Come to Me Quietly(130)

The guy had me pegged. I was in pain. But not the kind of pain he was faulting me for. This hurt in the f*cking darkest place of my spirit, where the obscene consorted with the vile.

“Yep. Perfect,” I forced out, my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

The guy wiped up some of the blood and ink with a paper towel, then leaned in close to color more. “Just about finished here.”



I nodded, but was unable to say anything while I submitted to the abuse the memories of her face inflicted on my already defeated mind. It was already November. More than two months had passed since I left her begging my name, since I fully laid it all to waste, since I swung the final blow.

The greatest lie I’d ever told had been told to Aly.

Yeah, I’d walked away, but there wasn’t a chance in this godforsaken world that I could forget about her.

That girl was unforgettable.

Fucking perfect. Too bright to fully see.

So I’d done my best at blocking her out. The days had blurred and bled, slowed and sped in an unending spiral of city lights and drugs and alcohol. I’d filled my body with just about anything I could find, searching for something to take away the ache she had left behind. But there was no high that could reach the bottom of this low. Nothing came close to touching it. Nothing dimmed or dulled it. Nothing could erase it. It was like this cancer that ate and fed, rotted and decayed.

Memories of her had only intensified the void that her touch had somehow managed to fill. Even if it were only for a time, she had, and maybe that’s what stung the most. I’d been foolish enough to think I’d treasure those memories, as if I’d find some sort of comfort in them once I was gone. Now I’d give anything to take them away. Because I couldn’t f*cking stand knowing she might be hurting like me.

There wasn’t a second that went by that I didn’t think of her, that I didn’t regret the fact that I had skimmed and touched and taken, not a second that passed that I wasn’t wishing that I could take a little bit more.

Yeah, I was one sadistic masochist.

“This looks really cool. Wasn’t sure this was going to blend in with that other tat, but it came out good.”



I said nothing, just tensed and ground my teeth while he seared her to me.

When the guy finished, he cleaned and covered it. “You’re all set. Take that off and wash it in a couple of hours.”



“Yeah, I got it.”



I paid him, left a hefty tip because I figured he deserved one after having to deal with my squirming ass the entire time I’d sat in his chair.

A chime jingled overhead as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Night lay low against the backdrop of the lurid street.

Vegas, baby.

Dark laughter rumbled deep in my throat as I shoved my fists in the pockets of my jeans. People flocked here to seek its pleasures, to indulge and gratify. But this… this was what they didn’t want to see, what they didn’t want to acknowledge, the seedy and the slum, the addiction and poverty that abounded on the outer streets, tucked just out of sight.

Why the f*ck I’d come here, I didn’t know. I’d intended to return to Jersey, but I ended up in the shittiest motel on Fremont Street. It was like I couldn’t physically force myself to go that far, couldn’t stand the thought of placing so much distance between us that it would seem as if our worlds didn’t even meet.

I scoffed.

They never had.

All of it had been the fantasy. All of it the girl. As if I could have ever been enough. As if I could ever stay.