Chapter 13 #2
“Right,” Clay says, and when I glance at him, he grins without a hint of shame or remorse.
I don’t react, my attention back on Xander, who is now wrapping Saran Wrap around my arm. Clay leans over the counter, trying to catch a glimpse.
Xander finishes taping everything and releases his grip on my wrist, allowing me to pull down the sleeve of my sweater to cover the tattoo.
“Did you get something cool?” Clay asks, his curiosity evident.
“The goal wasn’t for it to be cool,” I say flatly, reaching for my backpack.
Looking back up, I notice Xander smiling to himself.
This man is going to kill me if he ever happens to smile at me.
I walk up to the register, and Xander follows suit, ringing me up and giving me some aftercare cream and instructions on taking care of my new tattoo.
“Thank you again, I love it. Maybe I’ll see you again,” I say, turning to leave.
Clay says happily, “See you, Karen.”
I don’t even turn around while I retort in a bored tone, “Bye, Clark,” and open the door, hearing him chuckle.
“Why were you so rude to her? And how do you even know her?” I ask Clay, his treatment of Carolina does not sit well with me.
She looked so vulnerable, yet there was a strength in her eyes. A resilience. That’s probably why I felt an immediate need to protect her, even from Clay’s banter. The way she presented herself felt so familiar, hauntingly so.
Why did her pain feel so palpable?
I can’t remember the last person to tug at my soul the way she did.
He grins. “Nah… I wasn’t being rude. She knows I’m just joking around.” My brows furrow, but I remain silent, continuing to look at him. “Seriously, babe, I like her. She’s so fucking unfazed, it’s iconic. You should see her at work.”
But is she truly unfazed?
Or has she perfected the art of hiding behind a wall like I had to?
There was a weight about her, something that said she’d been through a lot and, perhaps, was still going through it.
That same weight used to look back at me when I’d catch my reflection during the darkest times in my life.
Times when my father’s oppressive presence threatened to swallow me whole.
The look in her eyes mirrored the look I once held—a look that spoke of trauma, fear, and the desperate attempts to keep going despite it all.
I tilt my head. “At work?”
He takes my hand in his, linking our fingers. “You remember the girl I was teasing Josh about earlier this week? The cute but fiery gothic one?”
Fiery? Or just trying to fight off the darkness?
My eyes widen in realization. “That’s her?”
Clay nods. “Yep.”
I let out a sigh. “She’s not a ‘goth girl’ just because she dresses in all black.”
The black might be her shield against the world. I remember using anger as mine.
He smirks. “True, maybe she’s more of a black cat.”
“Well, you might be onto something there.” I glance at the photos on my phone, and Clay lets go of my hand to place his arm around my waist and peer at the screen with me.
“Damn, that’s fucking cool,” he says. “Definitely one of your best pieces so far.”
I nod, proud of it myself. Her tattoo request was truly special, and I thoroughly enjoyed the process of bringing it to life. That’s why I agreed to do it today, after hours, even though I’m booked out months in advance.
“You should have seen the sketch she made to show me her idea. It was impressive. She is an artist herself.”
To say I was surprised to see that sketch is an understatement.
“You should post it on your socials,” he says.
“Let me check if she marked the permission checkbox on the form,” I say, wanting to ensure she gave consent before I share her tattoo online.
As I scan over the form she filled out earlier on my tablet, I see that she did, in fact, give me permission. I momentarily skip over her personal details and suddenly freeze. “What is the date today?” I ask, turning to Clay.
“November twenty-sixth. Why?” I blink at the date she wrote down.
“It’s her birthday.” I scratch my beard.
He hums thoughtfully. “Getting a tattoo on your birthday seems like a nice idea. How old did she turn?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Makes sense. She’s in her last year of college,” he notes while I set my tablet aside.
“I would have guessed she was older. She’s got this mature, calm vibe.”
The kind of maturity you only gain from enduring hardships. And I should know.
I’ve lived it.
Clay huffs a laugh. “Did you even talk to her? She’s a mean little spitfire.”
But everyone has a breaking point.
I reach over, catching hold of Clay’s neck and massaging it. He leans into my touch and groans. “What are you talking about? She seemed nice, even a bit sad and shy.”
More like wounded and guarded.
He chokes on the air, and his eyes pop open. “Shy? Are we talking about the same person?”
I pull his head back, forcing him to look up at me. Leaning in, I whisper into his ear, “Maybe she’s just nice to those who are nice to her in return,” I add, quickly nibbling on his earlobe.
“I’m always nice,” Clay murmurs, and I chuckle before biting down a little harder. He hisses in surprise.
“No, you’re a cheeky, sarcastic bastard, and that’s why I love you,” I tell him before releasing him. “But try to be a bit nicer to her. She’s had enough rough times, it seems.”
The way she talked about her parents? She lost them for sure.
But who is tormenting her now? And can I, no, should I, do something about it?
I’m reminded of the moments when I wished for someone, anyone, to just notice. To offer a hand, a shoulder, a kind word.
Perhaps we can be that for her, even if our paths have only just crossed.