Chapter Seven
Kennedy
"Wow," I whisper, staring around Asher's shop early the next morning. The place is incredible. The floors are matte black and feel almost like rubber beneath my feet. The walls are white with little alcoves cut out like windows. In each cut out space, the back is painted black. Framed artwork hangs in the center, with lights to illuminate it, almost as if this were an art gallery. The front counter is black and has Crimson Ink written across the front of it in a gorgeous script.
Black fixtures hang from the ceiling on thick chains, illuminating each of the four workspaces. They're all neat and tidy, with a counter, a desk, and a tattoo chair at each. The name of each artist is scripted over the workspaces, identifying which artist works there.
"Where do you work?" I ask, turning to look up at Asher. His name isn't on any of them.
He grins at me and holds his hand out for me to take.
I do, of course. I think I'd follow him anywhere if he asked me to do it.
He was right about talking to Caroline. She confessed that she kept the secret because she was afraid to disappoint me…as if I could ever be disappointed in her for falling in love. We talked and we cried. It felt good to get it all out there.
Afterward, all four of us hung out for a little while. It was…good. Interesting. It's easy to see how much she and Jared love each other. I think Asher likes Jared. Caroline told me that he wrote my recommendation three weeks ago, which makes me feel a lot better. He didn't do it because of Caroline but because he really does feel badly about how impossible he's been. He really does think I'm talented. That's pretty high praise coming from someone like him.
After Asher left last night, I stayed up writing. I thought I already knew what I wanted to submit for consideration, but I changed my mind. The piece I wrote last night…I think it's the most honest thing I've ever written before.
It's about Asher and the way he makes me feel. I thought I knew what love was. I've read about it for so long. I've written about it. I've watched it play out in front of me a hundred times. But yesterday, I realized that I knew nothing about love. Holding Asher while he told me about his childhood, the parts of his story he immortalized in his skin…nothing prepared me for how that felt. He's Jane Eyre in the flesh, still so infinitely capable and worthy of love despite everything.
He's been through so much in his life. But he's still standing. He never gave up. He never followed the path his mom took. He made a life and a name for himself, fought for every single thing he's got. And still, he's not bitter or angry or hateful. He's beautiful.
He is love…bright and shining and so damn beautiful.
And even though I've never done anything to make me worthy of such an incredible gift, he chose me anyway. He loves me anyway. I see it in his eyes, feel it when it touches or kisses me. His heart is mine. I'll never, ever do anything to break it.
Even if that means finishing school here in Nashville instead of at Columbia.
People might think I'm foolish for giving up a chance at Columbia for a man, but those people are wrong. Staying with Asher wouldn't be a sacrifice. Loving this man and letting him love me would be the greatest adventure of my life.
The thought of giving up Columbia is still scary though. I've never wanted anything more than I wanted to write. But now, with Asher, I want something with a desperation that eclipses even that lifelong goal. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
We cross through his studio and into a grotto I didn't notice earlier. I thought it was just part of the back wall, but it's not. It's a deep recess, hiding a door on the left. Asher pulls it open, revealing another room.
"Oh my gosh," I gasp, staring in shock. This room is easily the same size as the front room and just as elegant. But the floor back here is painted to look like a bridge leading over a pit of fire. A giant hand reaches out of it. The detailing is so vivid it almost looks real. The ceiling is painted too. Storm clouds roil overhead in a riot of bright colors. A hand reaches down from above, seeming as lifelike as the one below. It's heaven and hell, both grasping for the souls who find themselves here, inking parts of their stories into their skin.
"Asher, this is amazing," I whisper, turning to gape at him. "Did you do this?"
"I sketched it out," he says. "A local artist took over from there and brought it to life for me. I wanted this place to be something everyone remembered."
"It's amazing. Truly." I step further into the room, staring all around. Unlike the main room, this one seems more private and intimate. There are three work areas instead of four, and each is situated behind floor-to-ceiling glass walls.
"The walls are smart glass," he explains. "When we're working on a private piece or our clients just want a little privacy, we can hit a switch and it darkens the glass so no one can see inside." He takes my hand again, leading me through the room to the very back stall. "This is where I work, angel baby."
All of the stalls are roomy, but his is a little bigger than the others. Like them, it's freakishly neat. His art hangs in alcoves like those out front. I move closer so I can see it. The first piece is a filigree dragon breathing fire. It's so detailed and ornate. The second is a lion. Each piece of him is stacked atop the other like a three-dimensional puzzle made from scales and fur, adorned with small jewels and embellished with mythological symbols. It's as beautiful as the dragon.
I tilt my head to the side when I see the third. It's a little boy standing in the street, his hand extended, reaching for the wispy figure at his side. Compared to the other two, it's almost plain. The emotion it contains saves it from simplicity. There's so much yearning in it, so much longing. It's also considerably older than the other two. The paper it's drawn on is creased.
"I drew that when I was eleven," he murmurs, coming up behind me to wrap his arms around me. I lean back against the hard wall of his chest, letting him hold me. "After I got myself kicked out of the best foster home I'd ever been in."
I turn my head to look at him. He's staring at the artwork, but he doesn't seem sad. His gray eyes are clear, his expression soft.
"Didn't really know what it meant at the time, but I realized while drawing it that I just wanted what other kids wanted. Love, stability, someone who wanted to keep me no matter what. But I was my own worst enemy back then, angel baby. A bad ass little kid with a chip on his shoulder." The corner of his lip lifts in a sardonic smile.
"Asher?" I turn around in his arms, sliding mine around his waist. "I want to keep you."