Ink Exchange (Wicked Lovely 2)

She had the irrational thought that her emotions would settle once she got the tattoo finished—or maybe it was just that she was yearning for it, that bone-melting sensation that she felt when the tattoo needles touched her skin. She forced the thought away and focused on Rianne. “It’s not your fault, Ri.”

“It is.”

“Okay, it is, but I’m not mad.” Leslie gave Rianne a quick hug then pulled back to glare at her. “I will be, though, if you go near Ren. He’s hanging with some real losers lately.”

“So how are you safe?”

Leslie ignored the question and stood up. She suddenly needed air, needed to be somewhere else. She gave Rianne what she hoped was a convincing smile and said, “I need to go.”

“All right. See you in fourth period.” Rianne pushed the stack of mats back into some semblance of a tidy pile.

“No. I’m out.”

Rianne paused. “You are mad.”

“No. Really, I’m just—” Leslie shook her head, not sure she could explain or wanted to explain the strange feelings compelling her. “I want to walk. Go. I just…I’m not sure.”

“Want company? I could ditch with you.” Rianne smiled, too brightly. “I can catch up with Ash and Carla and we’ll meet you at—”

“Not today.” Leslie had an increasingly pressing urge to run, roam, just take off.

Rianne’s eyes teared up again.

Leslie sighed. “Sweetie, it’s not you. I just need air. I guess I’m working too much or something.”

“You want to talk? I can listen.” Rianne wiped the mascara streaks from under her eyes, making them worse in the process.

“Hold still.” With the edge of her sleeve, Leslie rubbed away the black marks and said, “I just need to run it off. Clear my head. Thinking about Ren…I worry.”

“About him? I could talk to him. Maybe your dad—”

“No. I’m serious: Ren’s changed. Stay away from him.” Leslie forced a smile to take the sting out of her words. The conversation was becoming entirely too close to topics she didn’t like. “I’ll catch you later or tomorrow, okay?”

Not looking at all happy about it, Rianne nodded, and they slipped into the hall.

After Leslie left Bishop O.C., she wasn’t entirely sure where she was headed until she found herself at the ticket window of the train station. “I need a ticket to Pittsburgh for right now.”

The man behind the counter muttered something unintelligible when she slid the money across to him. Emergency money. Bill money. She was usually hesitant to spend her money on a few hours’ trip to see a museum, but right then she needed to be somewhere beautiful, to see something that made the world feel right again.

Behind her, several guys started shoving each other. People around them began joining in, jostling one another.

“Miss, you need to move.” The man glanced past her as he slid her ticket toward her.

She nodded and walked away from the fracas. For a brief moment, she felt like a wave of shadows surged over her, through her. She stumbled. Just fear. She tried to believe that, to tell herself that she’d been afraid, but she hadn’t been.

The actual ride into Pittsburgh and the walk through the city were a blur. Odd things caught her eye. Several couples—or strangers to each other, by the looks of the very disparate clothing styles in one case—were embarrassingly intimate on the train. A beautiful boy with full sleeve tattoos dropped a handful of leaves or bits of paper as he walked by, but for a bizarre moment Leslie thought it was the tattoos flaking from his skin to swirl away in the breeze. It was surreal. Leslie wondered briefly at the oddity of it all, but her mind refused to stay focused on that. It felt wrong to question the odd things she’d been feeling and seeing. When she tried, some pressure inside her skin forced her to think of something, anything, else.

And then she walked inside the Carnegie Museum of Art, and everything felt right. The oddities and questions slid away. The very world slid away as Leslie wandered aimlessly, past columns, over the smooth floor, up and down the stairs. Breathe it in.

Finally her need to run eased completely and she slowed. She let her gaze drift over the paintings until she came to one that made her pause. She stood silent in front of it. Van Gogh. Van Gogh is good.

An older woman walked through the gallery. Her shoes clacked in a steady rhythm as she moved, purposeful but not hurried. Several art students sat with their sketchbooks open, oblivious to everything else around them, caught in the beauty of what they saw on the gallery walls. To Leslie, being in the museum had always felt like being in a church, as if there were something sacred in the very air. Today that feeling was exactly what she needed.

Leslie stood across from the painting, staring at the verdant green fields that stretched away, clean and beautiful and open. Peace. That’s what the painting felt like, a bit of peace frozen in space.

“Soothing, isn’t it?”

She turned, surprised that anyone could walk up to her so easily. Her usual hyperawareness was absent. Niall stood beside her, looking at the painting. His button-up was untucked and hanging over the waist of loose-fitting jeans; his sleeves were folded back, giving her a glimpse of tanned forearms.