“Lazarus Bromwell.” One dark eyebrow arched.
“Of course.” She moved to the most disfigured section, where a nickel-sized patch of skin had twisted as it melted. Watching his face for distress, she inked a line over it. “And the others?”
“Richard.” A gentle fondness intoned his voice.
“Rio? Richard Ketch?” She laughed. “Catchy. And Wil must be William.”
He shook his head, creasing his smile against the bedding. “Bruce Sima.”
The machine went still as she tried to pair that name with Wil’s young, surfer-boy face. “No way.”
“It’s probably no surprise it was his idea to change our names. I guess Bruce the bassist didn’t have the right ring.”
His scars blazed red beneath the stab of her needle, prompting her next question. “The band’s name was your idea?”
He nodded. “You’re the only one who knows what led to the name.”
Hopefully, sometime soon, she would know what led to the burns. Lulled by the buzz of the machine, she drifted into a Fugazi song, humming the in-your-face chords with abandon.
“Waiting Room.” He sighed. “You’re subtle.”
She snorted. “It’s a good song.”
“Especially in your adorable tonality.” His eyes danced.
“Hey.” She held the needle away and pinched the tender skin under his arm. “You’re not paying me to sing well.”
He jerked back from the sting of her pinch, lips crooked up. “I’m not paying you at all.”
She wiped Vaseline over a finished flame and shifted to outline the next one. “Laz paid me twenty grand for a rainbow.”
“Laz got ripped off.” His voice broke with laughter.
“So true.”
They fell quiet for a time, sharing glances and smiles as she worked. Her mind raced to the final design, mentally shading between the bold lines, trying to predict his reaction. It would be primarily black. Red and brown ink would be used sparingly to blend the drawn scars into the existing ones.
She took her time, following the outline with a steady hand. Working over the scar tissue, she must have hit a sensitive area because his body shuddered. “Sorry. You okay?”
“Wasn’t you, Charlee.” A ragged exhale. “I was thinking about my parents’ death, of the burns that occurred over the year that followed.”
78
The machine jumped in Charlee’s hand. She held it midair, hovering, her heart thundering.
“Keep going.” Jay’s palm rubbed up and down her leg. “I need the distraction.”
She swallowed and brushed out another rivet in the steel plate beneath the outline of charred skin.
“We lived in Canada, a rural area near the Boundary Waters, and the land is only accessible by plane. They were on one of their supply runs when their plane went down.”
“How’d it happen?”
“A malfunction. My father was a pilot, owned an old plane. I usually joined them on those errands—so I’ve been told—but they’d left me with the closest neighbor that day. Some family that lived a few miles away.” A pause. “I was an only child.”
He’d carried his loneliness his entire life. Her chest ached and her stomach tumbled as the machine vibrated in her hand. “Abandoned and alone.”
“You, more than anyone, can sympathize with that. Makes this next part easier to talk about.”
Brown eyes scrutinized the wall behind her with more interest than it warranted. “My father inherited the land and a great deal of money before I was born. His sister didn’t receive a crumb.”
“Aunt El?” Her brain scrambled to put the pieces together. Bitter aunt. Traumatic childhood. Acid seethed through her gut.
“I’ve said her name?” His face tightened with wide eyes. “When I…flashback?”
“Yeah.” She kissed his shoulder beyond the reach of the ink.
He relaxed beneath her lips. “Elena Mayard. Something was wrong with her. I always thought of it as unexamined viciousness. She was manic, I think. I don’t know. Before my parents died, she’d kept herself isolated from the family, so much so my grandparents cut her out of their will.”
“Did she…Is that who raised you when you lost your parents?”
He nodded. “My parents didn’t have the foresight to prepare a trust. I was left with my only blood relation. She got me, the money, the house, and the land.” He glanced away, eyes hard. “She moved in for one year.”
Why just a year? What had gone wrong? She was terrified to push. “Is she…”
“Dead.” The brawn in his back flexed beneath the needle. “Died in prison.”
Prison? A fury of nausea flooded her. What had the woman done? Was she responsible for his scars?
Charlee circled fingers around the damage, mesmerized by the strength of the man beneath. Unwilling to drown him with the questions piling up in her throat, she pressed her lips together and finalized the last curve of the outline.