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“When?” I sniffle.
“Last night.” Rex’s words are softened, his eyes glued to the way my hand still moves over his skin.
After I sent him away.
Before we slept together and I left him.
I withdraw my trembling hands and lay the equipment on the table to bury my face in my hands.
“Talk to me, Cedar,” Rex begs and pulls his arm back, his grip attaching to my knee in a reassuring gesture I hate that I want. “Tell me what happened.”
“Why?” I cry with a pathetic sniffle and a watering chuckle. “Why does everyone keep asking me to fucking talk?”
“Maybe because we want to help.”
“No one can,” I bellow in shame as I meet the gaze of my best friend’s future husband with leaking eyes and an unbearable ache clawing in my chest.
“If you’d just get out of your fucking head, you’d see that some of us can.”
My spine snaps straight at the growled words that come from behind me and my pussy betrays me with a clench at the sound of the guitarist’s voice interjecting into the conversation.
Rex’s eyes trail over my shoulder to the source and regret leaks out of me.
“Shit.” I roughly swipe away at my leaking eyes to hide the shame the tears betray and follow Rex’s stare.
Eyes darkened and shoulders that seem twice their size, I suck in a breath at the sight of Fin standing behind me and stop myself from reaching out to him.
I want to.
Biting the inside of my lip until I taste blood, I face front and lean to pick the tattoo gun back up.
I can’t.
“You ready?” Tipping the machine to Rex in question, whose gaze flips between me and the guitar legend at my back, I dip to take his wrist in my grasp anyway.
“That’s it?” It’s quiet. Too quiet. “You’re just going to ignore it?”
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
Shivers run down my spine at Fin’s words that I refuse to acknowledge as I turn Rex’s arm in my grip and assess the work I’ve done, giving it another swipe of cleaner.
“Can’t,” I bite. “Busy.”
Deflect, deflect, deflect.
At least I’m self-aware enough to recognize it. That’s a step.
Tapping the pedal, I trigger the tattoo gun to buzz to life and lean over Rex’s forearm to finish the piece I started. It only takes a few more minutes of awkward tension to complete the small piece of intricate font, but when it’s done, I clean Rex up and cover the fresh ink.
And as I take my time cleaning up the rest of the mess created with down-turned eyes and a tightness in my shoulders, I try desperately to will the lot of them to leave me with my thoughts.
Telepathy, please be real.
It’s not. And they don’t.
Instead, Ian hands over my phone with a stiff nod and the three of them circle around me.
“Stop,” I beg.
