Chapter 3

Bolton

I saw her amethyst eyes blink, but she kept her face cautiously impassive.

“Script or block?” she asked, motioning me into a chair.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The typeface you’d like. Would you like it in script or block lettering?” She turned away as she assembled her tools and sterile cloths.

“Oh, definitely script. In fact, I have a sample of her signature and wonder if you can duplicate that?”

She nodded and held out her hand. I could smell my mother’s cologne as I pulled the torn photocopy of her signature on a bank check. I’d torn away everything but the line upon which she’d signed. “Here you go,” I said.

She looked at it. “Pretty handwriting,” she noted and pulled on sterile gloves, snapping them at her wrists. “Where would you like it?”

“Over my heart,” I answered solemnly. Her mouth dropped open, and I saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes. I knew she was attracted to me; I’d always sensed the energy from women who wanted to be closer. She most likely thought Leila was my wife or girlfriend. She could tell by the tone of my voice that there was emotion attached. Women wanted to believe they were the first, or at least, the last.

She nodded and motioned to my shirt. “Would you slide off your shirt, please? I’ll be right back,” she said and picked up the check fragment and disappeared around the corner from the chair where I sat. I folded my shirt over the chair near the doorway and saw her working at a computer, her back to me. Interested, I walked up behind her and watched as she scanned and then enhanced my mother’s signature until it was crisp and an appropriate size for the placement.

“Looks good,” I spoke, and she jumped.

“Sorry, didn’t hear you come up behind me.”

“You improved it,” I reassured her.

“Thanks, but that’s part of my job. Let me print it out and let’s see how it looks.” She moved to the printer and caught the sheet as it was expelled. She cut the excess off with a pair of broken-handled scissors and came toward me, holding it against my chest. I heard her intake of breath. She had to reach upward to put it in place, and when she swayed a little, I caught her by the elbows and steadied her. “Looks good, I think,” she rasped and backed up.

“It will be fine,” I agreed and walked back to the tattoo chair and sat down. The tension was palpable, and since she was branding me forever, I wanted her to be calm. I chose the conversational route. “How did you become a tattoo artist?”

She pulled up a stool on wheels and took her place next to me. “Well, it wasn’t my dream job, but it got me through college,” she shared.

“Makes sense. What was your first choice, career-wise?”

“Illustration,” she answered instantly. “Obviously,” she added with a laugh, nodding toward the needle she was inserting into my flesh. “Something in the arts. Creativity keeps me sane,” she shared, and all the things my mother did to stay sane around my father flitted through my mind. I’d hoped if I got the tattoo, it would let me set aside some of the grieving and get on with things.

“Are you good at what you do?” I asked, giving her a chance.

She stopped mid-air, smiled, and looked up at me through long lashes. “I’m very good,” she answered in a suggestive voice, and I froze. “Careful, don’t move,” she cautioned, and I relaxed my pecs again, giving her a flatter palette on which to work.

I felt flustered by her reaction. I wasn’t in the mood to play. Still, I wanted her to be relaxed and confident. “I can see where family responsibilities can limit your choices,” I tried, referring to her sister’s apparent immature behavior.

“Oh, I’m not married!” she was quick to say. “Not even a boyfriend,” she added, winking at me.

I reached for her wrist and moved her hand away from my chest so she wouldn’t overreact. “Look, I was just trying to be conversational. I’m not interested in romantic entanglements. You’re taking me all wrong. I just came in for the tattoo.” I knew my voice was harsh the moment I heard it in my head.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” she said slowly in a whisper. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She peeled off her gloves and sprang off her stool. I heard her go into the room she’d come out of when I’d entered. The door shut behind her, and there was no sound.

I knew I’d made her cry. Mon dieu! I was tightly wired and had lost any manners I might have been raised with. The gal had just been friendly, and I treated her like she had leprosy.

“Goddammit!” I rolled off the chair and slid my shirt back on. The partially-completed tat stung, but I ignored it. I deserved the pain. “Ah, excuse me?” I tapped on the door. “Hello?”

Silence answered. I drew in a sigh. “Hello in there? Hey, I was an ass. It’s been a bad day, and it wasn’t anything you did. Come out and give me another chance? I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

“Lilly,” was distinctly audible from the other side of the door. It was laced with sniffs.

“There! You see there? That’s a pretty name for a very pretty girl. Come on, Lilly, just come back and let’s finish this thing up. Then you can do whatever you like.”

The door opened, and she peered at me through the opening. I watched her face transform from a sad young girl to a determined, professional woman. Her chin rose, and she pulled the door wide open. “Yes, of course,” she said in a strong voice. “If you’ll get back into the chair, we’ll finish up that tat and then you can be on your way. I apologize for that…” she looked behind herself. “Sometimes, I just overreact. It wasn’t anything you said, it’s just been a bit trying with family issues, is all. One of those straw-and-camel-back things. Let’s get this thing knocked out.”

I was back in the chair, and she was studiously finishing up my tat. We both saw through one another, and it made things uncomfortable. I felt guilty as hell. I held out a white flag. “Listen, I’m probably your last customer for the day. What do you say when you’re finished, you let me buy you dinner. I think you could use a break, and to tell you the truth, I could use one too.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, shaking her blonde head, and I felt like a son of a bitch for my rudeness.

“Please? You’d be doing me a favor, actually. I would like to have your company for dinner.”

Her eyes filled with compassion. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“OK. Look, I’m all finished. Here’s a mirror; what do you think?”

“You did a fabulous job. Thank you very much, Lilly.”

“It came out pretty well, if I say so myself. Leila will be honored by your gesture.” She taped up the tattoo, then ran through some care instructions with me. “Let me lock up and change my clothes. I’ll be right with you.”

I thoughtfully refastened my shirt and was standing by the door when she emerged. She had changed more than her clothes. Her entire persona was transformed. She was wearing a diaphanous blouse of shades of purple, green, and turquoise. It had wide sleeves, and she looked like a butterfly as she moved gracefully between the register, the door, and turning off the lights. She’d brushed her hair free, and it flowed in sandy waves around her angelic face. My throat went dry as I realized how screwed-up my head had been. How could I not have seen how gorgeous she was?

“You ready to go?” she asked, her amethyst eyes magnified by the residual teardrops. I felt myself growing hard, despite my resolution to stay away from women.

I didn’t like being out of control. I nodded and walked outside, pointing to my car at the curb. “I thought we’d go to Phil’s, on the river? You want to ride with me?”

“I can drive myself, but let me follow you. I’m not sure where that’s at.”

I nodded and got into the Land Rover I’d driven that day. I watched her, no… not true. I studied her, her dancer’s flexibility, her high, full breasts, the crown of her long sandy-blonde waves, and gave in to the male animal inside who yearned to hold that form beneath me. She got into her Toyota and sat there, unmoving. I opened my door and went up to tap on her window. “Anything wrong?”

She opened her door. “Sorry, the window’s broken. My car won’t start. I need to go back inside and call a tow, I guess. You go on ahead and enjoy your dinner. Thanks for the invitation, though. It was really nice of you to invite me.”

I heard the disappointment. I couldn’t leave her there like that. “I could take a look, but I don’t have any tools with me. Come on and ride with me. I’ll call a friend of mine to come take a look at this, and we’ll get you fixed up. Just leave your key under the passenger mat and don’t lock it. He’ll be here soon, and I’ll stand good for it if someone takes it.”

She looked doubtful, and if I wasn’t mistaken, even a little paranoid. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Come on,” I said as I pulled the door open for her. She looked around the inside of the car, stashing her phone and a couple of envelopes into her purse. That seemed to satisfy her as she stepped out of the car and walked to the Rover. I opened the door for her, and she climbed inside. A minute later we were deep in traffic.