Page 84 of Love Me Tomorrow

She hisses, this soft sound that has me pausing when I finish off theB. Wiping the needle against the Vaseline to keep the ink good for another round, I murmur, “Breathe, sweetheart. Don’t keep the air in your chest.”

“I always forget how much it hurts.”

“Hurts so good,” I correct, checking her gaze to make sure she’s okay before returning to the next letter. “It’s an addiction for me, just like any other.”

“Have you ever counted how many you’ve had done?”

“Nah.” Shaking my head, I pull back, reach for a paper towel, then glide it across her skin to collect the ink and spots of blood. Go back in for more, my focus glued to tracing the lines of the letters. “The way I see it, you don’t need to count the memories. They belong to you, shape who you become. And most of my tats I don’t care to revisit once they’re done.”

Another small hiss. Then, “Not to sound like I’m trying to go all Shakespearean on you, but it’s like you’ve cloaked yourself in all your shadows.”

I’ve never thought about it in those terms before, but yeah. “Guess I’m poetic like that.”

After a small pause, she says, “All of mine are about chasing life. Some form of it, at least.”

I think of the delicate tattoos I’ve inked on her skin. The tiny bird in flight behind her ear. The dandelion caught in the wind, bursting apart, on her right shoulder blade, where the band of her bra sits. The words “be as you are” scrawled in typewriter font just above the waistband of her pants, to the right of her spine. All the others that I’ve tucked away in corners of her body that no one sees.

No one but her and me.

If I’m all shadow, then Savannah is all light.

We fall into silence as I work on the rest of the tattoo. Once the spiral hit, sketching became as necessary to me as breathing. And even though I never had the chance for pencil and paper while I was locked up, those memories stayed with me. Tattooing is an extension of that. The chance for me to bring a vision to life and let the artwork speak for itself.

Grasping the paper towel again, I dab the settling ink. “You’re done. Just let me clean you up and then you can take a peek before I put a bandage on it.”

“I bet it’s beautiful.”

My gaze flicks up, finding hers. “For eleven thousand dollars, it better be.”

The corner of her full mouth tugs north. “I have faith in you.”

Once I’m done getting her sorted, I step to the side and make room so she can slip off the table and onto her bare feet. The ink looks good there, following the line of her bra. Seamless with her skin but still visible to the eye when she gets ready in the morning or glances in the mirror. A constant reminder of where she is now and where she’s trying to go.

When her fingers absently trace her stomach, I growl in my throat and she shoots me a smug grin. “Told you, didn’t I? You’re vocal when you approve.”

She steps up to the mirror in nothing but her slacks and that bra of hers. But instead of smiling with happiness when her gaze lands on her reflection, I watch as her brows knit together with obvious consternation.

My feet move toward her of their own accord. “What?” Unease curdles in my stomach, like I’ve eaten something rotten. Her ink is an exact replica of the stenciled outline that I marked on her skin before using the iron, but still . . . something in her expression isn’t right. “Do you hate it? Savannah—”

“What color did you use? For the tattoo?”

Oh,fuck.

Bile rising in my throat, I twist on my heel, immediately heading for the workstation.Gage’sworkstation. Not mine. Panic tangles with dread as I snatch the bottle of ink off the counter, exactly where I always,always, place the black ink over at my spot. Ripping the plastic baggie off, I turn the bottle over, hoping, praying, but there’s no label.

No label because Gage is Gage and I’m me, andI’m going to be sick.

I don’t want to turn around, but I force myself to. Slowly. With the bottle still gripped in my hand that I thought for sure was black ink.

Savannah is still standing in front of the mirror, one hand pressed to her belly as an indecipherable emotion work its way across her face.

I can’t bring myself to move any closer to her. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

“Savannah,” I utter, my voice cracking on the last syllable of her name, like I’m some prepubescent boy instead of a thirty-six-year-old man who has been to hell and back. Right now, I feel like that same shy, fumbling teenager who asked Maryanne to prom, knowing she didn’t want me at all. “I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.”

“The ink is dark blue.” Her eyes lift to meet mine in the mirror. “Not black.”

And that pretty much says it all.

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