His mouth crashed against mine, his kiss drowning my words. My heart squeezed unbearably, his regret and my torment laced together in a kiss so powerful I felt it melt through the ice in my blood, thawing my bones, reaching for the broken pieces of my soul.
His tongue glided against my lips, and I opened for him—invited him to deepen the kiss, allowing the moment to build into a connection I could no longer deny. My need to protect myself along with the memories that kept me captive weren’t strong enough anymore. And just like every brick that stood guard around my heart, I fell. I fell without thinking how I’d break if he didn’t catch me.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me against him—our bodies flush against each other, and on our knees. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t burn. And without the wall that protected me, I was able to let myself feel again. The shackles around my soul could no longer keep me from taking the leap, and as I folded my arms around his neck, finally surrendering, relief flowed down my cheeks one tear at a time, my body weeping, no longer tied to the past.
All too soon, Ink pulled back, rapid breaths escaping his lips and wafting against mine. “You and I, we’re the same. Our scars will never go away. It’s a part of who we are. We just need to find a way to see the beauty in them. Somehow. Together.”
I leaned my head down, his lips touching my forehead. “Somehow,” I whispered, finally ready to stop fighting whatever this was between us. “Together.”
13
Neon
The stingof the needle pulsed to the buzz of the machine. It took Red hours to draw the stencil and, with Ink’s help, get it positioned perfectly to cover the scars.
I didn’t look. Not once. When Red was ready to start, she wanted me to check it, but I just told her to go with what Ink suggested. I trusted him. I trusted his vision—especially after seeing the artwork on his back. If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be here placing all my trust in this man, I would have straight-up laughed. I never could have predicted Ink and I would one day share this kind of connection.
“How you doing?” He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of me.
“I’m good.” I wasn’t lying. The tingling burn on my back was nothing compared to what I’d been through. Broken leg, severed fingers, torn-out insides. Not even hell had the power to bring that kind of pain.
I placed my elbows on the back of the chair. “Do you know what started it?”
“Started what?”
“The fire.”
He looked over my shoulder at Red, who I knew was wearing earphones. When she set up everything earlier, she asked me how I felt about loud music since she couldn’t work her magic without it. Seeing that I’d be spending hours getting inked, I had to tell her the truth. Heavy metal music freaked me the fuck out. It was all those fuckers listened to while I hung from that ceiling with hooks pierced through my flesh. It was so loud, I felt the rhythm pound against my ribs. Paired with my screams and their maniacal laughs, it sounded like a mixed fucking tape of horror.
Red didn’t have a problem with it and simply took out her cordless earphones. So, while the redhead had metal blasting through her brain, Ink and I had total privacy.
He shifted in his seat, his palms stretching over his thick, denim-clad thighs. “It was the middle of winter. A portable heater caught fire.”
“Was the heater in her room?”
“No.” He brushed a palm across his short, well-kept beard. “It was in their room. They would turn it on a few hours before they went to bed.” He shrugged. “My brother left in such a rush, he forgot to turn it off.”
My anger level flared. “So, basically, he’s more to blame than you.”
“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
“Your brother should have switched the goddamn heater off.”
He leaned back, eyes cast up to the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter who’s really to blame. Mia is gone. Nothing can bring her back.”
“But your family blames you, while your brother clearly needs to carry some of the blame.”
“He lost a child, Neon. My brother buried his two-year old daughter—a daughter he will never see in her prom dress, or graduate. A daughter he will never walk down the aisle. It was painful enough for him without carrying the blame.”
“So, you carry it instead?”
“I had my way of dealing with it.”
“Drugs?”
He nodded. “It started with a few vials of morphine at the hospital. I got caught eventually, fired. That’s when I turned to heroin, one overdose away from hell.”
I remembered when I started out as a waitress here, the stories I heard of Ink’s drug addiction. It was Granite’s dad who got him on the strait and narrow—just like he did with me.