Page 34 of The Bloodfeather Promise
After several deep breaths meant to calm my racing heart, I pull my underwear down on the left side, exposing the tiny tattoo on my hipbone. With unsteady fingers, I trace the lines, imagining I can almost feel the feathers inked into my skin months ago.
Is it sad that I now wear a tiny version of Greyson’s tattoo on my flesh?It’s more than sad. It’s downright tragic. Twenty years from now, will I even remember why I got the damn thing? Will I still remember his face when I’m ancient and wrinkled?
The tattoo is not an exact replica of his. There had to be some differences in case anyone ever saw it. Mine is much lighter; a soft, paler grey compared to the harsh, hard black of his. And it’s far more refined, a wispy thing, more suggestive of a bird’s most fragile down feathers than the crisp, utilitarian wing plumes inked on Greyson’s chest. I traced those sharply cut lines of his with my fingertips that night, memorized every mark and contour. But there’s one difference that stands out, a detail that stabs my heart more now than it did the day it was added.
I turned my tattoo into a bloodfeather, complete with ruby-red blood staining the quill. A promise that, no matter how much he hurt me, I’ll always love him. Even if he never knows it. Even if I hate myself for it.
That night we spent together was a sad mistake. I was so naive and vulnerable. Each time I see my tiny, delicate feather, every time I trace it with a shaking hand, I’m reminded of the magic I discovered in Greyson’s arms.
And I remember its warning. Never be sucked into the depths of such madness again.
Which makes it difficult to understand why I’m ignoring all the danger signals now.
I must be crazy. Going on a date with Greyson. What makes me think this is a good idea? What if he remembers me? What if something I say or do triggers a recollection? What will I do then?
I run my finger over the tattoo again. Oh, I don’t have answers, but at least this particular secret remains hidden. Only when I’m nude is it visible. The artist in Pier City is the sole person aware of its existence. The afternoon Seth put the finishing touches on it, the last shading of red blood, he did not hold back what he thought of it. What he thought of me.
“That’s fuckin’ hot, girl.You’refuckin’ hot.” With one hand, he’d kept me in place on the bench. When I nodded my head in silent agreement to the question in his eyes, we made out right there in the private room of his shop. We were on the verge of full-on intercourse before I panicked. Pulling out of his arms, I bolted to my car and spent the next five minutes dry heaving in the parking lot.
Everything Seth did, I compared to Greyson. Every stroke of his hand, every brush of his lips, it was all lacking when stacked against my first lover.
Disgusted by my weakness, embarrassed that one encounter with an arrogant rockstar could possibly color every sexual experience for the rest of my life, I ignored Seth’s phone calls. He wanted to get to know me better, and for a few months, he tried. Gently teasing me in voice messages, saying I had one tattoo, I wouldn’t be able to stop, I would be back for another. But I can’t imagine anything further from the truth. I vowed never to return to the Ink Spot and, eventually, Seth gave up. I haven’t heard from him in over two months and I’m strangely glad.
Sitting on my front porch with Greyson was surreal. Talking. Laughing. Sharing a glass of sweet tea. He was so… normal. The cold, arrogant guy was absent. Left in his place was an incredibly handsome man wearing delicious smelling cologne and bestowing smiles that weaken my knees.
Any kind of contact with him is a mistake. Dinner at his beautiful house? A colossal one I won’t make any time soon. Seeing him is a disaster on borrowed time, but I’m drawn to him as helplessly as he is drawn to me. There is a question in his eyes…the whys of this magnetic pull we feel for each other. God help me, but I remember how he shuddered when he came inside me with a low groan. How he squeezed my hips so tight that I squirmed in his grip, so tight he left bruises. I wanted more of him. More of his kisses. More of his darkness.
Some kind of connection flowed between us that night. Greyson stared into my soul while he shattered inside me. I’m afraid the experience ruined me for any other man. I know this is a really bad idea. Using him as a means of satisfying a momentary lust, even if he used me for that same purpose, is the height of insanity.
I should let Seth take me out, should let him screw me silly. I should follow Devon’s advice, go out on the town. Find a man, any man, who has the power to erase Greyson from my brain. I should bury myself in my bookstore, work until exhaustion makes it difficult to lift my head every morning. Until I’m so worn out, I do not even possess the energy required for dreams.
Yes. I should do all these things—try harder to forget him and the night only I remember.
But, I won’t. I know I won’t. The thought of seeing him again fills me with giddy excitement and a faint sense of danger. It’s such an enticing cocktail, I ignore all the warning signs, just like I did before.
He doesn’t remember me.
And I can’t forget him.
