Chapter 14 #2
I don’t argue. Remy’s the best in town. Everyone knows it.
Best case is not catching Hep C from some old geezer with a shitty tattoo gun and questionable sterilization.
Worst? A kid mastering his stick-and-poke.
Most guys trek out to Northridge for frat ink–cheap, fast, and symbolic.
The artist out there isn’t half as talented as Remy, but no one expects artistry for a Baron mark. just loyalty. Just ownership.
“I know what it would mean for you to do it,” I say.
“Do you?” Remy scoffs. “Because you’re asking me to put my father’s bullshit on your body. Permanently."
There it is. The real problem.
I’m asking him to immortalize everything Remy ran from. Everything he despises.
For a moment, I think he’s going to go one step further than Perilini and toss me all the way out on the street. Then his mouth twists–not into a smile, but something close to it.
“You know what,” he says, “I’ll do it.”
There’s a weird tone in his voice and I’m not so sure this is a good idea.
Remy taps the stylus against the screen, eyes distant now, calculating. “This will just send him.”
“Him?” It takes me a minute to catch up, but Remy’s already full speed ahead.
“Me? Tattooing a Baron mark? On you?” He huffs a quiet laugh. “The old man will have a coronary.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not trying to stir up family drama.”
“Too late, Kemp. That happened long before you got on the scene.” His grin widens. “Jesus, this will crawl up under his skin like a bad rash he can’t scratch in public.”
Christ.
Remy focuses on the tablet, and somewhere down the hall, I hear a muffled voice—or at least I think I do–too low to make out, but enough to remind me what’s going on without me.
I glance that way without meaning to. Once. Then again.
Without looking up, Remy notices.
“You keep checking the hall like you’re waiting for a verdict,” he says, adjusting his grip on the stylus.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “She’s just unpredictable. The King gave strict instructions not to leave her alone.”
“She’s not alone. Sorrin is in there.” After a minute, Remy speaks again, his voice softer than I expected.
“I was there when my friend Tate died… it took me a long time to remember if it really happened.” His stylus pauses.
“The people around me told me I was making shit up because that’s what they wanted to hear.
So they told me that I was fucking delusional.
” He laughs darkly. “I was high. Fucked up out of my mind, but I wasn’t delusional. ”
The words hit harder than I want them to. “It’s hard to tell with Arianette. She doesn’t make sense a lot of the time.”
She’s killed two men since I became a Baron. She’s not innocent.
He stares at me for a long, hard minute.
The silence stretches, thick enough to feel it on my skin.
Finally, I ask, “What?”
He looks like he’s about to say something, jaw shifting, but then he shuts it down with a muttered, “Nothing.”
“No, really.”
Still, he chews on his response, avoiding my eyes.
“The mind is fragile. And I think we both know that if she hadn’t escaped, she’d probably be dead like Laura.
” The cutslut they found. “Whatever happened to her when she was gone was probably so bad she can’t bring herself to talk about it.
At least not without it being on her terms.”
I tilt my head. “Since when did you become a therapist?”
He smirks without looking up. “Time served, man. I may not have the degree, but I’ve put in the hours.”
Then he turns the screen toward me.
In clean and elegant script: “Memento Mori.”
Remy’s an incredible artist. Always has been, but… “That’s not the Beta Rho symbol.”
“Look, I’ll do this,” he says, “but there’s no fucking way I’m giving you a shitty pentagram.”
Honestly, it’s a lot cooler than the pentagram. “Fine.”
He nods, like it was never in question. “Where do you want it?”
I lift my hand, running my fingers over my left eyebrow–feeling the faint ache already, or maybe just imagining it. “How about here?”
He lets out a low whistle. “Bold choice. The old man is gonna hate it.”
Remy moves with the kind of calm efficiency only artists or killers have. He opens a drawer, pulls out stencil paper, a small pot of transfer gel and gloves, snapping them tight over his wrists. The room fills with the sterile, harsh scent of disinfectant.
“Hold still,” he says, voice quieting into his work mode.
He brushes a cold wipe across my brow, the skin prickling from the sudden chill. Then he paints on a thin layer of gel with two fingers, smoothing it across my skin.
Remy positions the stencil against my skin, leaning in close. The paper warms under his fingers as he presses it down with even pressure.
“You’ve got more piercings than I remember.” His gaze flicks to the hoops threading through my brow. “This your work?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He nods. “You work on anyone else lately?”
“Just the Baroness,” I say.
Remy grunts. “I like working on Vinny, too. Spread all out like a canvas.”
I know what he means, piercing and tattooing, it’s intimate. Vulnerable, especially if it’s with someone you’re attracted to. Just thinking about Arianette’s tits and clit makes my dick twitch.
The stencil sets. Remy peels the backing away with a single, smooth motion. In the mirror on the wall I see the crisp, purple outline of Memento Mori curved perfectly over my brow.
He steps back, assessing his placement with a critical eye, and the room goes quiet except for the low buzz of the machine heating up.
“How’s that?”
I twist my head, looking at it from all angles. “Looks good.”
“All right,” he murmurs. “Lean back.”
The tattoo gun whirs to life–angry, familiar, electric. My pulse picks up with it, and I brace myself.
The first touch is a sting–a needle dragging fire along bone. A burn blooms under my skin, radiating up into my forehead and down behind my eye. But I hold still. I’ve had worse. Hell, I think of the scar on my neck. I’ve survived worse.
Remy falls into a steady rhythm. The buzzing and the sting blend into one sensation, the kind that makes everything heightened, but also feels grounding. Sweat prickles at my hairline, and I do my best not to wince.
Remy’s quiet the whole time, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with focus. The Remy I knew freshman year never sat still long enough to breathe. This version–a little older, a little haunted–moves with more intention and control.
“Almost done,” he mutters, wiping away a smear of ink with a clean pad. “You know, the only other face tattoo I’ve done is on Nicky.” The machine finally powers down. The silence afterward is almost disorienting.
Remy wipes the area again, gentler this time, then grabs a handheld mirror from the counter. He holds it out.
“Moment of truth.”
I take it.
The script arcs cleanly across my brow, elegant and ruthless at the same time. Exactly what I wanted. A reminder and a warning.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “It’s good.”
Remy nods once, like he expected nothing less. He comes to stand behind me, both of us reflected in the mirror. For a second, he just looks at the tattoo, admiring his own work. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For the tattoo and for distracting me from everything going on back there.”
“We’ve known one another for a while,” he says, resting his hands on the back of the chair.
“And I’ve got no fucking clue why you’d pledge brN…
but outside the frat, where that girl is concerned–” He glances down the hall toward the office, toward Arianette.
“My father doesn’t understand or accept imperfection,” Remy says.
“He’s focused on status and reputation. Anything that interferes with that–tradition, Forsyth’s image, his precious position–is a liability. Something to be managed, not helped.”
He moves to the workstation, collecting the used needles, ink caps and wipes into a neat pile for cleaning.
“That girl is a liability,” he says, not unkindly.
“Her name is Arianette,” I argue, “and your father is committed to her.”
“Maybe, but once upon a time, he was committed to my mother, too, and when things got rough, he couldn’t handle it.
Just like he couldn’t handle me after Tate died.
” When he looks at me, his eyes are crystal clear.
“I can see it with her–the Baroness. She’s like me.
Like my mom. And if you give a shit about her, you’re going to have to do everything you can to keep her safe. ”
There’s no doubt in my mind that Remy has it bad for Lavinia Lucia.
That girl has him by the balls and heart.
The Dukes are all in with their Duchess.
But that’s the difference between them and me.
I didn’t grow up with best friends to get me through the hard times.
I don’t even have a father to rebel against.
“I’m not like you, Rem,” I tell him. “I don’t have a bloodline or a legacy.
Your father saw something in me that he needed, and in return, I get shelter and an education.
The guys are fine, but I’m never going to walk out of Forsyth U with a found family to build a future with.
I’ve been in and out of enough group homes and residential programs to see this life for what it is. ”
“That’s big talk for someone who just let me permanently tattoo the Baron code on his face.”
“Protection goes a long way.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all of this, but I keep talking.
“As for the Baroness? Well, she’s just a sexy little perk that comes with the job.
A girl who’s there to serve my needs. Who will give me a blow job in the parking lot before class and can’t say no when I want to pierce her clit.
That’s all she is, and that’s all she’ll ever be. ”
He studies me for so long that I glance over my shoulder to see if someone else is there. There isn’t.
“If that’s how you see it, Kemp, then all I can say is good fucking luck.”