After sharing a quick lunch of sandwiches in the crowded dining hall, they went upstairs to listen to a few of the presentations. On the way back down, Onyx suddenly grabbed his arm. “Spencer! Do you see that?” she pointed at a massive banner that took up most of a far wall.
The banner announced a tattoo competition to take place on the last day of the convention, and the promised prize money looked nice indeed.
“Come, come!” she insisted, dragging him by the elbow down the stairs and across the thronging hall.
Allowing himself to be led, Dustin was amused by her easy familiarity and fearlessness. He’d enjoyed her company, and if he was honest, he’d admit he was also intrigued by the competition. Onyx immediately launched into an interrogation of the harried-looking official, in swift French. Then she turned to him, grinning. “Let’s do this!”
“What? No, I—” This wasn’t a part of his plan. He’d really come here to make sure Chantelle was okay; at the end of the week, he was heading back home.
“Come onn,” Onyx cajoled.“Allez!”She waved at the banner with her slender, heavily tattooed arms. “Do you see? Do you see the money? Think of this! Think of what it could do! For me! For you!”
Eying the prize again, Dustin had to admit it didn’t sound bad. The thought flashed through his mind that many of his financial troubles were over now, but then he reiterated that the money he’d received through his deal with Chantelle was not his: it was all for Arabella. So winning this competition might bring a nice little bump to his own personal finances.
Properly incentivized, he gave in. Onyx squealed, did a little happy dance, and snatched up the forms, making him turn around so she could use his back to press on as she wrote. He couldn’t help but smile at that: it was as if they were back in high school again. She was a barrel of pure energy, there was no doubt about that, and her sense of personal boundaries was close to nil.
Dustin was glad he’d found a friend.
The pair walked out to the parking lot, agreeing to call later to discuss ideas and brainstorm about finding a model. He could see Chantelle’s car and driver waiting for him in a cool spot, but made sure that Onyx left safely—roaring away on a motorcycle that was way too big for her—before he set off for home.
Well, not home exactly.
Finding a sticky note on his bedroom door inviting him down to dinner surprised him. He figured Chantelle would have wanted him to be all but invisible while he was there. But he showered quickly and went in search of her.
When he found Chantelle, she was already seated at a small table located on the balcony of the middle floor. The table was laid out for the evening meal, and that massive cat of hers curled on her lap as if she owned her mistress.
Chantelle was dressed casually in jeans and a white peasant blouse embroidered with wildflowers, and he was a little surprised. He figured that, apart from surprising her in her admittedly dowdy cotton nightgown this morning, it was the first time he’d seen her dressed in anything other than severe but stylish business wear. Just her clothing alone made her look more relaxed, more approachable.
“Hey,” he said, taking a seat.
Both Chantelle and Minerva turned their heads, taking him in with equally frank gazes. He noticed how close the two were in eye color.
“Hey,” she answered, dumping the cat off her lap so she could shift places and sit across from him. The cat was unperturbed, returning to the armchair that Chantelle had vacated and curling up in the warm spot. She decided it was a great time to completely ignore Dustin, and looked away.
“How was it?” Chantelle asked, gesturing to the first course, a tureen of what looked like artichoke or celery soup, for him to serve himself.
“Great.” He began to tell her about what he’d seen, the people and the atmosphere, and she listened, looking genuinely interested. He described his new friend, Onyx, in language as vivid as Onyx herself was, and told her all about the contest.
“Sounds like you met your tribe,” she said.
“Definitely.”
She cocked her head, looking him up and down. “How many tattoos do you have?” she asked.
He was a little taken aback by the question, not expecting her to be interested in him on a personal level. “About twenty. Got my first at age fifteen. Illegally, naturally.”
“Naturally.” She pondered, still allowing her eyes to travel down his arms. “Are those flowers?” She asked, pointing to the wreath of ivy that encircled his wrist.
He raised his hand and looked over at the design. “Those are ivies. My mom’s name was Ivy. It was the very first tattoo I ever got.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” She caught his gaze, and he was sure he could see a softening there.
He shrugged. “I never get a tattoo just for the hell of it. Not to show off, I mean. Each design in some way is connected to an element of my life that I deem important.” He pointed at a tribal band going down one arm. “This one I got in honor of my father, whose grandfather was a member of the Cree nation.” Then he pointed to the numbers on the inside of the other arm. “Those are my siblings’ birth dates. I was already an adult when they were born, and I probably love them more than most siblings love each other.”
“Wow! Will you get another? Or are you all filled up?”
“A tattoo lover can always find space for another,” he laughed. “I’m thinking of getting one before I leave. Maybe ask Onyx to do it for me.” Then, he asked, “Do you have any?”
She looked shocked by the idea. “Me? Tattoos? No!”