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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s been one month, five days—I flip my wrist to check my watch—and seven hours since I caught the ferry from the island of Clua back to a life I barely recognize.
Without Sonnie. Without a single word from him. Some days I can almost convince myself that I made the whole thing up. Other days I turn into that girl again and pine for what could have been. Not that I’d admit that to anyone. Ever.
It would never have worked anyway. To many issues. Too little time. We’d only have ended up messing each other up beyond recognition.
But if nothing else, my time with Sonnie shoved me head-first back into the land of the living. A land of letting people in and staying around when they need you to. It doesn’t suck.
My cell buzzes in my pocket. The Chili Peppers. I grab it as I dodge a puddle on the sidewalk and slide my finger over the screen. Autumn in Baltimore ain’t got nothing on summer in Clua.
“Nina, I swear if you send me any more memes of hairy tattoo artists, you’re sleeping in the backyard tonight.”
The girl’s giggle warms my insides against the damp Baltimore air. It’s taken time and a whole lot of perseverance to have her giggle so freely with me, that, and a promise to stay put, even though she got into the music academy, full board and all. I nearly choked on the lump in my throat when she asked me, all wide blue eyes and pouty lip, if she could stay. With me. Live with me. Apparently, I don’t blow to be around. Or that I threatened her mom with actual bodily harm if she laid a finger on her again. The fact we wear the same shoe size doesn’t offend her either.
“Relax, woman. I’m calling to remind you that we’re out of toilet paper, and I won’t be home for dinner. Oh, and I want a photo of your tattoo when it’s done.”
“That would be a definite no. Not ever.” Pretty sure I could be arrested for sending a minor in my care a photo of this specific tattoo. Hell, I don’t even want to show the tattoo artist this particular tattoo. I round the corner and slow my steps in front of the floor-to-ceiling shop window. My tummy knots. The old-school black script letters painted onto the glass is almost identical to Clua Ink’s shop sign.
Jackson Tattoos.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. Getting someone that’s not Sonnie to finish this tattoo is the final full stop in whatever it was we thought we had together. A final painfully awkward full stop. And just like that, I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that LJ could fit me in.
I square my shoulders and take in a long breath. It’s a good thing. An unfinished tattoo, no matter how pretty is still ... unfinished.
Warm air heats my cheeks when I push through the door.
Black and white checkered floors. A retro red sofa and framed prints covering every wall. Your typical old-school tattoo parlor. I adore these places. Behind the black-tiled reception desk, a girl with thick, white-blonde bangs and the prettiest sprinkling of stars tattooed down the side of her neck glances up at me over a huge pair of pink-framed glasses then back down to her computer screen. “Stanza?”
“That’s me.” I grin past the butterflies in my tummy and slip my black leather jacket from my shoulders. My stonewashed Guns N Roses T-shirt falls mid-thigh over my leopard print leggings. I figure once I’m in the chair with my pants down, I at least want to be able to pretend I’m semi covered. My face heats just thinking about LJ focusing all of his expert attention there.
“Go on through to room four. He’ll be right down.” She smiles wide, dark eyes twinkling like a woman who really loves her job.
My answering smile is poor at best, and I’d guess that my eyes are nowhere near as twinkly as hers when I head past her desk to the parlor behind. The first three rooms I pass are empty, doors closed, blinds up. Pre-tattoo jitters have me puffing out my cheeks as I walk towards the open door at the end of the sterile white hall. The disinfectant smell tickles my nostrils before I’m even through the glass door. At least the blinds are drawn.
I swallow down my nerves. It’s just another tattoo parlor. No biggie. I take in the bed and the neatly stocked shelves that line three walls of the small room. Exactly the same as when I came to get my sleeve done. LJ’s cool. He’s the best. He probably won’t even bat an eye. This won’t be weird. It won’t. I mean, it could be worse. He could be young, and hot like—I turn to the sound of steps in the hallway—like Sonnie?
I may forget to breathe. I may forget to blink. I definitely forget to talk.
Sonnie. Is here. Black jeans, ripped at the knees. Long-sleeved black Clua Ink T-shirt, his hair haphazardly mussed into something resembling done is standing in the doorway. Here. In Baltimore. His blue-green eyes are nowhere near as surprised as I’m guessing mine are. He steeples his fingers in front of him and I finally remember how to blink at the painful familiarity of the fine line designs that cover each one.
“What the actual fu—” My whispered breath fades to nothingness as I try to get my brain to quit stalling and tell me that I’ve officially lost my fucking mind. “How?”
“Jackson.” He clears his throat, his gaze constantly moving, my eyes, my lips, down my body then back to my eyes. “My last name is Jackson.”
I shake my head and drop my attention to the floor by his Converse. “Jackson?” My mind whirrs and bounces before I can finally meet his stare again. “This shop? Your dad? How did you know I’d...?”
“Come here? I didn’t.” He scratches his fingers over the front of his chest then tugs on his earlobe. “I mean when I saw your name in the books ... how many Stanzas can there be?” The muscle in his jaw jumps, but he moves into the room and gestures for me to sit on the bed. “The way we ... I left things ... I would have called if you’d given anyone your number.”
I move on autopilot, lifting myself onto the black leather, my stunned gaze never leaving his face. Sonnie. Here. I’m still not one hundred percent sure I’m not hallucinating. “So, when you said your dad wanted you to come back to Baltimore to help with the family business you meant...” Changing the subject. I know, but I can’t. I don’t know how to deal with the way we left things. I’ve dissected that whole night so many times. Even if I’d stayed—we were both so damn scared, there’s no way we would have survived each other.
He nods, but his attention is firmly on my boots. The same boots I wore the last time we...
The heat I’ve dreamt about more times that I care to admit these last few weeks is undeniable when he finally raises his eyes to my face. “Your tattoo.” He clears his throat again. “I’ll finish it.”
Relief, something all kinds of mooshy, and a hit of guilt drops my mouth open. He’s the only one I want anywhere near it. I press my lips together and scrunch my eyes. “I don’t know, LJ’s pretty good.”
The corner of his lips twitch and one of his dimples makes its first appearance since he walked in. “Please tell me you think that would be fucking weird.”
