All the Pretty Lies Read Free Page B

they were. There were always good times,
even among the bad. There usually are. I’ve just learned that you
have to look for them.
     
    ********

    I leave the dark of the night behind me as I
enter the shop. The first thing I notice when I open the door to
The Ink Stain is the music. It’s an old song I’ve heard before, one
by Stone Temple Pilots called Still Remains. There’s
something intimate and…sexy about it. I don’t know if I’ve ever
thought of it that way before. But I do now. Tonight, I feel like
it vibrates, resonates somewhere deep within me.
    The reception area is empty, just like it was
last night. So I walk over to ring the bell, just like I did last
night. Only this time, I don’t get that far. Hemi appears in the
doorway to the tattooing room. He’s wearing a snug black t-shirt,
snug black jeans and dull black boots. He looks dangerous. And
delicious.
    When he smiles at me, my heart trips over
itself for a beat or two before righting its rhythm. “Welcome
back,” Hemi says with a smile before he peeks around my shoulder.
“You by yourself?”
    “I am,” I reply.
    “Your timing is perfect. I was getting really
bored.”
    “Slow night?”
    “Uncharacteristically,” he explains, tipping
his head for me to follow him, which I do.
    In the back room, all the overhead lights are
turned off except for one set—the ones over the chair that Hemi
uses. The room seems more intimate this way, and the fact that we
are alone only accentuates that.
    “Are you by yourself ?” I ask,
turning his question back on him.
    “Yep. Everyone else is gone.”
    “I could’ve come earlier. You didn’t have to
stay late just for me.” I assumed when he made the appointment it
was either more convenient for him or the only opening he had.
    He turns to look at me, patting the flattened
chair that I’ll be lying upon. “I prefer to work the late shift.
The world seems quieter at night. This probably won’t make sense to
you, but it’s like I can feel my artwork better. Sort of get
lost in it. Especially when I’m doing something freehand, like I’m
doing on you.”
    “Actually, I understand that perfectly,” I
admit, scooting up onto the table. “I’m an art major, so I totally
get where you’re coming from.”
    He smiles and, for a second, it’s like my
soul connects with his in a way that transcends words. I daresay
only an artist would understand what he means. And I do. I most
definitely do. For me, drawing or sketching is the perfect
combination of escapism and therapy. It’s consuming. It’s
cathartic. It makes me wonder what scars he needs to escape, what
wounds he needs to heal.
    “I’m gonna get you to start out on your
stomach again. I’ll do the first few butterflies and then have you
roll up onto your side to do the rest. Now, let me warn you, this
hurts more over bone, so the tats over your ribs aren’t going to be
very comfortable for you.”
    I nod. “That’s fine. I understand.”
    “Still worth it?”
    I nod again. The butterflies are more
significant than what I’ve told anyone else, so I can honestly say
that the pain is worth it for me. “Yes,” I answer.
    Hemi’s eyes delve deep into mine, like he’s
trying to see where the butterflies live, where they were born and
what they’ve been through. After a few seconds, he says simply,
enigmatically, “The important ones always are.”
    I stretch out on my stomach, folding my arms
under my head and resting my chin against my shoulder so I can look
down at Hemi as he works. I see him reach for my waistband, just
like he did last night. He smiles and glances up at me. “Smart
choice,” he states, tucking his finger inside the elastic band of
my yoga pants. “You know the drill,” he says. “Lift.”
    I lift my hips and he eases my pants and
panties down to expose my hip. Gently, like the wings of the
butterflies he drew on my body, his fingers drift over the first
part of the tattoo. Chills spread over my stomach and