Page 21 of Sealed in Ink
I unbutton my shirt and sit with my back facing him, letting him get access to my shoulder. It feels strangely intimate, even after what we just did. In the reflection of the turned-off TV, I can see Rust setting out his equipment, handling it delicately and precisely.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He laughs gruffly. Even with that hard edge to it, he’s showing more fire than I ever would’ve guessed before. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never got one, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” I laugh, too. “I guess I can let you know.”
“The thunder can’t hurt you anymore, Mary,” he says. “Do you have any antiseptic spray or wipes?”
“Uh, yeah, hold on.”
“No, just let me know where they are. You stay right there.”
It’s a small thing, just like the coat, but it feels so crazily and disproportionately romantic. He goes to the kitchen to get the first-aid kit from under the sink. I look at myself on the TV, myshirt pulled below my shoulders. I look in love. I’m not saying I am, but that woman on the TV looks inlove.
He returns, gently wiping at my shoulder, then dabbing me dry. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I tell him.
He gently strokes the back of my neck. “Then stop tensing up.”
I unclench my fists and try to relax my breathing. He brings the needle to my back. It’s nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. Honestly, after feeling the penetration of his huge hardness inside of me, the penetration of this needle is nothing. There’s even a tinge of pleasure in the needle, a tickling teasing that tells me I’m stacking wrong upon wrong. That’s not good. Oh, Brad, what am I doing?
By the time the regret comes, it’s too late. I don’t want Rust to think his design is the problem. He shows it to me in a mirror, that subtle curve on his lips as he looks at his work. It’s good, graphic-novel style, moody black sky, a streak of brightness in the lightning.
I smile, not faking it, as I look at the lightning. It was so terrifying once, but never again. Now, in a storm, all I’ll think about is Rust.
He ices the warmth when he says, “I’ll leave in the morning.”
I’m about to argue, but I can feel the mood radiating from him. He’s already made his position clear. Either tell Brad or pretend it never happened and never see each other again. That’s like being stuck between a rock and an even bigger rock with maybe some fire ants thrown in there just for giggles.
What can I say? How can I save us?
“Okay,” I whisper, hoping he won’t hear me and then he won’t go. How stupid. I feel like a silly, crushing idiot all over again.
“I want you.” He folds away his equipment and walks to the door without looking at me. “Hell, I need you.” My heart skips a beat at his words, but then his tone gets dark. No, it getsdead. Flat. Borderline psychopathic. “But now, Mary, I have to forget you exist, and you have to do the same.”
He leaves the room, closing the door, not slamming it, not that much emotion. I sit back as my heart races and my mind clashes. Mom screams in my head, and the tattoo starts to burn against my skin. I want to rub it away. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have let him mark my skin.
“Sin upon sin upon sin,”Mom taunts.“What sort of slut did I raise?”
I go to the mirror in the corner and look over my shoulder at the storm cloud, the bolt. I’m grinning like a loon. It isn’texactlylike my dream, where he marked me with his name, but this is almost better. It’s so unique to us. I’ll have to hide it and lie if Brad ever sees it. Nobody can ever know the truth.
A single tear falls down my cheek. I wipe it, turn away, and decide to stop fussing. It’s time to do what’s best for Brad and pretend this night never happened.
CHAPTER
NINE
RUST
THREE WEEKS LATER
“One-two, one-two,” Marquis yells from the edge of the cage, leaning against the interlocked metal with one hand twirling his outlandish, hipster mustache. His pale face glares at me when the round buzzer goes off. He walks over and raises his hand like he’s going to slap me, though he’s several inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter. “Are you sick, Rust? Has your health rusted as much as your name, hmm? Please answer. Use your words.”
I roll my shoulders, pacing up and down the cage. It’s late, a private session, just Marquis, me, and my training partner, the appropriately named Mitch Cage, a fellow fighter. Mitch removes the focus mitts—big pads for me to aim my punches at—and swigs a blue sports drink from a big bottle.
“Where’s the snap? Where’s the pop? These are simple boxing combinations. You’ve been boxing ever since you were a little worm in your father’s nuts, no?”
