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“No second thoughts,” I forced out, inhaling as I straightened and moved the rest of the way across the lobby until I was standing in front of him, though I froze two feet away.
His head cocked. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Arrogance twitched across his too-full lips. “Brave girl.”
If he only knew that I was barely standing.
I shifted a bit to the side so I could squeeze by him, though my hand brushed his as I passed.
An electric current ran up my arm, and I nearly tripped. His presence slammed me like a shockwave. I steadied myself with a silent reminder of why I was there. Of what this moment represented.
“Have a seat.” He gestured at a big leather and metal chair that looked like it could be contorted into a bunch of different positions.
I followed his instructions, awkward as I uneasily settled on the edge of the seat.
He pulled up a rolling stool close to me and sat on it.
It left him eye-level with me, and his massive shoulders drew up as he rubbed his hands together like he needed to press the energy out of them. His voice was low when he muttered, “Name’s River.”
“I’m Charleigh.”
His nod was slow. “Want you to be comfortable.”
I choked a small laugh, and I tried to put some lightness into my voice. “Says the purveyor of pain.”
He blanched in surprise before the smallest grin tweaked the edge of his mouth. “Don’t you know there’s beauty in pain?”
“I think I’ve heard it a time or two.”
He looked like the poster child of it.
He cleared his throat. “So, where’s this tattoo going to go?”
I gulped around the thickness in my throat, and I twisted out of my jean jacket, trying not to meet his gaze as I did, then I lifted my left arm and ran my right index finger along the lower inner portion of my bicep. “Right here.”
His nod was appraising. “And I take it you have something in mind?”
“Just a phrase,” I whispered.
A dark brow arched, and the stars on his hairline danced. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
“I have a drawing of what I want.” My hand was trembling as I unzipped my purse and pulled out the folded piece of paper where I’d written it, and I was sure he could feel my insides quaking when he took it from my hold.
He glanced at me once as he unfolded it, and I swore my throat closed off as I imagined what he would think reading the phrase. I felt raw and brittle, like I’d peeled myself back to expose what was inside.
It was something I never did.
But I knew coming here would make me vulnerable.
I thought I saw his muscles flinch as he studied the words, or maybe he just thought me cliché and dramatic.
In grief we must live.
But they were my words. My truth. And he might be the one marking them on me, but I was the one who had to carry them. The one who had to believe them.
In an hour, I’d walk out of here and I’d likely never see him again, so it didn’t matterwhat he thought.
