Page 41 of Love Me Tomorrow

And then I see Owen’s contribution to tonight’s event: a simple certificate with the promise of a custom tattoo positioned beside a leather-bound notebook that’s been cracked open like a rare book in a museum.

Don’t touch it, Rose.

Anotherdon’tto live by.

So, I do.

Instinct leads my fingers to the spine. The leather is soft, worn. The pages crinkle as I pick it up, staring down at the image sketched on the open page.

I’m not sure what I expect to find. Maybe a drawing of something that is very clearly the beginnings of someone’s tattoo—but it isn’t that at all.

Instead, I find myself absorbing the harsh lines of an unfamiliar masculine face. The man’s hair stands on end; his eyes, shaded to be almost eerily translucent, stare out from the page, hard and emotionless; gray discoloration paints his cheek, like maybe he’s taken a punch to the face. It takes me a moment to realize that the man is actually positioned behind bars, the tips of his fingers curling around the metal. And as soulless as his gaze reads, there is nothing subtle about his grip on those bars. Knuckles straining, veins popping, he looks ready to leap from the page.

My hands grow clammy.

I flip the page, turning past a selection of French Quarter sights: the spire of St. Louis Cathedral caught in a rainstorm, the dilapidated, curved shape of a balcony caving under the weight of people drinking to their heart’s content.

Another turned page, and this time my heart thuds a little faster when I see the hourglass figure of a woman dancing on a stage. She’s dressed in nothing but tiny panties and even tinier nipple pasties. From the bottom of the page, hands reach toward her, dollar bills thrust in the air. I can almost hear the boisterous catcalls and the heavy music pounding, but it’s not until I look at the woman’s face that my breathing grows labored.

Her features are drawn, her mouth tipped up in a smile that screams misery and isolation. A single tear carves its way down her cheek, a direct contrast to the eager hands grasping and groping and demanding all of her.

And even though I’ve never once removed my clothes for money, I feel my eyes water and my chest’s sharp rise and fall, because this woman—the emotion that she feels that no one else sees—isme. How many times have I put on the so-called “airs” required of me, even when I’ve wanted to flash the world the middle finger instead? How many times did Matilda or Joe onPut A Ring On Itdemand that I give one of the guys a little more attention, because they knew he’d make for good ratings, even though he made my skin crawl?

How many times have I stripped myself down to build someone else up?

My stomach churns uneasily.

Unable to look at that woman’s tear for one more second, I flip to another page, and then yet again to another.

I’m so entranced by the sketches of New Orleans life that Owen has created that I fail to miss the solid presence at my back . . . that is, until a familiar husky voice rasps, “Trying to buy a piece of me, Rose?” and everything in me goes still.

13

Owen

Icatch Savannah just before her elbow collides with my gut.

“Angling for further mutilation?” I grunt, cupping her arm and steering her wide before she gets any more dangerous ideas.

“You caught me by surprise.”

“I was makin’ enough noise to sound off an alarm.”

“Well now you’re just lying.” She spins around to face me. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have aimed south.”

“Already going back for round two?”

Her expression clears and feminine laughter closes in around me. A little husky. A whole lotta sweet. “Pablo sends his apologies,” she tells me.

“Pablo needs to send a lot more than anI’m sorry.” My gaze drops to my sketchbook, which she’s clasped tightly to her chest, the same way my mom used to clutch the fake pearls my dad bought her every year for her birthday. She’d finger each of the beads, rolling them back and forth as though the action alone might soothe her. It’s damn near impossible to think of anything else when Savannah rubs her thumb up the spine of the leather-bound book. Seeing her with it is fucking with my head. “My legs look like a scratching post,” I add.

“It could be worse.” She releases the notebook with one hand, turning over her wrist so I can see the inside of her forearm. Old, faded scratches cut through her skin. “I sort of lied the other day.”

My gaze collides with hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She returns to gripping my sketchbook. “Pablo kind of hates everyone equally. He doesn’t discriminate.”

“Like I said, you adopted the antichrist.”

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