Page 16 of Before We Break

“You ever gonna tell her?” I ask, letting my curiosity get the better of me.

He frowns. “Nah. This is just for me.”

Part of being a tattoo artist is knowing people’s secrets, and that level of trust is a privilege I don’t take for granted. For some clients, tattoos are their therapy. Who am I to judge?

As Ben strides out of view, movement catches in my periphery. It’s Clio on that ridiculous yellow bicycle with the wicker basket and streamers on the handlebars.

I shake my head. Sometimes, I swear she’s a caricature of a person.

After our middle-of-the-night run-in, I headed out to the fire escape to find solitude. I’d been a royal piece of shit; I knew the second I saw the tears glistening on her freckled cheeks, and the way the light in her eyes dimmed like a flickering candle. But I still couldn’t bring myself to apologize.

She’s right. I am an asshole.

Clio Marsden wears every emotion on her face, and last night I saw something I’d never seen before—pure anguish. Instead of offering compassion, I lashed out.

She caught me in a weak moment. When I looked at her, my first thought was how goddamn gorgeous she is, and my second thought was what a terrible time it was to notice.

As much as I’ve tried to deny it, Clio left a hell of an impression on me the first day we met. It’s probably why I didn’t bother interviewing any other potential tenants after she showed up. But she has commitment written all over her, and I don’t do commitment.

You could accuse me of trying to outrun my past, and you’d probably be right about that, but it’s worked well for me so far.

Until now.

Lately, when I stand still for too long, there’s been an emptiness I can’t seem to shake. Now that Auggie’s living with me, I have too much time to think, and thinking only leads me down dangerous roads starring gorgeous, off-limits redheads.

Heaving a sigh, I grab my leather jacket off the back of the chair.

As I’m locking up the shop, a scream pierces the air. I glance up just in time to see Clio careening off her bike, her ankle hitting the ground at an awkward angle before she crashes to the pavement.

My stomach sinks, and instinct spurs me on as I rush toward her. I kneel beside her crumpled position on the ground as she writhes, holding her injured ankle. Angry red marks decorate her calf, and there’s already an impressive bruise forming.

Tears stain her flushed cheeks. “Go away,” she says, shoving at my chest.

“Easy, killer. I’m just trying to help you.”

She scoffs. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need your help.”

I take a step back, arms crossed. “Fine. Stand up then.”

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she carefully shifts onto her knees and tries to hoist herself up. A squeak escapes her as she falls back onto her lush ass.

I hold out both hands. “You ready to let me help you?”

“Fine.”

She slips her hands into mine, and I try to ignore the way my body reacts to the contact. It has nothing to do with Clio and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in months.

When she tries to put pressure on her injured ankle, she falls against me. I band my arms around her shoulders, keeping her upright. That’s when I notice the blood soaking through the tear in her jeans.

“I’m going to carry you.”

“No way.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“I can walk.”

“You can’t. Your ankle is already swelling. We need to get it wrapped. Besides, you’re bleeding.”