Remnants of Riley

Chapter 46

Ihate how much of a crier I’ve become. It’s starting to feel like my natural state. I almost wish I felt numb instead. It would be easier than feeling so much.

After our talk on the patio last week, I’ve made an effort to talk to Emmett more about what I’m feeling and thinking, though I”ve avoided the intimacy topic. It’s the one thing I just can’t get myself to bring up.

He and Tracy have also been pushing me to get out of the house more, which I think has been good for me. Jeremy and I even got that cup of coffee we’ve been talking about for months now. It’s all helped me keep my mind in the present, to focus on what we’re doing, even though it’s exhausting.

Yesterday Emmett took me to the gun range, and something about that was therapeutic. I walked out of there feeling better than I have since everything happened. It was also the first time he allowed me into the gunroom in his penthouse since I’ve been back.

I don’t know if he’d tell me, and I don’t plan to ask, but I get the sense he was worried about what I might do to myself if I had access to that room.

As much as I wanted to die when Trevor had me, I wouldn’t kill myself now. If there’s one positive from that experience, it’s that I’ve realized how important the few people in my life are to me. And it’s purely out of the guilt I’d feel for hurting them, that I wouldn’t do it.

It’s the entirely wrong reason to not want to kill yourself, but it’s the truth. I’ll keep pushing through for them. For Tracy. For Jax. For Jeremy. For Emmett.

“What are you thinking about?” Emmett asks from the driver’s seat. We’re in his BMW, on our way to some appointment he wouldn’t tell me anything about.

He does this a lot now. Asking me what I’m thinking about, and for the most part, I try to be honest.

“That I don’t want to kill myself,” I answer bluntly, sticking to my new honesty most of the time policy.

He switches hands on the steering wheel, reaching over the center console to grab my thigh. “I’m proud of you, you know.” He gives me a quick look before turning back to the road. “Every day, you impress me with your strength.”

I snort. “I’m a crying mess half the time. I hardly think that counts as being strong.”

“So, you’re a little weepy.” He flashes me an amused grin. “Yet, every day, you get out of bed and you try.”

“It doesn’t ever feel easier, though,” I admit. “I keep waiting for the day that I wake up, and suddenly it’s not quite so hard.”

He squeezes my thigh again before putting both hands back on the wheel. “Everyone heals differently, Riley. Your journey will be full of ups and downs, but you’ll get there.”

“You sound like a self-help book.”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he says, pointedly avoiding my gaze.

My heart does a little pitter-patter at his confession. He’s reading about trauma and healing to help me? I can already feel the tears misting my eyes–again–and I sniffle, trying to tamper down that sting behind my nose.

I somehow manage to keep myself together, and it’s not much longer before we’re pulling into a parking spot along the street.

Peering up at the illuminated sign outside my window, I ask, “A tattoo parlor? Who goes to a tattoo parlor at eight a.m. on a Monday?”

“We do,” he says, not elaborating before getting out of the car.

Weird that he’d drag me to a tattoo appointment with him, but okay.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and scramble after him. He grabs my hand, walking me to the parlor’s front door and holding it open for me.

“Emmett!” the woman behind the counter calls out in greeting. She sashay’s around the counter to meet us.

Emmett drops my hand when she leans into him and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. I can’t help the spark of jealousy it elicits.

“Good to see you again, Harper,” he says, returning the greeting kiss.

I take in the source of my sudden jealousy.

Harper’s gorgeous. Her shoulder length, lilac-colored hair frames her flawless face. And skin tight clothes frame a flawless body. One of her arms is entirely covered with a sleeve of tattoos, and she has a floral design just below her collarbone that peeks out from her shirt.

My jealousy is quickly doused though when she says, “You must be Riley. I’m Harper. It’s so nice to meet you. Is it okay if I touch you?”

Caught by surprise, I awkwardly nod, and then she’s grabbing my hands, pulling me toward her for a quick peck on the cheek.

Oh, I like her.Something about her persona feels like going home to grandma’s and getting a big hug before having food shoved in your face.

Which is weird, considering this woman is pretty much the exact opposite of a grandma, but she’s just so… genuinely welcoming.

“I have a table set up in the back room,” she says, indicating for us to follow her.

I’ve never been to a tattoo shop in my life, but this is not what I expected. It’s definitely not the kind of place I would have imagined Emmett going to for ink.

For some reason, I always pictured them as dark and intimidating, with lots of artwork on the walls. This is the exact opposite. The walls are all white, other than a large mural on one of a river winding through lush, green countryside. The sky over the river is cast in vibrant purples and pinks as the sun dips below the horizon. Big chandeliers throughout give the place a modern feel without being gaudy, and there’s two workstations that run along each of the long walls leading toward the back of the large, open room.

I tell Harper as much as she waives us into a private room in the back with a leather table inside. “This isn’t what I expected a tattoo parlor to look like. I thought there’d be more skulls and flames on the walls.”

She laughs, pulling up a rolling stool next to the table. “This isn’t the typical tattoo parlor.”

Emmett sits in the extra chair in the room as Harper plops down on the one she just pulled over, leaving me with the table. I look between the two of them.

“Shouldn”t you be on the table?” I ask Emmett.

He looks nervous, clearing his throat before saying, “This appointment isn’t for me.”

My face must reflect the confusion I’m feeling, because Harper pats the table and says, “Jump up here, Riley, and I’ll explain.”

I climb onto the table, my feet dangling. Emmett sits off to the left of me, and Harper scoots over on her stool until she’s right in front of me.

“My studio does all kinds of tattooing,” she starts, “but our specialty is paramedical tattoos.”

I wring my hands in my lap. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Basically, they’re cosmetic tattoos that address a medical condition, or some kind of concern due to treatment, injury, or irregularity in the skin,” she explains. “It could be anything, from covering stretch marks to 3D areolas and mastectomy tattoos.” Her eyes soften. “And scar camouflage.”

Oh.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She knows. No wonder she asked if she could touch me earlier.

Emmett shifts forward in his chair, grabbing my attention. “You’re not getting tattooed today, baby. I set up the appointment so you could learn that there are options to cover them.” He adds on quickly, “But only if you want to. You don’t have to do anything. It’s up to you.”

He seems nervous, like he’s afraid of what my reaction will be to all of this. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything but utter confidence from him, and for some reason, it makes my chest a little tight–that he’s so concerned about hurting me.

“And you certainly don’t have to decide anything today,” Harper goes on, giving me a gentle smile. “This appointment is purely educational. You don’t even have to show me the scars if you don’t want to. My job is to just explain options and let you know there’s no right or wrong decision.” She gives my knee a little squeeze, the gesture oddly comforting. “This is about empowering you to make the decision that’s best for you. To take control back over your body, whether that’s by altering it, or leaving it alone.”

My throat squeezes tight. This is Emmett’s way of helping me take control over the scars left behind. Physically and mentally.

And I couldn’t love him more for it.

We’re the same. We’re the same. We’re the same.

The words have been my constant companion since the night I found Riley. I guess it’s only fitting Trevor left a mark on me, too.

But as Riley looks at me from her perch on the tattoo table, a spark of life in her eyes for the first time since she’s come home, those words dim just the tiniest bit.

I’m a bastard for thinking it, but it’s been killing me to not fully have her these last five weeks. To not bury myself deep inside of her to remind both of us who she belongs to. But as much as I want to claim her, to take back what is mine, I won’t. Not until she asks me to. Not until she fully chooses me again.

I forced her hand once. I won’t do it again.

And I hope, even if she decides to do nothing, that her having the choice to cover her scars is a step toward her being comfortable and confident in her skin again. Toward figuring out who she is and what she wants. Who she wants.

Because she’s the one in control here. And she always has been. She’s my greatest weakness.

Some might call that a flaw–to have such a vulnerability. But if it is, she’s my favorite flaw, and one I’d do nothing to change.

“We have a few options,” Harper says, drawing me back to the conversation. “One, of course, is to do nothing. Two, is to camouflage the scar. Basically, we’ll use pigments that match the skin tone around it, and try our best to blend it in, so it’s not noticeable. How old are the scars again?”

I’d given Harper a brief overview of Riley”s scars when I met with her last week. I’d been researching paramedical tattoo artists for weeks, and was grateful to find that one of the best in the country was in the local area. After meeting with Harper and discussing the situation, she showed me some of the work she’d done, and it just cemented that she was the right choice for this.

“Umm, the older ones would be about two and a half months,” Riley says, shifting on the table. “The newer ones are only about a month.”

“Hmmm,” Harper hums. “So they’re still new. Scars take months and months to heal and will lighten over time. Keep that in mind with any decision you make. We’ll want to wait until they’re more healed–at least a year.” She rolls to a little stand in the corner and pulls out a photo album. Scooting back to Riley, she hands it to her and says, “Here are some before and after images of the scar camouflage. Again, these were done after the scars were more healed, but you can see that in most, they’re significantly less visible.” She points to one in particular that I can’t see from my position. “This one is more visible because of how the scar healed. The discoloration you see is more from the skin texture itself, though, you can see, compared to before, it’s still less noticeable.”

Riley flips through the pages as Harper continues. “The third option is to do a traditional tattoo to mask the scars. That one’s pretty straightforward. We’ll come up with a tattoo design that works with your scars. They’ll still be visible if you really look, but the goal would be to incorporate the scars into the flow of the design to minimize them as much as possible, or to draw attention away from the scar itself. Flip to the second half of that album,” she tells Riley. “One more page… there. See this one? This is a good example of working with the scar and not against it. See the long white line on the woman’s leg from a surgery? In the tattoo, we incorporated that line as the shaft in this feather here.” She points at the picture. “It’s barely noticeable.”

Harper scoots her chair back, letting Riley continue to look. “And of course, the last option is to do a combination of all the above. Some scars you might be fine leaving, maybe there’s one you want to cover with a traditional tattoo, and some others you want to camouflage. It’s whatever you’re comfortable with.” She slaps her hands down onto her thighs. “Or we do nothing at all. There are other options out there too–scar gels and surgical revisions. So, you should consider all of that before deciding anything, as well.”

Riley chews on her lip, a bad habit that’s gotten worse since she’s come back, and it makes me want to rub my thumb across it.

“I don’t know how realistic this is,” she finally says, closing the album and setting it on the table beside her. “I just have so many scars. It would be a lot.”

Harper nods. “Emmett did say you have a lot on your back and your thighs. Do you mind showing some to me? And I’ll give you my honest opinion on if I think any of those options won’t work. Because not all techniques are a good fit. Maybe we can narrow things down a little that way, so it’s less to think about.”

“Umm… So, do you just want me to take my shirt and pants off?” Riley asks, shifting awkwardly.

“Honey, I have seen more body parts than you can imagine,” Harper says playfully. “So whatever you’re comfortable taking off, I’m comfortable with.”

Some of the nervous tension in Riley’s shoulders immediately seeps away at Harper’s words. She waits until Harper’s stepped out of the room, then stands to take off her jacket and hand it to me. Her eyes catch mine as she pulls her shirt over her head.

I’ve only seen the scars a few times. Riley will go out of her way to remain fully clothed around me. I hate it, and I want so badly to tell her to knock it off because I don’t give a fuck about the scars. But if she’s not comfortable, I won’t push her.

So I’m actually surprised at how easily she took her shirt off just now. And how she’s now shimmying out of her jeans.

Soft pink lines mar her thighs, and I focus my attention back to her face when she hands me her pants. When she turns to get back on the table, the words ‘Trevor’s Whore’ stare back at me, but I don’t feel disgust. I don’t look away. I don’t feel anything but proud of this woman sitting before me, baring her trauma to us.

A moment later, Harper knocks before coming back into the room. As she sits in front of Riley again, I notice the way Riley’s spine stiffens, nervous energy flowing off her now that Harper is about to bear witness to all of her battle wounds.

When Riley looks at me, I mouth ‘I love you’, and her eyes get watery.

“You can scoot that chair closer, you know,” Harper chimes in, unfazed by the thick emotion in the room.

Though, I suppose with a career like hers, she’s used to it.

I slide the chair forward, careful not to drop Riley’s clothes on the floor as I scoot. She starts tapping her fingers together, like she always does when she’s trying to calm herself down, and I reach out, taking her hand in mine.

“Let’s start with these thighs,” Harper says, leaning over to peer at them as though the scars there are nothing unusual.

She takes time to study them, noting different things in the texture and color, gets permission to snap a few photos, and gives her recommendations. She then scoots around to the other side of the table to get a look at Riley’s back.

“Can I unclasp your bra?” Harper asks, leaning forward as she scrutinizes the scars. If she’s shocked by the words they spell out, she doesn’t let on.

“Yeah,” Riley says, holding her upper arms to her sides so her bra doesn’t come completely off.

And fuck me and the asshole that I am, I wish that bra would come off. It’s the totally inappropriate thing to think right now, and my dick is equally inappropriate, jolting at the thought.

But something about seeing how brave Riley is right now has me absolutely mad with need for her.

Harper undoes the clasp, and the goddamn thing stays in place so Riley’s front remains covered. I try not to be disappointed.

“Well, unless you suddenly want a full back tattoo, I’d advise against going with the traditional tattoo route,” Harper says. “Can I touch your back?” Riley nods. “This part here.” I lean back to see Harper trailing her fingers across the middle of Riley’s back. “This could be trickier to cover. Now, ten months from now, that might not be the case, but I can already tell these might not heal as nicely as the ones up here.” She runs her fingers over the top of Riley’s back and the word ‘Trevor’s’.

“If I may speak bluntly,” she goes on, “it looks like the scars on top were cleaner cuts. I think we can easily camouflage most of these once they’re healed. But the ones in the middle of your back, especially off to the right here, look like they were more torn than cut. Lots of jagged edges and the texture is less smooth. Again, as they heal, this could be an entirely different situation, but just from my experience, these might be a bit harder to hide.”

She runs her hand up to Riley’s right shoulder. “If you wanted to, we could do a sweeping piece from your right shoulder, across your mid back, and down to your bottom left. A flowy, feminine piece that would run almost diagonally across your back and cover the worst of the scars.” She grabs the camera to take a few photos. “Or not feminine. We could do something really hardcore, like skulls and flames.”

Riley damn near chokes before busting out laughing at Harper’s reference to earlier. “I think flowy and feminine are more my style,” she finally manages to say.

“Thought so. Just for fun, why don’t you let me draw some ideas up? It might help with your decision making if you can visualize what kind of tattoo we could do.”

I hand Riley her clothes, and she gets dressed as Harper drills her on things she likes and dislikes, colors versus black and white, and so on and so forth. Before I even realize it, three hours have gone by and we’re just now walking back to the front door.

Harper gives me a quick hug before turning to Riley and full on squeezing her. “It was so nice meeting you! Thank you for trusting me to work with you today. I’ll be in touch when I have a few drawings, and I’m always available for questions.” She steps back, opening the front door for us. “And just remember, it’s totally okay for you to do nothing. Trust me, I won’t be offended. In fact, I’d rather you do nothing than decide on a tattoo and then second guess your decision.”

“Good thing I’ve got almost a year before I have to decide,” Riley says, with one of the purest smiles I’ve seen on her face in a long time. “I tend to overthink things, so the timing couldn”t be better.”

When we finally get to my car, I’m just about to pull away from the curb when Riley says, “Thank you. For today.”

I turn toward her, but before I can say anything, she brushes her lips across mine. “Don’t say anything,” she says. “Just… thank you.”

She kisses me again, those soft lips melting against mine, but before I can deepen it, she pulls back, giving me a small smile before fastening her seat belt and flipping her seat heater on high.