Tenley turned to get a better view of the design. “Oh, wow,” she whispered.
Lisa adjusted Tenley’s ponytail and kissed her on the cheek. “Brave girl. See you in a few hours.” She slipped out the door, closing it behind her with a quiet snick.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to be scared.” I pulled off a glove and dropped it on the counter so I could touch her without obstruction. I skimmed beneath the hollow of her eye, wiping away a solitary tear.
“I’m not afraid of pain.”
“I know,” I said, because I did. Tenley knew pain; she wore the proof on her body. But it came in different forms, and the physical kind was easier to deal with.
Her spine straightened. “I’m ready.”
18
TENLEY
I took my place in the tattooing chair, straddling it as he suggested. It reminded me of one of those reclining chairs in a dental office, except without arms. He put on mellow music and snapped on a new pair of gloves. I watched, anxiety warring with excitement, as he assembled his tattoo machine.
When everything was ready, he turned to me. “Last chance to back out.”
He’d said that to me before, the first time we’d had sex. Everything had changed since then. What started as an overwhelming physical attraction had transformed into something I hesitated to identify. I sought solace in Hayden; in his warmth, in the comfort of his body. Our unyielding chemistry made everything but us cease to exist when we were together. Sex with Hayden—anything involving Hayden—was perfectly consuming. I was terrified of losing that.
With the exception of Tuesday night, Hayden’s presence in my bed fended off the worst of the nightmares. Although my nights were never truly peaceful, they were better with him. It wasn’t just sleep that improved; everything had, unless I was alone. In the hours without him, when I wasn’t otherwise occupied, the pain resurfaced. My remorse over things that couldn’t be changed was like acid, burning through skin and bone, seeping into the heart of me. So I stayed as busy as possible, avoiding the solitary moments I’d coveted previously.
“I’m too invested to do something crazy like that.”
He studied me, a rueful grin pulling at his mouth. “It goes both ways.” He pressed a soft kiss to my temple, the deeper meaning not lost on either of us.
My fears had little to do with putting the tattoo on my body and everything to do with how I felt about Hayden. This tattoo not only guaranteed his continued presence in my life but it held the possibility of real healing, too. It was my attempt at finding closure, at putting everything behind me by accepting it, owning it, wearing it on my skin. But I couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not I would lose Hayden in the process when he realized I could never be fixed. Hayden reclined the backrest so I wasn’t completely upright. The tattoo machine buzzed to life, and Hayden’s gloved palm came to rest at the nape of my neck. Even the most innocent contact with him brought on a wave of calming energy. I’d come to rely on it, particularly at night when I was on the cusp of sleep. It felt like a physical manifestation of our emotional connection.
The sharp bite of the needle pierced my skin. The discomfort was much like it had been with the cupcake tattoo. Hayden worked in silence at first, presumably to give me time to adjust to the sensation. After a few passes with ink, he wiped the area with a cool cloth, soothing the sting. When he reached my shoulder, the prickle grew more pronounced, so I assumed he was tattooing over the scars. The pain was manageable, but then it didn’t compare to what I’d experienced after the crash.
Tonight I planned to divulge something about the accident; I knew I owed Hayden at least some small insights into my past despite my fear of opening up. I just didn’t know how much yet. Enough to appease him without risking the tenuous relationship we were building. For all of his armor, Hayden became increasingly transparent the more time I spent with him. He didn’t do things halfway. He was either all in or not at all. And that trait wasn’t isolated to the bedroom. With the outline completed, he would feel compelled to finish the design. It was a horrible abuse of power on my part. But now I needed him in ways that extended beyond his role as my artist.
“Tenley?” he asked, breaking my reverie.
“Mm.” I had been staring at his profile, lost in my thoughts.
“Are you hurting? You made a . . . noise.” He rolled back in his chair. “Maybe we need to take a break.”
“I don’t need a break. How long has it been?” I lifted my head, my cheek damp from resting against the vinyl.
“About forty-five minutes. You’re doing great, but you’ve been quiet, and then you made a sound like maybe you were uncomfortable.” He looked wary.