy on him and fixed it.

  Trina snickered. “That was epic. And a completely different thing. Answering a call is basic. Ringtones are, like, advanced. She didn’t know how to pick up a call.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It is possible to live without a phone, you know?”

  “Not likely though. I mean, don’t you think it’s odd?” Trina crossed her legs, propping a clunky boot on one knee.

  “Stop giving the girl such a hard time. Your suspicious nature is showing,” I teased.

  She snorted and a grin tipped my lips. Trina instantly made friends with everyone she met, whether someone wanted to be friends with the woman or not. Trina
constantly took in strays—like Zirah.

  “So, what do you think of our mysterious waif?” Trina shifted in the seat, setting both feet on the floor.

  That question had bait written all over it. I’d never been fishing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t identify a worm on a hook when I saw one.

  “She seems sweet,” I said after a pause.

  “Sweet? Oh, I think she’s a little more than sweet. You like her.” Trina giggled and sang, “Dennis and Z, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” She swung her legs on the bench seat of the truck. “You two would be super freaking cute together.”

  “Trina,” I said on a growl. “Are you fucking five years old?”

  “I’m insulted. I’m at least thirteen. I’ve got tits. They’re small, but they are most definitely there.” She shifted in the seat again, rocking to the side.

  I raised my eyebrow. “Problem?”

  “No, why?”

  “You can’t sit still. I mean, this is worse than your normal Energizer Bunny shit.”

  “Oh, that. Aunt Flo’s visiting and the cramps are a bitch.” She rubbed her abdomen, curling in on herself a little.

  “Trina, we’ve talked about oversharing, right? That was something I didn’t need to—and never wanted to—hear about. For future reference, you should keep lady shit under the hat. Okay?”

  She giggled again, a smile making her look impish. Then the smile melted off her face. “There is something about her, though. Did you catch it?”

  I turned onto my street. “Catch what?”

  Trina unbuckled her seatbelt as I parked the truck. She twisted in the seat to face me, her normally animated face a blank mask. “Someone hurt that girl. More than the scars she wants covered.”

  Trina apparently had damn good ears and an excellent poker face. “Didn’t realize you heard that,” I said.

  “I’m short, not deaf. Anyway, she’s … damaged. Broken, maybe. Doesn’t mean she can’t be fixed. You can come back from anything so long as you’re still breathing. But, Dennis, if all this flirting isn’t just you being”—she shoved a hand at me and swirled it around—“you, and you legit like her, tread carefully.”