Page 264 of Sin With Me

I inhale sharply at the sting, but I was right, it’s not that bad. Not until he starts dragging it up my wrist, creating the line. Suddenly, he begins humming, and it takes me a moment to realize what song it is.

Our song.

Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles.

“Ro,” I breathe, but he ignores me as he begins writing the words Delusionally Optimistic in cursive, making up the stem of the sunflower. It’s almost too much, the song, the buzzing, the burning, stinging sensation of the tattoo.

But I focus on him, on his soft, lulling voice, and sink into the experience, letting myself be fully present, letting myself feel everything. Before I can stop myself, I begin humming with him, and he smiles again, still concentrating on his work.

Finally, the song stops, and so does he. He leans back, squeezing my wrist slightly. “There. The words are done. Now time for the flower.” He glances at the colors of ink on the little metal tray and shifts his gaze back to me. “I specialize in black and white.”

I blink at him. “You can’t do it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he scoffs arrogantly. “I’m just saying, I don’t do color often. That’s more Kon’s thing.”

“So, you’re saying I should’ve gone to Kon?” I tease, and his eyes narrow.

“No. You’re right where you should be.” Heat rushes into my cheeks and the possessiveness of his words, of his stare.

It’s a different kind of possessiveness than Isaac. Isaac’s is too loud, too intense. Showboating. Roman’s is quiet. Deadly.

I force myself to stop comparing them. It’s not right, and it’s not fair to either of them.

Roman doesn’t seem to notice where my thoughts went as he picks up some of the yellow and turns back to my wrist. With a deep breath, he begins humming as the needle hits my skin. This time, it’s something else. A song I don’t recognize at first.

But when I do, my face breaks into a watery smile.

“My Girl,” I whisper. Ro ignores me and continues to hum.

My heart squeezes as I listen to him. But just as quickly as he started, the tattoo is over and he’s moving away.

“You did great,” he says, sliding his gloves off and tossing them in the bin. “Ready for the next one, or do you need a break?”

“I’m ready.”

After setting me up on the table with my shirt lifted, I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of the buzzing. It’s quickly accompanied by another hummed rendition of Here Comes the Sun and I smile to myself, letting him quickly do the Roman numerals.

It takes him only a few minutes, then he’s done and slathering gel over the raw tattoo. “Eight-seventeen-eighteen,” he whispers, his gloved-fingers tracing lightly over the skin. His gaze lifts, meeting mine, flickering with some emotion I can’t place. “Why?”

I swallow thickly, blinking back the tears burning my eyes. “Tell me,” he urges softly.

“It was the worst day of my life,” I rasp. He pulls his hand away, and immediately, I miss his warmth. But he slides back on the stool, watching as I sit up and right my shirt, my legs dangling over the edge of the table. “It’s the day I lost the only person who saw me. The person who was my home. It was the day a part of me died, leaving me a shell of who I was.”

His throat bobs as he stares at me. His head falls forward. “Jane was a great woman,” he agrees, his voice soft.

I don’t mean for it to, but a humorless laugh escapes me. He would say that. He doesn’t even realize what the date was, why it’s so important. His head snaps up, his brows bunching together. “I’m sorry, Goldie. I know how much she meant to you.”

Does he know how much he meant to me, too? Because that’s what that date symbolizes.

The day I gave myself to him—in the dark, cold hours of the morning, he warmed my broken soul, promised me forever and made love to me. It was the same day we lowered Mama into the ground. The same day Roman left me, fracturing his promises only hours after he’d made them.

Eight–seventeen–eighteen.

The day the two most important people in my life were gone.

I wipe roughly at my face. “Not everything is as it seems, Ro.” His eyes search mine. I know he has questions he wants to ask and a part of me is begging him to. To just open the door so I can tell him. But he doesn’t.

He slides away and quickly cleans up his station. I hesitate, unsure if I should stay or go. But when I move to slide off the table, his head snaps toward me.

---