Ink and Bone(15)

He walked over to the thermostat and a few seconds later warm air blew through the vents above Finley. She stayed where she could feel the heat, rubbing at her skin. She hated the cold; it hurt, made her feel vulnerable and lonely.

The walls were fresh-painted black, and Rainer had placed two tattoo chairs and a table, some armrests against the mirrored wall. An impressive rainbow of ink colors—blood red, fuchsia, electric lavender, cerulean, sunshine yellow—stood sentry on a floor-to-ceiling rack. Through the curtain that covered the door to the back room, she could see his mattress on the floor, the sheets a rumpled mess.

“It looks good in here,” she said. He’d hung some pictures, too. Nicely framed images of some of his best work, much of it from Finley’s body.

“I’m getting there,” he said. His smile told her he was feeling good about things. “I have an appointment tomorrow, and another one the day after that.”

“Who’s coming in?” she said. Frankly, she was a tiny bit shocked that he was making this work, that he seemed sober enough even though he was tending bar, and that the shop didn’t smell like weed.

“A kid from the college wants his girlfriend’s name on his arm—big mistake. But I’m not going to tell him that.”

Finley looked down at her nails. Was that a dig? Rainer had Finley’s name tattooed on his arm—a design around his right wrist that looked like a tribal band. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t let go. Once it’s written in ink on your skin, it’s forever. You can laser it off—if you don’t mind the scar.

“Oh!” he went on, as he readied the equipment on a tray. Like a doctor preparing for surgery, he washed his hands vigorously in the small sink, then dried them. “Guess who followed me on Twitter? Ari Ash. You know—from Miami Tats? His work kills.”

“That’s—great,” she said. The night she’d told him she was leaving—him, Seattle, her family, everyone—he’d cried. They’d been alone in his parents’ house, sitting at the dining room table, lights off, the dim light of dusk washing in through the windows. Things had not been good between them, and she really hadn’t had any idea that it would come as a shock. But she couldn’t forget the look on his face—the sad wiggle of his eyebrows, the drop of his lower lip. In her heart, she didn’t really think he loved her, not the way she loved him. She was surprised to see that she’d been wrong.

“Please, Fin,” he’d said. “Don’t do this. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

He’d actually dropped to his knees from the chair where he’d been sitting.

“It’s okay,” she said, dropping down with him. “It’s not forever. I just need to get away from things here—my parents, our friends, all the mess.”

“Me?”

No, she thought, the “me” I am when I’m with you. With Rainer she was jealous, possessive. She drank too much, smoked too much pot. She was lazy, neglected her studies, fought all the time with her parents about him. When they were out with their friends, there were fights, high drama. The other stuff—Finley’s visitors, her dreams—it was all reaching a crescendo. When Eloise told her about Sacred Heart College and suggested that she apply and come live here so that Eloise could help Finley understand what she was, she agreed.

“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.”