Page 70 of The Tattoo Artist

“I know this is hard Angel, we don’t have to-”

I shake my head, gently pulling away from him. “No, I want to.”

I drag my thumb across his lips, there was only one thing for certain about everything. I knew that I was falling for Ares.

And I don’t need my old memories to know that.

We ended up on the couch, eating takeaway Chinese while talking about old memories, reminiscing about the past. Between mouthfuls of noodles, I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the stories he shared.

“God, I was funny, huh?” I chuckle, and he rolls his eyes playfully.

“Annoying is more like it,” he teases, and I lightly hit his arm.

“Tell me one more thing, something about myself that I wouldn’t believe now.” I almost begged him, feeling curiosity about the girl I used to be. It felt weird hearing the stories from my own life.

A mischievous glint appears in his eyes as he sets down his chopsticks. He leans closer, his lips almost brushing against my ear.

“You liked rough sex.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ALEXANDRA JONES

IWATCH THE CLOCK TICK.

“We’re going to go pick up Aunt Coraline and come back. She isn’t doing well,” my mum says, her voice tinged with concern. She gathers a few things and slides the keys from the counter, while I sit at the table eating breakfast.

My heart feels heavy, and the knowledge that my parents have been keeping secrets from me lingers in the back of my mind.

“I’m speaking to you,” she urges, trying to get my attention.

I look up, meeting her gaze with a mixture of emotions. “Okay.”

“There’s money in the cupboard for food. We’ll be back soon.”

“I have a question.” I ask her, and she nods for me to continue. “What does Jesus say about lying?”

“Therefore, each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbour, for we are all members of one body.” She answers me.

“And you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I don’t see a need in lying.”

“Right.”

“What’s brought all this on Alex?” My mother asks softly, shoving the things into her bag.

“Nothing, I just- Catherine and I had an argument.” I try changing the subject, my mother’s eyes widen.

“What did you argue about?”

I have to lie.

“School,”

“I never really were fond of her, and I warned you that she isn’t a good friend.”

How tragic? Warning me?

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