It would take many treatments and some time before the tattoo pigments were broken up by the laser into pieces tiny enough for the cells’ own cleaning processes to deal with their removal. And it might take months or even longer for the tattoos to fade completely, depending on the size, colours and depth of the artwork.
But these guys had the time. They weren’t going anywhere in a hurry. And by the time they were released they’d be rid of their home-made tattoos, the gang-inspired insignias, and any other visible artwork which would otherwise prejudice their chances of getting any job—let alone a good one.
She smiled to herself as she let herself into her apartment. Yeah, it had been a good day. She was doing work that was worthwhile. She was making a difference.
A Red Abyssinian cat bounded to the door as she opened it, greeting her with a plaintive series of mews.
‘Hello, Maxwell,’ she said, reaching down to stroke the elegant animal’s ears. ‘How was your day?’
Maxwell wound himself around her ankles and complained some more about being left home alone without enough to eat before heading for the kitchen, obviously anticipating that Jade would take immediate steps to remedy the latter.
She laughed. ‘Okay, Max, I know it’s late. I’m coming.’
Once fed, the cat was quite happy to curl up quietly next to Jade on the small terrace outside. It was a warm night for spring, the air steamy, carrying the promise of a hot summer to come and filled with the sounds of live guitar music floating up from the nearby bar. Through the gap in the roof-lines she could see moonlight glistening on the dark waters of Sydney Harbour, until a late-night ferry cut a swath through the water, churning up the surface and chopping the reflection into shredded tinsel.
She breathed deeply and let it out on a sigh. It was a different life from the one she remembered in Beverly Hills. No more living in a mansion, no more Mercedes car, no more using her talents on the rich and famous, the celebrities and the already very beautiful.
And yet, for all the things she’d left behind, she was strangely content. She’d used only enough of her savings to buy this apartment and her car. She didn’t need any more than that and, given the associations the money had with her former life, she didn’t want it.
So she’d ploughed the rest into the programme she’d sold to the local prison authorities—and once she’d convinced them she was serious they’d matched her contribution dollar for dollar. Now they had the most sophisticated state-of-the art laser equipment and a constant line of hopeful kids wanting to have their tattoos removed, wanting a decent chance at life.
She was working harder and longer than she’d ever worked before, and for a stipend that barely kept Maxwell in cat food, but it was worth it. She didn’t want for anything.
Except sometimes…
She snatched up her glass of wine and took a sip, flicking impatiently through the magazine she’d brought out, searching for anything that would grab her interest and dampen down her line of thought.
She didn’t want to think about Loukas. Not now—not when she’d left that world behind, when she’d turned her back on him and walked away.
Because thinking about Loukas would get her nowhere. Wondering what might have happened if she’d agreed to stay was pointless.
So why didn’t her dreams appreciate that? Why did scenes of Loukas’s lovemaking keep playing over and over in her head, haunting her? Because it was so real in her dreams, so real…Only then she’d wake up to twisted sheets and the agony of knowing she’d been cheated again. Because it wasn’t real.
It had never been real.
So why couldn’t she simply forget him?
But the answer to that question was the cruellest blow of all. Because more than three months spent straightening out her head, trying to get a grip on her battered emotions, sorting out in her mind what was true and what was fake, what she wanted out of life and what she believed in, had only cemented in her mind one fact.
She loved him.
It made no sense. It made bad sense. She didn’t even understand why. The knowledge was simply there, deep inside, like a flame that wouldn’t go out—a flame that wouldn’t be extinguished.