Page 18 of Eight Steps to Alpha

She nodded, her expression soft and glowing. “But it means even more to me now…because I get to do it with you.” She pushed through the door then, leaving him standing there in the middle of the barber shop, his hair on the floor, and an unknown future ahead of him.

* * *

“Elliot,”Fe said an hour later, her small body stretched out in the tattoo chair across from him, her limbs completely still, as if she was afraid to move. “Elliot.” Her voice distant. “Elliot, I was wrong. I was so wrong.” Her hands began to shake, and her eyes squeezed shut with the next stroke of the tattoo artist’s hand.

It had only been a few seconds since the guy started, but Elliot already felt helpless. He was beginning to think this was the worst idea he’d ever had.

She thrashed her head to the side, her eyes locking once again on his face. “This sucks, Elli.” Her lip quivered. “More than sucks. In fact, if I had any secrets, I would tell them to you now, just to make it stop.” Her features scrunched up into painful knots, as she reached out, clawing her fingers into Elliot’s forearm. “This isn’t fun at all,” she screeched. “I was wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking. Oh my God, I think I’m going to faint.”

Grabbing hold of her hand, he squeezed her fingers until they released his flesh. Then, sandwiching her hand between his two, he leaned forward, and kissed the tips of them. “You don’t have to do this, Fe. Seriously.”

She really didn’t look so good. Her hands her clammy, and there was a soft grayish cast to her skin. Elliot glanced up to the Tattoo artist, annoyed he didn’t see how much pain she was in. “Hey dude, ease up a bit?”

Fe shook her head franticly. “No! He can’t stop. I can’t.” Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, and she breathed so fast, she was practically panting.

She was going to hyperventilate. He just knew it. “Fe, this is ridiculous, honey.” He glanced up to the tattoo guy again, determining he hadn’t heard him the first time. “Dude,” he said louder. “Can’t you see she’s dying here? Ease up, okay?” He then wiped over his brow with his forearm, unsure why he was sweating so much. This was the most stressful thing he’d experienced in his life, and it wasn’t even his turn yet. He was also sure the temperature had climbed by a hundred degrees in the last minute.

He brushed Fe’s hair back from her forehead, hating the fact she was in so much pain. She was so tough, so rough and tumble, that seeing her vulnerable like this made all his protective instincts want to throw the tattoo guy against the wall.

Tattoo guy, who was apparently paying attention now, lifted his needle, and looked up at Fe. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” she stated without hesitation. “I can’t go through life with only half of a heart.”

Her voice was dramatic, yet so determined, Elliot almost laughed. Almost.

This was ridiculous. But he had to admit, she was as endearing as hell.

Tattoo guy lifted his shoulders to Elliot, as if saying “I’m doing what the lady wants, bro.” Then lowered the needle again, and got back to work.

Fe closed her eyes with the next stroke, which honestly made things more bearable for both of them. But when she opened them a few minutes later, they were glassy with tears, as though she was about to cry. “Elliot, if for some reason I don’t make it through this—"

Not able to hold it in any longer, he chuckled, then leaned forward and squeezed her hand. He lowered his face until they became level, and looked her in the eye. “You’ll make it through, okay. Look at me. Take a deepbreath.”

She did as he said, then nodded slowly.

“There you go. Nice and easy. In and out. Good girl.”

Her skin started to pinken up a little, and her fingers eased from her death grip around his thumb.

“Tell me a story,” he said in a soft voice.

“A story?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “About anything.”

“Elliot, I’m getting a tattoo, I can’t tell you a story.”

“You can.”

“I can?” she asked in a wobbly voice before nodding. “Okay,” she repeated, “I can. Okay. Good idea.” Her eyes slowly fluttered closed, and she inhaled a deeper, stronger breath.

Leaning forward, He squeezed her hand tightly and moved close to her ear so only she could hear him. “Tell me about your childhood. Tell me about your students.” He was grasping at straws, but he was desperate to help her relax.

The corner of her lips lifted, and a minuscule grin appeared on her face. She took another breath, then another, and eventually started talking. “One time,” she began quietly, “when I was six or seven, it rained at our house for a week straight.”

His shoulder’s relaxed, and he nodded. “Go on.”

“We lived in an old farm house on the end of a cul-de-sac. The backyard was butted up against the side of a hill that my dad had just stilled up and fertilized. Well with all the rain, the whole thing became a big pile of mud that my father forbid us to play in.” Her grin widened. “All was going well until I saw that darned toad hop on past the sliding glass door when I was watching TV.”

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