I leaned into him, using him for balance. “A little.”
His hands dropped lower, thumbs anchored above my pelvic bone while he rubbed slow circles into the tight muscles at my hips. Reveling in the touch and humming with appreciation, I rested my head on his chest as he massaged the ache away.
“Better?” he asked.
I put more weight on my right leg; the stiffness had eased some. “Yes.”
He shrugged off his button-down shirt and draped it over my shoulders. I pushed my arms through the too-long sleeves. I waited patiently as he rolled them up to my wrists and fastened the buttons. My response to his touch was amplified by what I couldn’t have. Reading my mind, he tilted my chin up and lowered his mouth to mine. “Don’t worry, kitten. We’ll survive a week.”
*
When I returned from the bathroom I found him in the main shop, talking animatedly with Lisa. She saw me first, smiling when she noticed my attire.
“Hayden says you’re a pro.”
I blushed at the compliment. “I don’t know about that, but I think I’m holding my own.” The right side of my back stung, like a fresh sunburn. Hayden’s reference to catharsis made sense now, but I feared the point where the internal and external pain matched in intensity. “We should get at it.” He ushered me back into the private room.
Hayden must have sensed my anxiety over the second half of the session.
“It’s probably best if I start at the bottom of the wing and work toward your shoulder. You’ve been amazing so far, but I think if we get the most painful part out of the way, you might be able to relax better through the rest.”
He passed me a stress ball to squeeze when it became too much to handle. Hayden enforced breaks every fifteen minutes or so, rubbing my arm and telling me how well I was doing. The pain was almost intolerable. I wasn’t sure how I would manage if he had to go over it multiple times before the ink took.
When we made it past the difficult areas, Hayden asked the question I’d hoped to avoid. “Will you tell me about the accident now?”
No. “What do you want to know?”
“Would I be right to assume the scar on your hip and the ones on your back happened at the same time?” he prompted.
“They did.” I compartmentalized the memories, pushing them down, willing myself to stay in the present.
“A while back, you said your mom passed away . . .” he trailed off.
“She was with me.”
“Anyone else?” He turned off the tattoo machine, his attention focused on me.
“My dad was there, too.”
“And he’s okay?” Hayden asked. His hope made my heart ache even more.
I shook my head. Tears made him blurry.
“Oh, kitten.” He stripped off his gloves and stroked my cheek. “What happened? Were you in a car accident?”
“We were on a plane. The engine failed.” I barely managed to get the words out.
His mouth went slack. “It crashed?”
I nodded. A tidal wave of emotion rose in me. I’d fought so hard against it, keeping it from pulling me under. I hadn’t considered the possibility that I might find someone who would understand what I had endured and want me anyway, even though I wasn’t whole. For the first time since the crash, I wanted to believe Hayden might empathize with me over the guilt I carried . . . that he might not reject me for my cowardice.
“How did you survive? Wait. You don’t have to answer that. I’m so fucking sorry. I should know better.” He wiped at my tears, but they kept coming, the dam broken. “I’m sorry I pushed. I won’t ask any more questions tonight, okay? I promise. I’ll just let it be for now. I’m so sorry.”
He was frantic in his attempt to calm me. His hands were on my face, in my hair, stroking down my arms. I stilled them with my own, his anxiety canceling mine out.
“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.” I repeated the phrase in my head until it was true.
“You don’t have to be okay. I know it’s hard,” Hayden said, kissing my forehead.
I shook my head in denial. He didn’t know anything. I’d omitted the most significant details to make telling him bearable.
He rearranged me carefully until I was facing him. I didn’t resist. I wanted his comfort; craved it. One hand rested low on my waist, the other curved around the back of my neck, and he pulled me into his lap. It was the closest he could get to a hug. I, on the other hand, wrapped myself around him and held on tight.
“Thank you for telling me,” he whispered.
When my tears dried up, he gave me the option to stop for the night or finish the outline. I chose the latter. It didn’t take long. He was right about the pain; it was all relative. In comparison to what I’d been through, four hours of discomfort was nothing.
When he finished, he turned off the tattoo machine and set it down. His eyes moved over my back, inspecting the art with a critical eye. “We’re done,” he said, satisfied.
“Can I see?” I asked.