Page 105 of Under the Ink

“What the fuck, Naomi? Is that what you really think?”

“I think,” she said, picking her phone and now ubiquitous bottle up off the dresser, “you need to get a new hobby. There’s no such thing as salvation—and I don’t wanna be your fix-up project.”

Standing up, Sage suddenly felt vulnerable—naked and bare to the soul—but she was so fucking hurt, she couldn’t see past it. No matter…he had to make one last attempt. “Naomi.”

“Fuck off, Sage. I’m not your groupie.”

As she walked out the door, he let it close. When the lock clicked, he sat on the edge of the bed. It didn’t matter that she’d just been lashing out, hitting him with what a soldier might callfriendly fire. That ammunition maimed and murdered just the same.

Maybe Naomi wasn’t past saving…but maybe he wasn’t the guy to do it.

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

SEPTEMBER 10

The band was already on the road, heading toward Ontario, Canada.

And Naomi was left here in the hotel. She’d already packed her bags after taking some Tylenol and polishing off the last of her brandy.

But nothing could ease the pain.

It wasn’t just her head…or the loneliness she wouldn’t have thought she’d sense with the absence of band and crew. And it wasn’t only her old wounds that wouldn’t fucking close, any more than it was the sting of the scars left by the razor she still held in her hand.

It was what an asshole she’d been to Sage…the one person who’d really wanted to help. But he didn’t have any answers, any more than anyone else had.

Or ever would.

And last night after the concert, she’d tried to find him, to tell him she was sorry—but he was nowhere to be found. Right after the show ended, he’d disappeared off the stage, and by the time she was done with her part and the crew said goodbye to her, she tried to find him.

She didn’t know what room he was in…and he wasn’t returning her calls or texts. Bobby wasn’t answering her text messages, either, and she wasn’t about to bug everybody in the band in a desperate attempt to talk to the man.

Had she hurt him that badly? Well…he had to know, right? He had to understand that she wasn’t responsible for howhefelt.

But she’d lashed out at him—so whywouldhe want anything to do with her?

Right now, though, what scared her more than anything else was that the cuts weren’t helping. She’d made several slices on her thigh just now…and nothing.

There was no fucking way she could spend her life doing this, just going through the motions. Thiswasn’tliving.

Like she’d told Sage, she was already dead. She’d just been too dumb or too stubborn to admit it to herself.

Turning the blade in her hand, she focused on the glint of light from the lamp, how she could make it flash in her eyes when she turned the steel just right.

But that, just like the cuts, was mere distraction.

There was only one thing left to do.

Taking a light breath, Naomi turned her left hand so that the palm was up and brought the point of the blade to the base of her palm, just where hand and wrist meet. If she was going to do this, it couldn’t be like the slight cuts she’d run along her skin that barely brought any blood to the surface—meaning she wouldn’t drag the blade across the wrist delicately or horizontally.

It had to be vertical…and it had to be deep.

Swallowing the saliva that had filled her mouth, she blinked away the tears.

Yes, it would be far better this way.

For a brief flash, she remembered all those times from Sunday school and homeschooling and even when she attended the Christian school when they’d taught her about hell.

Eternal suffering.

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