Page 36 of Flame
Chapter Eight
Iwake up with my heart pounding as I struggle to make out my surroundings. Something’s wrong. The room itself isn’t what has me on edge, but a noise. Persistent, heavy pounding from down below. Scrambling to my feet, I tear through the small layout of Rafe’s apartment, alarmed to find that he’s still not back.
The only item out of place lies on the coffee table—my journal, still open face down. Even before I lift it, I suspect what page it’s on. Sure enough, I’m right—my latest piece.
Reading it over now, I’m struck by how different it reads from my usual writing. There are no pretty, careful lines. No abstract phrases.
In blunt, ugly words, a story forms, plain for anyone to interpret. That of a moth who ventured too close to an enticing flame. Given the horror she was fleeing from, the fire was a fitting end...
A rumble of thunder draws my attention as I set the notebook aside. From the window, I can see the sky, gray with a recent storm, the street still wet below. I don’t spot Rafe outside either, but as I start for the stairs, I catch the sound of his voice.
“Ah, fuck!”
Downstairs, I find him crouched before the entrance of the shop, wrestling a new door into place. He spots me from over his shoulder and jerks his chin. “Give me a hand, would ya? Hold it here.”
I step closer, grabbing the glass frame where he indicates. As he fiddles with a set of metal hinges and screws, I scan his face, hunting for any hint of emotion. Paranoia whispers cruel insinuations of where he could have been.
With Bonnie?
Someone else?
His hair gives me a clue—mussed, slightly damp, matching the soaked pavement outside that betrays overnight rain. He’s wearing the same jeans from yesterday too, his chest bare, the dragon on full display.
“Hey!” He nearly drops a screw and shoots me a stern look. “Focus, bunny. I spent too much money on this piece of shit to break it now.”
I comply, assisting until he finally has the support in place, and the door stands on its own.
“Good, now go change,” he tells me. “You’re on the clock, bunny. I spoke to Zhang. Starting today, you work for me, and I won’t tolerate your bullshit.”
He swaggers into the back room, but I sense from the distance he puts between us that he’s still stuck on whatever upset him last night. I toy with the idea of prodding him to tell me what. Instead, I go upstairs, shower, and change into fresh clothing—all my own this time.
Rafe doesn’t say a word when I return to find him in the shop's front, arranging materials over the counter. When he finally looks up, his eyes graze over my modest sweater without a reaction.
“Sort these,” he commands, shoving a stack of documents my way. “Disclaimers and shit. Anyone who wants a tat needs to sign one, got it?”
He’s already gone before I can reply, arranging his supplies and tools on a table across the room. Warily, I creep behind the counter and organize the paperwork. All the while, that awkward tension between us grows, seeping into every interaction. Him handing me a handful of pens feels equivalent to a challenger arming an opponent in a silent war.
He moves stiffly with more than just the pain from his injuries. Any step that takes him away from me is quick, but any that brings him closer carries a speed reminiscent of someone wading through quicksand.
It surprisingly isn’t long before the door opens, introducing new people into our dynamic—customers. They look to be tourists, going off their oversized shirts and casual attire. They wander the shop aimlessly as Rafe points out various hanging designs and names prices.
I quickly lose track of my supposed task by watching him. In this instance, he sports a different mask from his cocky swagger or ice-cold aloofness. He’s approachable and informative but stern, conveying knowledge of both tattoos and his capabilities to apply one in a way I don’t expect. With a few words, he’s able to soothe a jittery twenty-something who consents to have a design applied to her ankle.
“I need the paperwork,” Rafe snaps to me.
When everything is signed, Rafe guides the client to a leather chair in the center of the room and gets to work.
He’s slow and methodical, utilizing the necessary tools with the same care he does his pens. He cleans the area, marks out a rough outline before implanting the actual tattoo using a mechanical object eerily similar to that of a gun.
Roughly an hour later, the client is beaming at his creation, and he has one happy customer down. More are already in the process of following, streaming in and out of the shop to eye the artwork or for consultations.
His flyers must have done the trick. It feels like barely a few minutes go by before someone new enters. As the latest visitor leaves, Rafe cuts his gaze to me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, alarmed by his expression.
“Get out,” he hisses. “Now.”
“W-What?” I follow his gaze to the front door and spot the beautiful woman about to enter. I barely manage to scramble into the back hallway before the bell above the door chimes.
