Page 10 of The Tattoo Artist

At twenty years old, I felt like an absolute mess.

I look like a mum of five.

I slowly raise my skirt a little higher, folding the waistline to reveal more of my legs. I undo my hair from the bun and chuck the hairband to the side as I ruffle out my curls.

Before I could dwell on my self-criticism, a knock on my door interrupted my thoughts, and my mother entered with a basket of freshly laundered clothes. “You better be studying, young lady,” she warns, her tone laced with concern. “I know your exams are soon. You already missed out two years.”

“I am,” I reply, guilt washing over me.

She settles down my clothes on the bed, and glances around.

“I’ll be going out with your father tomorrow. We’ll be staying at Auntie Laura’s house due to the Catholic church event. Would you like to join us?” She offered, her eyes searching mine for any signs of interest. I shook my head politely.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll come next time.”

“Your skirt seems to be riding up,” she pointed out, her gaze drifting to my attire. “Fix it.”

“Sorry.” I whisper as she closes the door behind me.

CHAPTER THREE

ALEXANDRA JONES

MORNINGS AT THE ART MUSEUM WERE MY SANCTUARY.

A simple escape just down the block from Cane Street. There was one painting that held a profound significance for me, one that compelled me to reflect upon my own life.

It was a woman in tears, her shadow trailing behind her, trying to catch up with her—a reflection of my own struggles and emotions. It was the only painting in the building that really spoke to me, that said something to me. I felt a connection with it. Mostly because I understood it, there are times when I feel exactly like her.

I slide my container out from my bag, flicking the lid open before, a movement caught my attention.

I turn to my left and found myself face-to-face with Ares, who appears just as captivated by the painting as I was.

“Are you stalking me?” I speak out.

Only a few people were aware of this painting, tucked away from the mainstream art collection. And I am here almost every day, which makes me wonder- why is he?

He turns his head, “oh, wouldn’t you love that.” His voice rasped, resonating like the sound of homecoming tires upon a gravel driveway. I turn to look behind me, half-expecting to find someone else in the room. But there is no one else present. It is just the two of us, in this hidden corner of the museum.

This is my space.

My comfort zone.

What the hell is he doing here?

“This is my space,” I assert. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ares’ lips curve into a faint smirk, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I could ask you the same question,” he retorts, his tone laced with a hint of challenge.

I narrow my eyes at him, my suspicion deepening. “I come here often,” I admit, my voice softer now, “but I’ve never seen you here before.”

He shrugs casually. “Maybe I just have a knack for finding hidden gems,” he quips, his gaze flicking back to the painting before us.

“Or a knack for stalking someone.”

Ares meets my look with a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the thrill of the hunt,” he suggests, his tone teasing.

I scoff doubtfully, not buying into his playful facade. “Or perhaps you have other motives.”

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