Page 63 of Inked Beasts

But then he breaks away and turns me so that I can go to Gage, who takes me in his arms again, wrapping me in his warmth, his lips brushing mine as our bodies fit together like they were meant to be.

I start to thank him, too, but find that I’m getting choked up, memories both near and distant filling my mind, and when he passes me to Thorn, I have to keep myself from blinking so tears don’t fall.

Images of the tattoo on Gage’s chest … the mural at the park in our old neighborhood … little edible treats Thorn has brought to my desk at work … meals together now and in the distant past … the four of us racing each other on foot as kids, running so hard that we’d lose our breath and collapse together in a heap on the grass … the four of us tangled up in bed as adults—all of this and so much more speeds through my mind like a movie on fast forward and repeat.

Every moment is beautiful and impermanent, and it feels like it’s all of those memories that make up who I am. Like they’re holding me together, and I’ll fall to pieces or fade away without them.

The tears are uncontainable as Thorn strokes a hand up my arm. When he starts to speak, there’s a quaver in his voice that catches me off guard. “Lexy, I love you. I’ve always been in love with you, even as a boy.”

More tears come, and somehow, thankfully, I manage to keep it from turning into a full-blown ugly cry, which is what I really need to let it all out. The men assume I’m touched by the gift—and I very much am, but that’s not why I’m crying.

It’s just all so unbelievably bittersweet. I’m so in love with them, hopelessly and endlessly, and it’s so cruel that love and life don’t work that way, a woman being in love with three men.

And it’s not fair that their lives are on such different paths than mine, but the paths they’re on are what’s best for them, and maybe if I hadn’t moved away, they wouldn’t have found the success that they did. Maybe I would have held that back, and that’s the last thing I want to do.

Thorn holds me, Gage and Kai gather in around me, and the three of them wipe away my tears and place their gift around my neck, settling the diamonds at the center of my chest. They bathe me in kisses and caresses until I almost forget my cares.

Then they carry me into the bedroom for the most tender, most pleasurable, most heartbreaking experience I’ll ever have.

LEXY

It’s raining in Atlanta, a cold, gray, dreary winter day.

The weather in my heart is much the same.

I miss my men so much. I’m miserable here without them. I did my best to be cheerful over Christmas for my mom’s sake, though I know she wasn’t fooled, but now that the holiday is past I can’t seem to shake the gloom.

Scott and I met up once for lunch, and it was a stilted and awkward occasion. We managed some polite talk, but had very little to say to each other. “You’ve changed,” he said finally, though he avoided his usual judgmental tone.

I was silent for long moments before I finally said, “I think I’ve gone back to being myself.”

He didn’t even try to bring up the idea of us getting back together. My emotional distance must have been unavoidably obvious, even to him. Or maybe he’s starting to get better at paying attention.

It would be one of life’s little ironies, I suppose, if me leaving Scott helped him become the kind of man I wouldn’t want to leave—in some alternate universe where my men didn’t exist.

I can’t stop thinking of them as mine. I can’t stop thinking of them, period.

The only thing that stops me from taking the next plane to Vegas is knowing that we can’t go on the way we have been. I can’t be happy if they’re not happy, and ultimately, they’ll have a better life without me.

I try to make plans; they used to be my superpower. How I’ll tell the men it’s over, and how I’ll help train a replacement before I quit my job with Clare, because there’s no way I can stay in Vegas and stay away from the men. But the plans won’t come. It’s like trying to thread an invisible needle, impossible to bring into focus.

Every day, it gets harder to be away from them, until one night I’m in my old bedroom, eyeing my suitcase and wondering if I can catch a red-eye this evening.

When my mom taps at my door, I’m momentarily startled. She’s been leaving me to brood for the most part, baking fresh bread and making some of my old comfort foods, but I’ve been bracing for her to stage an intervention.

I don’t expect what she does say, though. “There’s someone here to see you.”

I sit up, frowning. “Who is it?”

“He says his name is Art Gilchrist.”

I’m even more puzzled now. I don’t think I know anyone by that name, though it sounds vaguely familiar. I follow my mother out to the living room, where a man in expensively casual clothing is lounging on the sofa.

He bounces to his feet to greet me. “Lexy, hi. Art Gilchrist. Is it okay if I call you Lexy?” His smile is too practiced, his confidence too smooth. My brain blares a warning:show business.

I’m so confused by his presence that I don’t correct him on my name. “Um, sure. What’s this about?”

“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute; I apologize for dropping in like this. Is it okay if we talk in here?” he asks my mother, and she takes the hint and excuses herself to the kitchen.

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