Page 52 of Bleeding Hearts

“So, are you excited about the convention?” he asks, just as I finish the candy and throw the stick into the bag at my feet.

“Yeah, I am.” I pause. “And nervous. But excitement is definitely among the nerves.” I laugh.

“You have nothing to be nervous about. You’re gonna be the best chef there, pumpkin.”

“Nope. I had a guinea pig named Pumpkin once.”

“Fine. I’ll take pumpkin off the nickname list,” he concedes.

“Thank you.” I smile. “And I definitely won’t be the best, but that’s okay. I’m excited to learn.”

“Well, you’ll always be my favorite.” He winks at me, and I laugh.

I look over at him as he switches which arm he’s driving with, resting his right elbow on the center console, and a splash of color on his left inner wrist catches my eye.

Asher is covered in tattoos, most of them sporadic, some designs connecting. I haven’t seen all of his tattoos, but I know for a fact I would’ve noticed this one before now.

“That’s new.” I lean across the console, examining his wrist as he clutches the steering wheel.

The pink is so vibrant, surrounded by all the dark ink, it almost looks out of place.

A deep-green branch stems out from where his inner wrist meets his hand, a large leaf lying at the bottom as the rest of the branch curves around to the inside of his forearm.

Some sort of heart-shaped flowers hang from the branch as it curves. The largest one looks like it’s in full bloom, a white, almost ribbon-like twirl hanging from it. They get progressively smaller as it reaches the end of the branch until the last flower looks like barely a bud.

The entire piece is stunning. The dark and light greens of the branch and leaf mix together in a way that looks more painted than inked. And the details of the flowers look as if they were drawn effortlessly, almost giving them a magical feel.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

“Yeah, I did it on myself last week,” he says nonchalantly.

“First of all, you tattooed yourself?” I look at him, surprised. “Second, what is it?”

“Yeah, I’ve inked a good amount of my pieces wherever I can easily reach and feel confident in doing it myself.” He shrugs. “And they’re bleeding-heart flowers.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say, still staring at the art in complete awe.

I always knew Asher was talented. He’d have to be to work at Blackheart Ink. King has a habit of only hiring the best of the best. But I don’t think I ever sat back and considered how talented he truly is.

Knowing he drew the artwork himself, tattooed it on himself, and it came out looking as magical as it does, I guess I’m just really fucking impressed.

And a little in love with the ink and the way it looks on his skin. It’s mesmerizing in a way that has me dying to know more.

“What do they mean? And why the sudden change to a colored tattoo when the rest are in black ink?” I ask.

“This one deserved some color, some brightness to counteract all the dark.” He looks away from the road briefly, his eyes meeting mine for only a second before he shifts them back toward the road. “They don’t mean anything.”

I can tell it’s a lie by the way his jaw shifts and he refuses to meet my gaze again. I want to push, demand to know what it means, but I don’t want to overstep.

As close as Asher and I are, we haven’t talked about the big stuff. Our pasts. I don’t know what his consists of, but I know mine comes with a lot of baggage.

I’m not sure if the tattoo has something to do with that, but if it does, I don’t want to push.

The rest of the car ride goes by quickly. I grace Asher with another performance, this time of “Somebody to Love” by Queen, which he eagerly joins in on.

Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling up to the hotel.

We self-park in the garage to try to save a little money and then take the elevator down to the hotel. Asher carries my suitcase with his duffel bag while I carry the bag of snacks, an arrangement I definitely like.

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