When I moved back to King’s Trace, taking up residence in the lakefront house Boyd bought me, I also started dragging him along to therapy. Both of us have a lifetime of issues to work through, and I refused to allow any sort of regression after having come so far.
I don’t want my intervention to be the sole credit for the reason he’s finally proposing to Fiona, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t secretly pat myself on the back for giving him the push to do it.
“She’s gonna say yes,” I tell him, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re spiraling for no reason.”
He stops pacing and sighs. “They wouldn’t call it spiraling if it made sense.”
The tattoo artist finally calls me to the back, and I tell Boyd he can go and that I’ll see him after his date to help celebrate. He pins me with a look that says I’d better be right, and then heads outside, disappearing down the street.
As I lie on the table in the back, letting the artist put the stencil on, I smile through my own nerves, memories of my first tattoo flashing across my mind the way they often do.
Aiden’s hands on my hip, his head between my legs, his scent on my skin. Things I’d never have imagined I’d experience in a million years, that now I can’t seem to live without.
Even now, I’m wearing a flannel of his that I stole from our closet while he’s been in New York, finalizing a project he’s been working on with his mom for the last few months.
When he “retired” at only twenty-five, he didn’t want to leave the music industry altogether; just wanted to recapture his passion for it and create on his own time. Maybe even navigate through his mental health issues through music in a way that didn’t drain him, he’d said.
In an attempt to slowly fix his relationship with his mother, he’d proposed starting a small joint label, and said that their primary goal would be finding and signing new, undiscovered talent.
So, his best friend and former publicist, Liam, was brought on to scout talent. Aiden produces, and Callie takes care of the business aspect of things. They’re small but growing steadily; enough that last month, Symposium called with an offer to buy them out of business.
Aiden refused, of course, and now Orphic Productions is handling the relaunching of Calliope Santiago’s pop career.
My thighs tingle as the tattoo gun flickers on, and tendrils of anticipation stretch through my limbs. The design takes approximately six hours, and by the time it’s done, pain radiates up my side. The artist slathers me in antibacterial ointment and wraps it, and I resituate my clothing before heading out.
It’s dark now, which is my preferred time of day to venture into public. My return to King’s Trace was met with about as much fanfare as my fake death—so, none, essentially. I sometimes wonder if anyone even really registered that I’d “died” in the first place.
We’d released a small press statement after Mellie was taken away, explaining what had happened three years ago, and that seemed to sate most curiosity on the subject.
Still, on occasion, people will turn and stare, maybe a little longer than necessary. And while before that may have made me cower, now I just let it happen, aware that the only thing I can control in life is my own personal thoughts and feelings.
And my scars, while not pleasant to look at, are mine. I won’t let anyone else’s reproach dictate how I feel about them any longer.
The only one whose opinion on the subject that matters would never make me feel bad about them, anyway.
Besides, acceptance comes from within. Having someone around to remind me of that is nice, but my worth is supposed to start with me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. Sometimes I still want to hide, to protect my brain and heart from more pain.
It’s not always easy, but I’m trying, and that’s what matters to me.
Parking outside the house, I notice the lights are on in the bedroom; not wanting to block our view of the lake, Aiden refuses to ever close the curtains, which means the wildlife is often an unfortunate witness to our frequent trysts against the window, or on the floor in front of the bed, or whatever surface he can pin me to.
Aiden James is insatiable, and he doesn’t take well to separation from me.
Then again, neither do I. It’s been three days, and my core is already clenching wantonly as I head inside and up the stairs.
He’s just getting out of the shower when I walk into the bedroom, my toes sinking into the plush white carpet. His back is to me, and I take a second to admire the colorful smattering of images etched into his skin, soaking in the fact that I get to stare at them for the rest of my life.
Chin tilted up, he’s studying the painting hanging above the bed, eyes narrowed, but his back muscles tense when I enter, so in tune with me that he knows before I’ve even said anything.
“I don’t know if I like this here,” he says, turning to face me as I approach. I push up on my toes, and he threads his fingers through my pink hair, angling my face so he can press a hungry kiss to my lips.
“You bought it,” I say against his mouth. His tongue flicks out, and my clit pulses at the promise of what’s to come.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I want the reminder of Caleb in our bedroom.”
I snort, rolling my eyes as he deepens the kiss. He’ll never admit it, but he and Caleb became pretty good friends in the recent months; we take turns flying out once a month to visit, and the two have bonded over art in its various forms.
He even commissioned Caleb for album artwork.
It was awkward at first, coming clean to Lunar Cove about my real identity, but they moved on pretty easily, accepting Riley Kelly without too much fuss. Well, all except Mrs. Lindholm, who still looks at me like I’m a demon when I visit.
Aiden grunts, snaking his free hand around my waist, tugging me into him. When I wince, he retreats, scowling down at me. “What were you doing at a tattoo shop today?”
I quirk a brow. “Are you stalking me again, boyfriend?”