Written on My Heart Page 3

  I let go of her arm. “You’re scarred. Whoever gave you that tattoo dug too deep. Must’ve hurt like a motherfucker.”

  She shrugs, and several strands of her dark, wavy hair tumble over her shoulder. “I don’t really remember,” she says.

  I frown. I don’t really have patience for bullshitters. Hell, I don’t really have patience for anyone, but the people who come into my salon, sit in my chair, and pretend to be immune to pain really torque me, since they’re usually the first to pass out or fall to the ground hurling. “Cupcake, this is scarred to hell. It had to hurt.”

  She just stares at me, blinking those insanely large, blue eyes.

  “Okay, fine.” I wave a hand dismissively. “All I’m saying is the scar tissue is going to make things a bit tricky.”

  Her face falls. “You can’t do it?”

  This time, I laugh. “There’s no such thing as a tattoo I can’t do. I just said it was going to be tricky is all.”

  “Good.” She glances down at the ink on her arm and quickly looks away in disgust. Whoever the hell Chris is, there’s certainly no love lost there.

  “What am I covering this up with?” I ask.

  “Uh… ” She bites her lip. “I don’t really know.”

  “You don’t— You’re fucking kidding me, right?” When she makes no move to answer, I sweep my hand through my hair and pull it at the root, hoping to relieve the tension building inside my head. “Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter. “It’s one thing to ask me to stay late, but it’s another thing entirely to waste my time by coming here not knowing what you want. Could you be a little more inconsiderate?”

  The girl shrinks back against the chair. “I…I’m sorry. Your sister planned this so fast, I didn’t have time to think about it. Just cover it up with… ” She looks around the room before pointing at a display poster. “A butterfly. That will be fine.”

  Maybe it’s the exhaustion of working a twelve-hour shift. Maybe it’s because the clock is creeping closer to midnight. Maybe it’s because I know my sister is across town raising hell at some party. Whatever the reason, something inside me snaps.

  I cross my arms across my chest to keep from reaching for the girl so I can shake her. “First of all, none of my tattoos are just fine. Think of me what you will, but I’m an artist and I never settle for fine. Secondly, don’t be one of those girls. In some countries, tattoos are a rite of passage, something to be earned—not a Spring Break accessory for your bikini. If you want to pick some lame-ass image off a stock poster, one that a thousand other girls already have inked onto their lower backs, then you should turn around and walk right out the door you came in. Do not waste my time.”

  Her eyes widen. “But—”

  “But,” I repeat, cutting her off, “if you’re not here to cover up a mistake with another mistake, if you actually want something that has meaning and says something about who you are, then you may sit in my chair. So what’s it going to be, cupcake?”

  Her eyes narrow and her slender fingers curl into fists. “I want the tattoo.”

  “Prove it.” I wheel my stool beside her. She smells like coffee and apples—a strange combination, but on her it works. “What rite of passage have you completed? What sets you apart from the thousands of co-eds walking through my door looking for a tramp stamp?”

  “I… ” She falls silent. Her gaze drops to her laced fingers, sitting on her lap. And just when I think my entire night’s been a bust, and I’m going to have to drag her from the room, she looks up. “I want to be a poet,” she says. “I—I almost have enough poems written for an entire book.” She stares at me with an expectant expression, as if waiting for my approval. But that’s not what I’m here for. I don’t judge anyone’s accomplishments, I only tell their stories with ink and blood.

  “All right. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I push back on my stool and glide over to my workstation where I remove a black Sharpie and drawing pad from a sliding drawer. I bite off the cap of the Sharpie and hold it in my teeth. “So a book, maybe?” I start sketching a rough outline. “With drifting pages that circle around—”

  “No,” she cuts me off.

  I spit the Sharpie cap onto my workstation. “No?”

  She shakes her head. “I want a typewriter. One of those old-fashioned kinds. My grandma had one when I was a kid, and I used to love playing with it, staining my fingers on the ribbon ink.”

  Without meaning to, I smile. “Now that sounds like a tattoo with some meaning.”

  She grins back at me, and I can’t help notice how her entire face transforms when she does. I mean, she’s a pretty girl to begin with, but when she smiles, her face lights up and that mysterious weight that darkens her eyes all but disappears. It’s in this moment, when her beauty all but stuns me, that I consider learning her name. I think it’s Ashley, or Ashlyn, or something.

  But then I think about Harper, and my smile withers. What the fuck am I thinking? Who cares what this girl looks like or how she smiles? Who cares what her name is? Jesus. I scribble out my previous drawing of a book and begin to sketch a typewriter. I steal glances of the name etched on her arm, mentally making notes where the lines of the two tattoos will intersect and overlap. I won’t be completely sure until I place my drawing on top her old tattoo.

  It only takes a minute or so, but I soon I lose myself in my art. My muscles unwind, and the world drops away until there’s nothing left but me and my pen.

  “That’s amazing.” Her voice is closer than I expect, and I jolt back. My pen leaves an ugly line from one of the round letter keys, squiggling and inch or so across my drawing. I scowl at it. I know it doesn’t really matter that I messed up the stencil, the mistake won’t appear on the actual tattoo, but still, I hate making mistakes. The jagged line stares up, mocking me. My fingers curl so tight around the pen my knuckles ache.

  “I love it,” the girl says. She reaches down to touch the drawing but I pull it from her grasp.

  “It’s fucked up,” I say.

  She withdraws her hand back into her lap. “I think it’s perfect,” she says quietly.

  I snort and rip the sketch from the pad. I crumple it up, toss it in the trash, and begin outlining on a fresh sheet.

  I glance up at her and nearly fall into her wide, blue eyes. I tighten my grip on my drawing pad, like it’s the only thing keeping me from drowning. God, she looks so innocent. Something about her makes me want to wrap my arms around her and shield her from this hell pit that is life. That’s crazy, right? I just met her, so why should I care what happens to her? Still, she needs someone. Whoever this Chris fuck was, he was a mistake she didn’t see coming. I won’t settle for some second-rate tattoo to eradicate him from her life, and I won’t let her, either. “I’m the artist, so only my opinion is valid.”

  Her mouth drops, but the words don’t come. A flush burns up her neck. “Why?” she asks finally.

  Ignoring her, I grab several colored Sharpies from a cup—I don’t like to talk and work. I splay them out on my table and take my time choosing. The red will definitely make the tattoo stand out, but the blue matches her eyes. I grab the blue and twist off the cap.

  “Why?” she asks again, louder this time. Apparently, she can’t take a hint. “Is it because I ate your pizza without asking? Because I’m keeping you at work late? Or because I’m not paying? Because I’ll pay you. You’ll have to give me some time, but I’ll pay you.”

  With a sigh, I snap the lid back on the marker and look at her. “What are you talking about?”

  Her cheeks burn crimson. “You!” She jabs a finger in the air. “Why are you being such an ass?”

  “Who says I’m an ass? Maybe you’re overly sensitive.” I pull the cap off a green Sharpie and color in the typewriter’s letter keys. The brightness of the green and blue together will be a nice contrast to her dark hair.

  She makes a strangled noise and hugs her chest. “You’re really something.”

  “So I’ve been told.
Now, if you’re done going on about my many charming attributes, would you mind shutting up? Please? I can’t concentrate with your yammering.”

  She presses her lips into a tight line. Her eyes take on the shimmery sheen of held back tears.

  “Oh, Jesus H. Christ,” I mutter. For a millisecond, I sense something inside me twist as an unfamiliar emotion takes hold. Shame? Regret? I can’t be sure because the feeling passes as quickly as it came. I pick up my drawing of the typewriter and hold it up, studying it from different angles to make sure it lines up. “Usually people don’t start crying until after I bring out the needle.”

  “I’m not crying,” she answers, dabbing at her eyes.

  “Right.”

  “I’m not!” She straightens her shoulders. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “The satisfaction?” I give a harsh bark of a laugh. “Listen up, sweetheart, crying is the last thing in the world to bring me satisfaction. I detest it, I loathe it. When someone cries, it makes me grind my teeth together like this until my jaw hurts.” I curl my lips back in a snarl, displaying my teeth. “Not a good look for me, cupcake.”

  Her nostrils flare. “Ashlyn.”

  I ignore her and turn back to my drawing. She’s not my problem, I remind myself. Therefore, there’s no reason to learn her name. Still, I sneak a look at her and immediately regret it. She looks so small curled up on my chair. She’s pulled her knees against her chest and has wrapped her arms around them. Her bottom lip quivers and she quickly bites onto it. God, I want to reach for her, to pull her against me, and…

  What the hell is wrong with me? I shake my head, hoping to dislodge my unexpected tenderness toward the girl, before bringing my attention back to my drawing. There’s something not quite right with it. I reach for my fine tip Sharpie and add a few more lines. When I’m satisfied, I cap the marker, and set it aside. “All right. Let’s see how well this lines up. Arm.”

  She glares at me without moving.

  I’m in no mood for games. She’s already fucked with my head enough. “Arm,” I repeat, and this time I snap my fingers.

  With a scowl, she slowly extends her arm. I lay my drawing over the cursive name, repositioning it a few times to make sure the lines of the previous tattoo will be hidden by the new one. “This is going to work nicely,” I say.

  “At least something in this place will,” she mutters.

  “Funny.” I stand and walk to the printer where I copy my drawing onto transfer paper. Before I place it on her skin, I rip open a sanitizing cloth packet and wipe down her arm. Her muscles reflexively tighten each time my hand grazes her skin. It’s very annoying. So is her apple-coffee smell. And the softness of her skin. “Can you try to sit still?”

  “Sorry.”

  I take the copied image, drop back down on my stool, and line up the stencil over her original tattoo. After I’m done positioning the copy, I take a wet sponge and hold it against the image long enough for the temporary lines to transfer to her skin. I peel the paper from her arm and study my work. “Okay. This is where it’s going to be. Now is when you speak up or forever hold your peace.”

  She looks at the outline of the typewriter on her arm, and her face softens. “It’s exactly what I want.”

  “Good.” I glance at the clock and find the time is nearly midnight. I do not want to be here much longer, especially if Emily is at Peter’s party doing God knows what. Sure, at twenty-one, she’s technically an adult. But it’s not like the older brother instinct is something I can turn off. And since Harper is out with her friends, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than making sure my baby sister stays out of trouble. “It’s late,” I say. “How about we make a deal? I’ll draw the outline tonight, and you can come back tomorrow after the shop closes and we’ll finish the shading.”

  Her shoulders slump. “Another night with you?”

  “I think you meant to say, ‘Another night with you!’” I open the plastic bag with the needle, slide it out, and fasten it to the tattoo machine.

  “Right.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’m fine with coming back tomorrow. I worked a double shift today, so I’m pretty beat. Besides, I can only handle you in short bursts.”

  I ignore the jab and fill a little cup with ink. “So you’re not going to the party with Emily?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to bed.”

  Good. One less girl for me to babysit. Again, Ashlyn might be perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but it’s that damn older brother instinct. I think it started in third grade when I spotted Jeff Bowlin pulling on my sister’s pigtails. I gave him a black eye, and my reputation spread via whispered warnings throughout the school—you do not mess with Lane Garrett’s little sister. Later on came the addendum: or Emily’s friends. Because as I would soon learn, teenage girls are pack animals. They travel together and get into trouble together.

  Speaking of girls, I make a mental note to call Harper to see how her night is going, and tell her I love her. I turn on the tattoo machine and the needle pulses. I dip the tip of it into my cup of ink. I look at the girl on my chair. “Are you ready to get started?”

  She nods, her eyes never leaving the buzzing needle.

  “Good.” I roll my stool toward her. “Now sit back and try to relax. This is going to hurt.”

  Chapter Four

  Ashlyn

  My arm throbs as I climb out of the car and walk the short distance to my apartment. I can’t decide what was the biggest relief: the moment the needle stopped biting into my skin, or the second I climbed off the vinyl chair and got the hell away from Lane.

  I glance at the black ink typewriter beneath the plastic wrap taped to my arm. Even though he’s a huge asshole, there’s no denying Lane’s talent. The letter keys overlap the cursive loops of Chris’s name, making it all but invisible. When the shading is complete, there’ll be nothing left to remind me of my mistake. For that, I’m willing to suffer another night with Lane.

  I unlock my apartment door and step inside to the sound of squeals and raucous laughter. Another party—awesome. The front door opens into a small kitchen where liquor bottles and fast-food wrappers decorate every inch of space on the short counter. Dirty dishes overflow the sink and the smells of smoke and beer permeate the air.

  The urge to cry swells inside my chest like an inflating balloon. Before I’d left for work this morning I’d spent two hours straightening, taking out the trash, washing the dishes, and wiping down all the counters—not to mention scrubbing puke out of the carpet.

  I follow the sound of voices, peek around the corner, and find at least a dozen people crammed into the small living room—none of them are my roommate, or even anyone I recognize. A handful of girls are wedged onto the couch. They stare, glassy-eyed, at some reality show on TV. Two guys sit on a loveseat, passing a joint back and forth—the tang of it burns my nostrils.

  One of them looks up at me. He smiles, and there’s something about it that sends my skin crawling. I shiver and turn away.

  “Selena?” I call out for my missing roommate. After she’d begged me to clean up the vomit this morning—she couldn’t do it herself because of a sensitive stomach—she promised me no more parties.

  “Bedroom,” one of the girls on the couch mutters. She has platinum blond hair with pink highlights. I realize I do recognize her. She’s a stripper from the same club Selena works at. Her name is…Diamond? Dazzle? I can’t remember, but it’s not like it’s her real name. One of Selena’s friends told me they use stage names to protect their identity. She never said who from—maybe the men at the club, or maybe the girl she’s forced to be when she walks on the stage.

  Angry tears prick the corner of my eyes as I walk down the short hall. I should have known she wouldn’t keep her word. I’d leave if I could, but finding an apartment with rent this cheap is impossible and I don’t exactly relish the idea of going back to living out of my car.

  Which is why I’ve be
en saving all of my tip money and eating ramen noodles two meals a day. If I keep at my current pace, I should have enough money for a better apartment in about six months. Until then, I’ll just have to suck it up.

  “Selena?” Her doorway’s cracked open. I push it wide, step inside, and immediately recoil in horror. “Oh my God!” I clasp my hands over my mouth as a wash of bile burns up my throat. I know, given Selena’s sensitive stomach, if I threw up I’ll be the one cleaning it up.

  Bent over the foot of her bed with her skirt pushed up to her waist, Selena turns to face me as some guy I’ve never seen before, with his pants around his ankles, continues to thrust against her without breaking his rhythm. “Oh, hey. What’s up?” she asks, pushing up on her palms.

  With my hands still clasped over my mouth, I shake my head and take a step back, only to bump into the wall. I want to rip my eyes from my skull and drop them in a bucket for scrubbing. Only there’s not enough bleach in the world to dissolve the horror burned on them.

  With his pelvis still lurching and hands gripping her hips, the guy nods at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “Sup. Who are you?”

  I think the sight malfunctioned my brain because my muscles refuse to obey my command to get the hell out of there. Instead, I continue to stand and gape at them, like I’m visiting an art gallery and their performance art is particularity difficult to interpret.

  “That’s my new roommate, Ash,” Selena answers, as he continues ramming her from behind. “She’s a waitress or something. Right, Ash?”

  Oh my God, this is not happening. I am not having a conversation with you while you fuck! I clench my eyes shut and inch toward the door. “I’m leaving. We’ll talk later.”

  “You don’t have to go,” the guy pants. “Stay. Join in.”

  “Yeah, Ash,” Selena agrees. “It’ll be fun!”