Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Leo
Therapy my ass.
She had me there. I even saw her texts about it. I really thought she was going to talk to someone who would convince her to cut ties with her mother—or at the very least allow me to be the one to permanently cut the tie and stop this little dance we’re doing. I’m getting tired of waiting.
She hasn’t dared to take the next step with us or recognize that she and I are a permanent thing. Seems I need to take things into my own hands.
I glare into the window of the tattoo studio. In typical Mina fashion, she’s lying on the bed with her headphones on, snoring softly while she gets stabbed a couple thousand times per second, because my girl is the same type of fucked up as I am.
It explains why she hasn’t replied to my texts for the past hour.
The only reason I knew where she was is because I managed to get clear footage of her typing her password into her laptop, so I went through her messages to work out her latest crime against me.
Like lying about going to a therapist.
And going to her parents’ house to have dinner with that fucking man-child. A sin she has yet to repent for.
Her time will come.
For now, another punishment must be doled out.
She should count herself lucky that I’m still in a good mood after our little phone call two nights ago.
Mina thought she was smart by hiding her face from her phone camera, but I had a clear view to everything she was doing from the ones I’ve hidden around her room.
I could see every minute detail of her expression—the pucker of her lips, the wrinkle of her forehead, the way her eyes fluttered when her hips hit a certain angle against the towel.
And the entire time, she was within reach. All I had to do was get out of the car, and in a few short steps I would have been at her door. Knowing what was happening behind the closed curtains—knowing she was getting off for me—was almost better than the times I’ve snuck into her room.
Like I did last night.
It would’ve been a crime not to fuck myself with the towel she used while she was sleeping peacefully beside me. I had no choice but to coat it in my cum, fold it nice and neat, and place it on her bedside table to use this morning.
Alas, Mina had to go ahead and ruin a perfectly good day.
Actions have consequences, and she’s about to find out what happens when she lies.
Clutching the brown paper bag, I storm across the street and yank the front door open to see if Mina so much as flinches. But no, her pretty eyes stay shut, lips parted with her soft breaths.
Music pumps through the otherwise empty studio, and a soccer game plays on TV just as loudly. Flash cutouts and framed prints decorate the spray-painted walls. Several stations are scattered throughout the room, positioned between mirrors, potted plants, and cupboard spaces.
Mina’s artist looks up at me, lifting the gun from her smooth ribs.
His aggravating face pulls into a frown.
He’s fucking lucky I’m not shoving the gun into his eye for touching her.
The only reason I’m not walking in here wearing a balaclava to send him to an early retirement is because Mina looks so delicate when she sleeps, and I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than wake her up right now.
“We don’t have space for walk-ins today. If you want to book an appointment—”
I tip the contents of the paper bag onto a nearby table. Stacks of cash flop onto the surface, and one teeters near the edge before flipping onto the floor.
“There’s five grand. Fuck off for ten minutes.” I look pointedly at Mina, so the idiot knows precisely what I’m meaning.
His eyes widen at the cash. “I don’t—”
Another thousand falls from the bag onto the pile. “For you to shut the fuck up.”
He looks between me, Mina, the cash, back to Mina, up at me, then the cash, apparently warring with his paper-thin morals. His throat bobs as he rises to his feet, setting the machine and his gloves on the bench.
Just to make himself feel better, he points an accusatory finger at me as he ambles over to the pile of cash. “If I hear shit, I will call the cops.”
I’ve never claimed to be a reasonable person. I want him to fuck off, but he still failed the test. What if someone other than me made him the same offer? He’s shown that he can be paid to look away and put my Mina’s safety at risk.
I nod, saying nothing. I’ll be back for him.
He mutters something beneath his breath, shoving the money into the bag while he sends me nasty glances as if taking six grand is such a chore.
If he recognizes who I am, he doesn’t let on. Some people have zero interest in my sport. It suits me just fine.
I shake my head when he starts to pack away some of his gear.
“Leave it.”
The asshole manages to look torn for a nanosecond before snatching the fallen stack off the floor and making himself scarce, leaving me behind with a ready-to-use tattoo machine and my sleeping stalker.
His departing huff is long forgotten as I set the full weight of my attention on Mina. Even with the blaring music, I can hear her soft breaths. I’ve been around her long enough to know when she’s deep in sleep, and when she’s snoozing.
Right now, she’s the latter. How? Who fucking knows, but I’m not surprised in the slightest that she’s able to nap while getting tattooed.
I haven’t spent much time in her company when she’s in this type of sleep. It’s slightly daunting and rather unfortunate that I have to ensure she doesn’t wake. I quietly settle on the rolling stool and study her newest piece.
An eye? Interesting choice.
There’s so much skin to choose from. Her stomach, back, around her mouth-watering tits. I paid for the tattoo. I get to pick what it is and where it goes.
It can’t be somewhere obvious—she doesn’t need to know yet—but not somewhere she’ll never see.
My hand skirts over her hip, and then pauses on a blank space of skin amidst the dark ink of her cybersigilism tattoo on her stomach and ribs. She won’t notice something there unless she’s specifically looking.
It’ll do.
I help myself to the artist’s station, putting on a fresh pair of gloves to shave and clean the area, then use a marker to initial my name into the small space.
When it’s exactly how I want it, I rub on some Vaseline, then test out the foot pedal of the tattoo machine before leaning in for the kill.
Do I know what I’m doing? No.
How hard can it be?
The moment the needle penetrates her skin, I learn my answer: very.
The only thing I’ve handwritten in the past five years is my signature, and this is nothing like a fucking pen.
The last thing I want is for the tattoo to blow out or fall off, and I don’t exactly have the artistic acumen to know what the fuck I’m doing. How much pressure am I supposed to use? At what point do I wipe a tissue over it? Fucking hell.
Whatever.
This is what will make it special. Another first for us.
Then, there it is, my initial in the middle of one of the stylized crescent moons.
LD.
She’ll always know who she belongs to now.
The artist returns just as I’m taking a picture of Mina and her new tattoo. He doesn’t look at me. His attention is zeroed on the fresh ink that I quickly cover with her waistband. It’s none of his goddamn fucking business.
I fish out another stack from my jacket pocket and throw another grand onto the table.
“Finish the tattoo and don’t tell her about what happened.”
With one final look at my girl, I leave the shop, jaw ticking at the artist’s unwanted commentary about what a sick bastard I am.
He has no idea how fucked up she and I are.
The tension stringing my shoulders tight loosens as I walk to my car, hands in the pockets of my hoodie.
The need to mark her has been hounding me for months.
I already have her initials on my ribs; it’s only fair she gets the same.
Admittedly, mine looks substantially better than hers.
What with getting a professional to do it and all.
The hair at the back of my neck prickles with the familiar sensation of eyes tailing my every move. My footsteps falter as I frown at the sidewalk behind me. Mina would still be in the middle of her tattoo.
My gaze darts around the street for the source of the feeling.
The midafternoon sun gives an orange tinge to my surroundings, warming the nearby red-brick walls and signs for various boutiques and shops.
People mill around, heading to and fro, some carrying grocery bags, others waiting at bus stops.
No one pays me any attention.
I rub the nape of my neck and turn back around, nearly bumping into another person. I sidestep them out of reflex to avoid a full-on collision.
“Leo?”
Oh, fucking hell.
Every fiber in my body rebels at being in Jack’s vicinity. Which god did I piss off to have this fuckwit ruin my good mood?
He frowns at me not nearly as viciously as I’m glaring at him. It’s been days since I was cursed with the misfortune of having the failed one-on-one conversation with him.
Jack glances around as if reconfirming where he is. “What are you doing here?”
Actually. Yes. That is a good question. “What the fuck are you doing here, Norton?”
We both live an hour away from here. It’s highly coincidental that we’re here at the same time while Mina—the very girl he can’t seem to leave alone—is asleep a couple of blocks over.
“Meeting a friend.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets to give off the appearance that he’s just some nonchalant guy who’s innocent on all accounts. “You’re welcome to join.”
This is what I hate most about him. On paper, he sounds impeccable; he knows what to say and when to say it. I’m the bad guy in every interaction.
“Gouging my eyes out sounds more enjoyable.”
His eyes darken. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“Have you taken too many pucks to the head to work that out?”