Lovely Trigger(54)

I tried to resist that one. I worked for another hour and tried to pretend I wasn’t curious to see what was going on inside this very building.

I went to the restroom, freshened up my makeup, tousled up my hair, fidgeted with my pale rose dress. It was lightweight and silky, with a clingy, belted shape, and one big ruffle at the hem that hit a few inches above my knee. I had a scoop neck, which was sexy, that hugged low along my sides, and shaped into a racer-back, which was sexier.

It was hot and flirty, and I was happy I’d worn it, as I was about to cave and go see the man I’d worn it for.

An hour was as long as I lasted. I told Sandra that I was taking lunch and hurried to the parlor as quick as my faltering step would take me there.

One of Frankie’s artists led me to the back room where Tristan was being worked on. I knew the room well. I’d gotten my own tattoo there. I didn’t let myself think about the other things that had gone on in that room.

I almost turned away when I realized where it was, but I was too late.

Frankie had spotted me.

She lifted the needle from that gorgeous back, grinning at me. “Danika!” She completely ignored the camera crew. She was used to them.

I wasn’t. So when they turned to me, my face was stiff. I moved past them, getting closer to the shirtless man on the table that, in spite of everything, still consumed my every waking thought.

Tristan lifted himself up enough to smile at me. I tried not to linger on the way that made the muscles of his shoulder and back shift, but it was too delicious of a sight to ignore.

“How’s it going?” I asked him, moving close to his side.

“It hurts,” he said, lying back on the table. He reached a hand out to grab my hip, pulling me closer. “Hold my hand?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

The man was working me, but I found myself taking his hand, gripping it tight.

“Mmm, thank you. Much better.”

Frankie went back to work, and I studied the back of Tristan’s head, letting my other hand stroke over the silky strands of his hair. I loved the new length. It was just perfect for gripping.

“Do you like the tattoo?” Frankie asked.

I didn’t look at it. “I’ll look when it’s done. I can never get a clear picture, until I see the final result. It’s what makes me a good appreciator, rather than an artist myself.”

“But this is a work in progress tat. It will never be done. He’ll be getting one of these blossoms, every single sober year, for the rest of his life.”

That had me looking. The word blossom raised some red flags, and I thought, oh no, he wouldn’t have.

But he had. On his back, scrolling over most of one shoulder was a cherry branch. It wasn’t on the same spot on his back as it was on mine, but there was no mistaking that it was a mirror of my tattoo.

On the branch were five small blossoms, each a slightly different shade, each with a number, bold and in red. One, two, three, four, five, and soon, already more than half finished, a six.

I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes, and bowed my head. I couldn’t stop the tears, but I could keep them quiet and hidden, bowing my head far enough to let my hair fall over my face.

I still held Tristan’s hand, and gripped his hair, but now I was doing it just to stay upright.

“Cut,” Frankie called. “I need a break, guys. Let’s take it outside for a minute, grab a coke.”

I didn’t acknowledge her thoughtful maneuver, didn’t so much as look up.

“Do you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice telling me that he knew I was reacting, and not reacting well.

“Am I supposed to like it?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Am I supposed to like it?!” I asked again, voice raised, filled with rage. With pain. “Or be ruined by it?”

He moved so fast that it startled a yelp out of me. He raised his body, and flipped up into a sitting position so fast that it was like a trick. Part of his act.

He grabbed me, not timidly, no, aggressively, yanking me against him, between his legs, pushing my face into his chest. “No, sweetheart, no. Not ruined. It was a tribute. It was not supposed to hurt you. It was as much for me as for you. However we ended, however you hated me, I didn’t ever want to forget what we had, or to forget what I’d done to deserve losing it.”

“That’s not a good recovery tattoo, Tristan. It sounds more like an albatross around your neck to me. Aren’t you supposed to celebrate your successes, not wallow in your mistakes?”

His lips were on my jaw, his breath hot. “I’m not wallowing in the mistakes, Danika. I acknowledge them, give them their proper due, but those mistakes aren’t my obsession. You know what is.”

His lips were open, moving down my neck, then up again, until he was breathing at my mouth, his minty breath mingling with my own. “Do you remember this room?” he breathed.

I closed my eyes and trembled.

It was too much. I was done for. Defeated.

I hadn’t had any of my defenses left coming in here, and he’d pulled no punches at all.

He gripped my hair in both hands, anchoring me while he tilted his head, and brushed his lips across mine. Softly, too softly, his mouth teasing back down to my neck, rubbing that irresistible scruff of his into that most sensitive area.

I moaned, loudly, and he covered my mouth with a short bark of a laugh. “I don’t suppose we can take our time right now, huh?”