“I love you, Finley,” he’d said. “I’m sorry I’m such a screw-up. Please don’t go.”
He’d messed around on her as recently as the week before. Then he felt so guilty that he told her about it right away, like a little boy who wanted to be punished, then quickly forgiven. It wasn’t the biggest deal in the world because they were “taking a break” and Rainer was weak. Girls loved him, those big blue eyes and meaty biceps, all the tats. He was a hottie, and girls just stared. He was oblivious most of the time, wasn’t one of those guys with a wandering eye, always looking at someone else. It’s just that if the opportunity presented itself, and he was high enough, he didn’t exactly put up a fight.
When he’d figured out that she was serious—in that she’d applied and been accepted at Sacred Heart, even had her plane ticket—he dropped his head to her shoulder and held on to her tight, crying. She’d cried, too, holding on just as tight. But she knew with a stone cold certainty that it was time to go. She didn’t imagine that he had the gumption to pick up and follow her across the country. She’d been wrong about that, too.
Now, he moved in close, putting strong hands on her arms. Soap, wood, and something else, a scent that was uniquely him. The soft cotton of his tee-shirt, the warmth of his body, the strength of it, his pulse, his heartbeat—all of it was a drug, calming her, luring her. It’s why she tried to move away from him. He was nearly impossible to resist.
“Rain,” she said, trying unconvincingly to push him away. She pressed her forearms against his chest, but he held on.
“I think about you all day,” he said. Finally, she let him wrap her up because she was cold and he was a furnace, giving off heat and light. “And all night.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Tell me you don’t think about me.” His voice was gravelly and male, a note that resonated in her body. Oh, she did. She thought about him all the time.
“Let’s not do this, okay?” she said. “We had our talk about boundaries.”
About respecting her decisions and what she needed to do for her life, about understanding that what she needed might be different from what she wanted but how that didn’t give him the right to push her in the wrong direction. His lips found hers, and she let them linger for a second, just a second, before she moved away from him. He released her, pushing out a resigned sigh.
She hadn’t wanted him to follow her here. In fact, she’d told him not to. But he couldn’t be stopped. His idea to start a tattoo parlor in The Hollows seemed outlandish enough that she didn’t think it would last, figured he’d be gone inside a month. But The Hollows must have wanted him here, because it looked like things were going okay. She knew better than anyone that The Hollows got its way. No matter what.
“Who are we working on today?” he asked.
Of course, she needed him—maybe that was why he was here. He was the only tattoo artist to ever work on her. And he had a way of knowing what she wanted, and how important it was. He understood her, everything about her. He believed and never judged. The images Finley held in her mind somehow communicated themselves to Rainer. It was beyond words; she and Rainer were connected.
She lay herself down on the table and turned on her side, her back to him. They were running out of room. Her arms and most of her back were heavily populated, a growing collage of the people she could see that others could not. The old woman, the girl under the bed, the man in the suit, the teenager with the gun. And more, so many more.
“There’s a little boy,” she said. “He’s about four, with blond hair and a cherub’s face. His eyes are wide and far apart; his lips are full and pouty. He looks like a troublemaker, but sweet.”
“Kind of like me,” Rainer said. He ran his hands along her back and over her hips. She watched him in the mirror she was facing. His head was bowed, so that those dark curls fell, hiding his face.
“Yes, like that,” she said. “Sweet but always in trouble.”
His hand rested on her bare waist. The heat hummed to life again and warm air blew through the ceiling vent.
“I’m trying to be a better man, Fin,” he said. “You see that, right?”
She did see that, but it was more complicated than even he knew.
“You are good, Rain,” she said, feeling guilty for no reason.