Page 8 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
TESS
Ilay back on the bed and stare up at the cracks in the ceiling. I was exhausted when I climbed beneath the new, clean sheets, but now I’m finally able to rest, my mind won’t switch off and allow me to sleep. I thought the can of lager I drank would have helped, but instead it just makes me need to pee every twenty minutes.
For some reason, I’m struggling to tear my thoughts away from the big, tattooed man who runs the place downstairs. He comes across as brusque and aggressive, yet he’d drawn the pictures I found in the sketch pad.
The pad had been filled with sketch after sketch of the same girl. All in black and white, in pencil, with the girl in different positions, some exposing more skin than the others. The number of hours he’d have put into all those drawings must have run into hundreds, if not thousands. The man who put that much time and detail into his drawings wasn’t the same one he presented on the outside. Passion had gone into the pictures, and love. Someone didn’t draw another person like that unless they were completely and utterly in love with what they saw.
Who is she, the girl in the pictures? A girlfriend? From the positions and lack of clothing that had been in some of theimages, I guess that’s probably the case. From the hurt and defensive reaction he had to them, I also think the woman he’d so beautifully drawn twenty or thirty times over, is no longer in his life. What happened to her? Had Art been the same person he is now before the breakup, or was the body art a reaction to them no longer being together? Losing someone has the power to change a person, I know that better than anyone. Has the loss of the woman in the pictures changed Art into who he is, or had being who he is caused him the loss of the woman?
I sigh and roll onto my side, sleep still evading me. I stare toward the window, the thin curtains doing little to block out the street light from outside. As well as brightly lit, London is noisy, too. A constant stream of cars pass below the window, and the night is filled with the sound of alarms, sirens, and loud, drunk people walking home from the pubs, laughing or shouting at one another. How does anyone ever get any sleep around here? Will I ever get used to it?
A sudden pang of homesickness hits me, stealing my breath. No, I can’t think about home. Home, or thoughts about home, only mean pain. I will call or email my friends tomorrow. They’ll be worried about me, and I’ve already put them through enough worry for one lifetime. I know if I switch on my phone, I’ll be flooded with messages, and I can’t face that right now.
Iopen my eyes to find bright light beyond the curtains. I didn’t think I’d ever sleep, but once oblivion took hold, I slept like the dead. I glance at my watch, which I’d left on the bedside table, and blink in surprise at the time. Had I forgotten to change it from the Eastern time zone? It can’t be past eleven in the morning, surely? I never sleep this late.
No, I definitely changed it. I remember doing so the moment the plane landed and we’d been taxiing down the runway.
Damn. I’m due to meet with my aunt’s solicitor in less than an hour, and I don’t even know how to get there.
I leap out of bed, quickly use the bathroom to wash up, scrub my teeth, then I dress in a white shirt and grey suit pants. I know I’m not going for an interview or anything, and that the property is already mine, this is just to dot some ‘i’s and cross some ‘t’s, but I still want to look presentable.
Feeling harried, I rush down the stairs and, not wanting to see anyone, take the rear exit so I don’t have to walk through the shop.
Scrambling around in my purse to find my cell phone to call ahead and let the solicitor’s office know I’m running late, I slam into a big, hard body.
Strong hands catch my shoulders. “Whoa, there. You’re in a rush.”
I look up into a set of steely blue eyes and my heart does an unwelcome flip. It’s Art.
“Yes, I’m late. I have a meeting and I don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Show me?” he says, stepping closer.
I pull out a photocopied map which I’d been sent in the mail back in the States. He leans in close so he can see it. I try not to be affected by how near he is, or the scent of his spicy aftershave wafting over me. I study his face while he studies the map. The full lips, the squared jaw. The shadow of stubble. Even his neck and shoulders look strong, where I can see past the multitude of tattoos crawling across his skin.
He looks up and catches my gaze, and I quickly glance away, my cheeks heating.
“What time is your appointment?”
“In forty-five minutes.”
“You’ll never make it on time if you take the Tube, and it’ll take even longer if you get a taxi. You’ll just be sitting in traffic the whole way through central London.”
“Shit.”
“How about I give you a ride?”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll give you a ride to your appointment.”
“How will that get me there any faster than grabbing a cab?”
He jerks his head to the side of the building. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
I really don’t have time to be messing around, but I’m going to be late anyway, so what the hell. I follow his broad back around the corner to see a motorbike sitting in the alleyway. What he meant sinks in.
“Oh, no,” I say, lifting both hands and shaking my head. “I’m not going on that thing.”
