Page 32 of Brittle Heart

Clay nods. “Yep.”

I let out a sigh. “She’s not a ‘goth girl’ just because she dresses in all black.”

The black might be her shield against the world. I remember using anger as mine.

He smirks. “True, maybe she’s more of a black cat.”

“Well, you might be onto something there.” I glance at the photos on my phone, and Clay lets go of my hand to place his arm around my waist and peer at the screen with me.

“Damn, that’s fucking cool,” he says. “Definitely one of your best pieces so far.”

I nod, proud of it myself. Her tattoo request was truly special, and I thoroughly enjoyed the process of bringing it to life. That’s why I agreed to do it today, after hours, even though I’m booked out months in advance.

“You should have seen the sketch she made to show me her idea. It was impressive. She is an artist herself.”

To say I was surprised to see that sketch is an understatement.

“You should post it on your socials,” he says.

“Let me check if she marked the permission checkbox on the form,” I say, wanting to ensure she gave consent before I share her tattoo online.

As I scan over the form she filled out earlier on my tablet, I see that she did, in fact, give me permission. I momentarily skip over her personal details and suddenly freeze. “What is the date today?” I ask, turning to Clay.

“November twenty-sixth. Why?” I blink at the date she wrote down.

“It’s her birthday.” I scratch my beard.

He hums thoughtfully. “Getting a tattoo on your birthday seems like a nice idea. How old did she turn?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Makes sense. She’s in her last year of college,” he notes while I set my tablet aside.

“I would have guessed she was older. She’s got this mature, calm vibe.”

The kind of maturity you only gain from enduring hardships. And I should know.

I’ve lived it.

Clay huffs a laugh. “Did you even talk to her? She’s a mean little spitfire.”

But everyone has a breaking point.

I reach over, catching hold of Clay’s neck and massaging it. He leans into my touch and groans. “What are you talking about? She seemed nice, even a bit sad and shy.”

More like wounded and guarded.

He chokes on the air, and his eyes pop open. “Shy? Are we talking about the same person?”

I pull his head back, forcing him to look up at me. Leaning in, I whisper into his ear, “Maybe she’s just nice to those who are nice to her in return,” I add, quickly nibbling on his earlobe.

“I’m always nice,” Clay murmurs, and I chuckle before biting down a little harder. He hisses in surprise.

“No, you’re a cheeky, sarcastic bastard, and that’s why I love you,” I tell him before releasing him. “But try to be a bit nicer to her. She’s had enough rough times, it seems.”

The way she talked about her parents?She lost them for sure.

But who is tormenting her now? And can I, no,shouldI, do something about it?

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