It’s grotesquely beautiful. Black ink forms the base—a vivid contrast to the hue of the skull’s eyes. Unlike his other designs, both orbs have been etched in ruby-red ink. Blood red. Extending from the skeletal visage are two stylized wings. Angel wings.
“That—” I point to it with a trembling finger, but that isn’t enough. I stumble toward him and run my thumb along the angel wings, feeling the contours for myself. It doesn’t vanish, pulsing and alive.
“Hey!” He flinches out of my reach as I wrench the cigarette pack from my pocket.
“Look!” Viewing it now beside his tattoo, it’s impossible to deny the resemblance. Every detail and line look ripped right from Hale’s drawing.
The stranger doesn’t seem to think so. He eyes the sketch skeptically, his mouth quirked. But he’s wrong. Unless both men shared the same hallucination, Hale didn’t dream this up on his own.
“What is that? Tell me!”
“No.” He runs a hand over the skull and shrugs. Something about the motion seems forced, even as he flashes a grin. “It’s nothing important, and we aren’t here to talk. Hands up.”
“No! Tell me what that means—”
“No.” He snatches the pack from me and shoves it into his pocket. When I reach for it, he easily bats my hand away. “All this bitching and whining, but you don’t even know the right questions to ask.”
“My brother drew that,” I rasp, unsure of what I’ve done to earn such a reaction from him. Something I said crossed a line. What? “Tell me what it means. Please.”
“Later,” he insists. “You give me what I want, first. You gonna hit me, or you afraid of breaking a nail?” He nods toward my hands.
I follow the line of his gaze, more confused than ever. I’m still wearing the pink nail polish I wore to Hale’s funeral, reduced to peeling, messy chips. Ironically, he hated pink. In fact, he hated it when I painted my nails.
Father insisted on the manicure. I couldn’t embarrass him by showing up ungroomed. It isn’t until now that I parse over exactly what that meant—Hale was an embarrassment. Even in death, his wishes didn’t matter.
“Hey!” The coarse shout draws my attention to the stranger. “No thinking,” he snarls. “You want your shit back? Come and get it. Hit me! Or you gonna stand there crying like a little bitch?”
The vulgarity ignites something inside me.
“Fine!” I lunge forward and slam both hands into the mat. “Ow!” Instantly, I rear back, clutching my fingers to my chest.
They sting—but he didn’t even flinch.
“Again,” he commands, sinking into his stance—legs apart, shoulders up, head lowered. “And don’t tuck your thumbs, unless you want to break them off. And bend your knees.”
I obey him. So much for taking control of my life. Somehow, it’s easier to let another person seize the figurative reins.
“No thinking,” he snaps again. “Hit me—”
With a grunt, I swing, slapping the pad with both fists. Again. Again. “There!” Breathless, I’m shouting with every blow. “Are. You. Happy. Now?”
On the last attempt, I miss the pad entirely and wind up on my knees. My eyes burn, my vision blurring. When I swipe my hand across my face, it comes away wet.
“No, Blondie, I’m not happy.”
Rather than gloating, he’s across the room now. Abruptly, he tosses the mat aside and presses his hands against the wall, leaning forward. That simple motion distorts the tattoo on his back, and it’s like the skeleton figure comes to life, glaring at me through hollow eye sockets.
“I’m not happy.”
“No wonder,” I counter softly. “If your only entertainment comes in the form of bothering strangers who are minding their own business—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” The skeleton jumps with his next inhalation. Then he exhales, “You weren’t going to jump.”
Jump.It sounds so violent an action for what is, in essence, letting myself fall. “You don’t know that.”
“Like hell, I don’t.” Again, he laughs that arrogant laugh and spins to face me. “All you wanted was attention. Congrats. You fucking got it.”
“What are you talking about?”