Stripped Down

Big fucking question right there. I give it to her straight. “Yes.”

She nods. “So let’s do this.”

She bends over my wrist and sprays the skin there with something cold and antiseptic smelling. Then she applies a stencil. That reminds me of the prize in the Cracker Jack box that my brothers and I fought over when we were little. Good to know she has a plan for my unmarked skin.

When she reaches for the needle, she hesitates. “Still don’t want to look? This is your chance at a temporary tattoo.”

“You trust me, I trust you,” I tell her. “That’s how this is gonna work.”

She’s not sold. “Maybe I’ll give you something really ugly. Or tattoo card verses on you.”

I’m not good at trust. People rely on me and not the other way round. Honestly? I don’t know that I can trust her. There’s no way to know. It’s like pulling myself up the cliff face, knowing that I go up or I fall off. Those are my options.

“I’ll like whatever you choose. You do fantastic work.”

She sighs. “And this is why you’re not going to end up with a pink cat on your wrist.”

And then she snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and gets to work. I’d rather have her touch me without the latex between us. Fuck, I feel that way all the time. It’s cute, the way she tries to keep me safe, when it’s my job to keep her safe.

When she picks up a thin needle and starts outlining my new ink, I keep my eyes on her face. I’ve been hurt before. This pain is a tickle, buzzing at my senses. She holds my wrist in place, her fingers pressing, pulling at my skin. I don’t do restraints. For a moment I tense up, before I force myself to relax.

“You okay?” She looks up, assessing.

“Fine.” As if I’d tell her anything different.

She must believe me, however, because she goes back to work. The bottom of my wrist turns out to be more sensitive than the top, but I really am fine. I watch the top of her, following the bounce of the crazy, messy ponytail she’s got going on. Her hair curls where it escapes from the hair tie.

“This next part is going to hurt,” she warns me a few minutes later. “I have to shade it.”

“I can handle it.” I touch her cheek with my free hand. Jesus. She’s soft. And I hurt her. I am such an ass.

“If you need to stop, just tell me.”

I’m wondering how bad it can really hurt and how much worse I deserve when she picks up a different needle and starts in. She’s right. This is different, deeper. This needle bites into my skin, filling up the outline with rich, dark color. The pain is there beneath the surface, but I focus on Rose. Not like it’s a hardship. She’s fucking gorgeous when she’s focused on her work.

“Done,” she announces and lets go of my wrist. It feels like Christmas when I look.

She’s given me a single, black eagle feather. My ink is about three inches long and one inch wide, but she’s packed so much detail into that real estate. It’s fucking gorgeous.

I tug her head down to mine. “Thanks,” I say against her mouth and then I kiss her, marking her in front of my cowboys, my brothers, and anyone else who’s watching. Rose is mine.

She’s breathless when I release her mouth. “Do you like it?”

It’s perfect. “Beautiful,” I tell her. “Kinda makes me want to let you ink all of me. Now tell me why you picked a feather.”

She sighs. “The next time you climb up a cliff without a rope, maybe you’ll remember that maybe you can’t fly, but you can fall.”

That’s when I know she cares.

ANGEL

Rose doesn’t come over to the house during the daylight hours for three days. Probably because she’s busy inking every loser in Lonesome. She talks when she works, a constant stream of chatter that I listen to shamelessly when I can. I learn which TV shows she likes and which bands. I also know what her dream vacation would be (hiking up to Machu Picchu because apparently she has a secret masochistic side), what she would name a horse (another thing that happens over my dead body), and where I can buy almost everything online. At night, though, she comes over to my place and we have sex. Lots and lots of amazing, hot, fantastic sex.

And then she gets up and she leaves my ass in the bed. I’m fairly certain she’s doing this to make a point, but I go with it.

I need to work on my nonexistent relationship skills, because when she’s not working and we’re not fucking, she disappears inside that RV of hers. I can’t tell if she’s ignoring me, ignoring us, or maybe she has some deadly bird flu and she needs me. Yeah. It’s fucking pathetic. Eventually, I lose patience and I go over to her “place.” The fucking not-good-enough RV she shares with Rory. I bang on the door and wait. And then wait some more.