All the Pretty Lies

Page 3

I nod again. The butterflies are more significant than what I’ve told anyone else, so I can honestly say that the pain is worth it for me. “Yes,” I answer.
Hemi’s eyes delve deep into mine, like he’s trying to see where the butterflies live, where they were born and what they’ve been through. After a few seconds, he says simply, enigmatically, “The important ones always are.”
I stretch out on my stomach, folding my arms under my head and resting my chin against my shoulder so I can look down at Hemi as he works. I see him reach for my waistband, just like he did last night. He smiles and glances up at me. “Smart choice,” he states, tucking his finger inside the elastic band of my yoga pants. “You know the drill,” he says. “Lift.”
I lift my h*ps and he eases my pants and panties down to expose my hip. Gently, like the wings of the butterflies he drew on my body, his fingers drift over the first part of the tattoo. Chills spread over my stomach and onto my lower back.
He nods. “Looks good. How ‘bout a few more?”
I nod, too. “Ready when you are.”
I take a deep breath when I hear the buzz as he fires up the tattoo gun.
CHAPTER FOUR - Hemi
Having my hands on this girl does nothing to help my concentration. The way her body feels under my palms—like she responds to my slightest touch—and the way she watches me, like she’s wishing I was doing much more to her, is kicking the shit out of my peace, peace that I need, especially when I’m freehanding.
The thing I think that’s bothering me the most, though, is that there’s something in her eyes, something in the sadness that always seems to be hanging around them, that makes me suspect she’s hiding wounds that only someone like me can see. Someone who understands, someone who has been there. But what the hell could a girl like this, a girl so young, so innocent, possibly know about tragedy?
“So, you’re an art major,” I say conversationally, anything to keep me from concentrating too much on the feel of her.
“Yes.”
“You going to State?”
She nods. University of Georgia has a pretty kick ass art program.
“Nice. What is it that you want to do when you graduate?”
I hear her sigh as I ink a butterfly wing onto her porcelain skin.
“I don’t really know.” I glance up at her. She looks troubled over it. “I know I’m supposed to know exactly what I want to do, but all I know is that I want to draw. To create something beautiful that will last forever.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There is if you’re supposed to be able to make a living doing it.”
“Hey, look at me,” I say, holding up my gun. “I make a damn fine living doing what I love, which is basically drawing. The canvas is just a little different than what you’ve probably learned on.”
I see her brow wrinkle as she considers me. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t,” I tell her, thinking specifically of my father.
“How did you get started doing this? I mean, is this what you wanted to do?”
“Not specifically, no. I floundered for a while, like most people, I suppose. Then, a few years back, I met someone. I went in for a tattoo. Like you, I had my own sketch of what I wanted. She admired my work, asked me if I’d consider sketching a few more. After that, she sort of took me under her wing and showed me the ropes. Didn’t take me long to realize that I loved it. Been doing it ever since.”
Why the hell are you telling this girl your life story? That’s more than you’ve told anybody since you moved here.
I make a conscious effort to rein it in. I don’t normally tell people much about myself. That could lead to someone finding out who I am. And I can’t let that happen.
“She?”
“Yeah, she.”
“So there are women tattoo artists?”
“Of course there are. This is America after all, right? Equal opportunity and all that shit?”
“That’s not…I mean I…That came out wrong.”
I laugh at her stammering. “Yes, there are women tattoo artists. Some damn fine ones, too.”
“Is it hard to learn?”
“No. Technique is something that’s developed over time. The art part is the hardest. There are some things you can’t teach. That can’t really be learned. At least not well. You either have it or you don’t. The rest you can find over time.”
“So the actual tattooing part can be learned…”
“Sure.”
“…as long as the art work is good enough?”
“Right.”
I’m not paying attention to what she’s getting at until she just lays it out there.
“You said my sketch was good. Would someone like you be able to teach me the rest?”
My head snaps up and I fall headlong into her deep, soulful, hopeful eyes. “Someone like me, sure.”
“But not you specifically?”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re very good at this.”
“But I don’t teach.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“No. I’ve never wanted to.”
“But you—”
“And I still don’t.”
“Oh,” she says flatly.
I make the outline of yet another butterfly, drawing closer to the edge of her shirt. A big part of me salivates at the thought of teaching her to tattoo, at the thought of what could come from such close and frequent contact. There’s no question that I’d like to discover every inch of this tight little body. Two or three times. If I were the selfish as**ole I used to be, I’d do exactly that, consequences be damned. But I’m not that guy anymore. I’m focused, and that part of me knows it would be a mistake. I don’t need any distractions right now. I have one mission, and bedding a girl like this isn’t one of them.
We fall quiet. In the silence, the buzz of the needle seems louder than ever.
CHAPTER FIVE - Sloane
I lie still and quiet as Hemi draws the outlines of butterflies along the curve of my waist. Then he’ll go back and do the shading. I don’t really know what to say now. I’m feeling a little uncomfortable, a little stung over his reaction. It felt dismissive. Dangerously close to rejection.
While he’s working, I give myself a pep talk, reminding myself that life is short and that, in most cases (like this one for instance), it’s now or never. All I could do was ask. Which I did. Now, I can move on.
But the longer I lie here and think about it, the more I wish Hemi had agreed. I would love the opportunity to learn how to place my art on skin, to etch it permanently onto someone’s body, onto their soul.
I hear the buzz of the gun die and I glance down at Hemi. “You’re gonna need to lift your shirt up a little farther and turn up onto your side.”
He’s matter of fact, which is good. I wouldn’t want him acting differently. That would be humiliating, like I’d offered up something else to him and been shot down. It makes me think of all that I’d like to offer up to him, but that would be too risky. Too brave. Too brazen.
But life is short, a quiet voice reminds from somewhere deep inside me.
It gives me chills to think of how a scene like that might play out, especially if Hemi were agreeable to my…offer.
“Are you cold?” Hemi asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down at him, meeting his eyes. “No, why?”
“You’ve got chills,” he says, stroking my side with his warm palm, making my flesh pebble even more.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he drags his hand back and forth over my side, as if to test the temperature of my skin. But I told him I’m not cold. So why? Why touch me this way?
I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking behind those indigo orbs.
Ignoring his observation, I ask, “Which way do you want me to turn?”
He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t move his hand as he answers me. “Turn to face me.”
I roll onto my left side, facing Hemi. When I’m comfortably situated, he lowers the table a little more, bringing my side down to a manageable height for him. “Come toward me some more.”
I scoot closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body against the part of my stomach that’s bared to him. I will my skin not to react, not to shrivel up in goosebumps. “Is that close enough?” I ask, suddenly feeling breathless being this close to him. The situation isn’t helping any—him sitting near the curve of my body, the studio empty but for us, the lighting dim everywhere else, midnight hovering just beyond the walls.
Hemi leans in as if to check the comfort and his ability to work in this position before he nods. “Yes, that’s fine. Now, your shirt.”
I reach between us to raise my shirt, pulling it up along my ribs, exposing the area where he’ll be drawing. I lie still, waiting, waiting for him to touch me. Unable to help myself, I inhale when I feel his hands on me again. Heat floods me from head to toe and everywhere in between.
“How far do you want to go?” he asks in a husky voice.
My eyes fly to his. He’s looking at me, no hint of playfulness in his expression. “Pardon?”
“How far do you want me to go? Up your side? Where do you want me to stop?”
My pulse is skittering along at a rapid pace and I try my best to jerk my wayward mind back to the present, to the situation, and get it out of the gutter.
“Umm, maybe up to here,” I say, pointing to what feels about right, high up on my side.
“You’ll need to unhook your bra so I can get under the strap then,” he tells me.
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, hoping he doesn’t think this was what I was getting at, that I’m hitting on him or something.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. You can just stop at the edge then.”
“I want you to be satisfied,” he says, his words playing right into a game that I’m not even sure he’s aware of.
Or is he?
“I’ll be satisfied either way.”
“I think it would look good if you took them all the way up. But that’s just me. It’s up to you. If you don’t feel comfortable…”
Is that challenge in his voice, in his eyes? He’s just looking at me. There’s no change in his expression... But still, there’s a subtle undercurrent here, running between us like churning river water. At least I think there is. But I can’t be certain it’s real and not imagined.
“It’s not that,” I begin.
“Good,” he says, his lips curving at the corners. “You don’t have to take it off, just unfasten it so I can move it up a little.”
My breathing is shallow as I lever myself up on my elbow and reach around to unsnap my bra.
Thank God I didn’t wear one that opens in the front!
The band around my torso loosens and I get back into position, bending my arms and folding both hands under my cheek as I scoot back toward Hemi again.
He wheels his chair in as close as he can get and, without a word, lays one arm across me and fires up the gun to freehand another string of beautiful butterflies.
Positioned like I am, there’s really nowhere to look but at Hemi, which is fine by me. His eyes are sharp in concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. His tongue is caught between his teeth, barely visible at the edge of his sculpted lips. It makes me wonder what it would taste like—his tongue and the inside of his mouth.
“You doing all right?” he asks, not looking away from what he’s doing.
“I’m fine.”
“The higher I get onto your ribs, the more it will sting.”
“I know. I’m prepared. It’ll be worth it.”
Hemi does glance up at me this time. He studies me curiously for a few seconds. His lips move as though he might say something, but he changes his mind and turns his attention back to his task. “Good,” he finally says. “Just let me know if I need to stop.”
I watch him as he works. I watch his face, I watch the competent way his hand holds me, the controlled way his fingers grip the gun. I watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath the skin in his forearms. I watch the way the light glints off his shiny dark brown hair. I admire the way the ends curl up on the longer pieces. My guess is that if Hemi didn’t keep his hair short, it would have a wave to it. I can just imagine running my fingers through it, feeling the texture of it tickling my palms.
Hemi weaves up and down along my side, giving me a lazy ribbon of butterflies that winds ever higher toward my arm pit. When he reaches the place where my bra strap rests, he slips his fingers under the edge and pushes it up out of the way.
He inks a butterfly right at the edge of my bra line and then dips down, closer to the underside of my breast to do another. I feel my ni**les tighten in response to the brush of his hand as he holds the material out of his way. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else. I focus on the painful sting of the needle as it penetrates my skin, leaving only beautiful color behind.
When the prickling stops, I open my eyes, confused. Hemi is watching me. He doesn’t move. Not one muscle. He just looks at me. For a few seconds, I’m lost to everything but him—the look in his eyes, the way his hand feels hot as fire where it rests against my skin, the way my breast aches for him to slide his fingers up just a fraction of an inch.
After at least a full disconcerting minute of watching me without saying a single word, Hemi finally speaks, surprising me. “Maybe we should give you a rest and finish up later.” I see him glance at a place above my head. “You’ve been here nearly two hours. That’s a long time under the needle.”