Their Boy (The Game 2)

He’d taken my favorite places, memories, fantasies, quotes, tributes, symbols, and lyrics and used my body as my own personal photo album. But due to the scarring and slow healing process, I had to come here to Dr. Cohen once a week for her to check my progress. I also had to have Kirk fill in the ink where the skin was particularly angry.

It’d been a long year since I got the first tattoo.

“Your back looks much better, Kit.” Dr. Cohen came over and inspected me as she reached for a pair of gloves. “Is it still itching?”

“Not as much,” I replied. “My elbows, though. I think I scratch them in my sleep.”

She hummed and lifted my arm. “They’re a little dry, but that’s normal, especially with the seasons changing. Just keep using the creams.”

God forbid I forgot.

There was a knock on the door, alerting us to the arrival of the other half of my dynamic duo. Tattoos basically went against everything Dr. Cohen believed in for this type of recovery, although she’d softened her approach a lot from the first time I’d mentioned wanting the cover-up. Meeting Kirk and seeing how professional he was had changed her mind some, I was pretty sure.

That said, she still enjoyed pointing out that I had been “almost healed” before Kirk started working with me.

“You’re late,” was all she said this time.

“Lower your expectations,” Kirk replied. He walked over to us and gave me a grin. “How’s my favorite client?”

He was incredibly attractive, all ink and steel. It was impossible not to smile. “Better, I think.”

He wasn’t here for every appointment. In fact, I’d probably go to his studio next time I needed him. The last tattoo was in place now, and he only showed up to check the progress and if I needed touch-ups. I’d needed more than a few already, because tattooing scarred skin wasn’t the easiest.

I shuddered as Dr. Cohen drew her fingers over a sensitive spot on my arm. A contrast to the spots where I felt close to nothing.

She was unhappy about something. It was always the same thing. Slow-healing, dry skin. She’d wanted me to wait much, much longer before I got inked.

She didn’t understand that I’d rather take a slow healing process than another minute of what I used to see in the mirror.

Kirk did his own thing, checking on the last part of my back piece.

“I’ll need to fill in a bit here,” Kirk murmured. “We’ll get you a session soon. Won’t take more than half an hour.”

No problem. It was an opportunity to leave the house. “Are you coming here, or do you want me to come to the studio?” Either was fine.

“Up to you, buddy. I don’t mind coming here.”

I pursed my lips and looked away. Of course he didn’t mind coming here. It was where Dr. Cohen worked.

I hoped they got together before my sessions were over.

“Do you have a treatment scheduled for today, Kit?” Dr. Cohen wondered.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. Same building, just across the courtyard. It was some hydration therapy for my skin, and I hated it. It itched like crazy.

I suppose I should be grateful. Not too long ago, my doctor’s appointments had involved surgery and skin transplants. Lotions that itched were nothing in comparison.

“Seriously, look,” Kirk said. “Look what a fucking master I am.” He turned me around, to Dr. Cohen’s dismay because it interrupted her exam, and gave me a smaller mirror. “Have you really looked at the artwork?”

Of course I had. “What do you mean?” I angled the mirror to see what he was talking about. The cathedral across my back came into view, along with a Latin quote, two dates, and the shadowy pews at the bottom where a few silhouetted forms had their heads bowed in prayer.

“You can’t see the scars,” Kirk responded smugly. “Look closely, Kit. You’re as self-conscious and insecure now as you were when we first met. But it’s time you quit hiding in those shirts. Next time we see each other, I wanna see you in a vintage tee and jeans.”

“Now he gives fashion advice too,” Dr. Cohen muttered under her breath.

I grinned unsurely and eyed the mirror. Maybe he was right. Not about the clothes. I hadn’t owned a pair of jeans since before the accident, and my mom hadn’t liked the look. But perhaps I appeared more normal than I’d thought.

I did agree with him on the master part. The placement of the ink was perfect. Where the skin had recovered or never been damaged, he’d gone easy on the shadowing, giving the heavier work breathing room in between the dark contrasts.

I had to admit the idea of wearing a T-shirt this summer was appealing too.

Meeting Kirk’s grin, I felt a boost of confidence.

“You got this,” he said with a nod. “You’ve been to hell and back, and the ink isn’t about hiding from it. It’s about choice. You choose when to reveal whatever you feel insecure or vulnerable about. You’ve taken back that control.”