Chapter Three
Adelaide
I’m tempted to leave the shop closed today. Not for any reason other than I’m moping. Spending time with Ash is a double-edged sword. It’s great, but it hurts and leaves a lasting mark. I’m never going to tell him that, though. It isn’t his fault that he’s afraid of getting close to me. I blame our father for that.
I glance in the mirror of the bathroom and see my roots beginning to show. I hate my hair. I’m the only one of my siblings who’s a brunette. The other four have Maman’s beautiful blond locks. I’m stuck with the muddy color our father had. I’ve learned to cover it up so no one will notice. I’m surprised Asher didn’t comment on it last night. It’s past time for another visit to the salon.
I choose to run late and spoil myself with a coffee that no one can afford, with as many pumps of pure sugar as I can take. It’s so sweet that there likely isn’t any coffee in it. Perfect.
I see a young woman huddled in front of the door, waiting for the shop to open. I’ve never seen that before, so I hurry up to reach her with a shamed smile.
“Sorry about that. I thought I deserved some spoiling today.” I shake the coffee cup as my proof. “Forgive me?”
“Sure.” The woman has a hushed voice that seems almost afraid.
I fumble to get the locks turned and usher her inside.
“You ok, honey?” I lean to try to get a look at her face, but I freeze up.
A scar runs through her left eyebrow from the middle of her forehead down to her cheekbone. It’s rough and jagged, violence screaming out from the mark. The eye is blind and milky-white in color. I’m bowled over by the obvious pain she’s survived.
“Come have a seat,” I gentle my tone, which makes her angry.
“I want a flower.” The fierce demand, coupled with a menacing glare, startles me.
“Pardon?” I ask with wide eyes.
“Are you Addie?”
I lean back with both brows high.
“ Oui ,” the word is very cautious.
“I want a flower. To cover this,” she roughly gestures to her scarring and scowls. “Can you do it or not?”
This is unexpected. This woman is all fire with no give. I can appreciate it, but not the way she’s using it.
“Eh, stop being rude now,” I frown. “Take a look around while I wake up a bit. Then we’ll meet again with a dash more polite in your tone.”
I leave her floundering and turn the lights on to get ready.
This is a brand-new experience all around. Did Ash send her to me? I’d ask, but she’s so aggressive, I’m not sure if she’ll even stay.
I approach her again, with her defensive arms crossed posture, and firm my lips for this.
“A flower on your face, then? Let’s take a look.”
She chews her lower lip as if I smacked all the sass out of her. Then she pulls her hair away from her face with both hands in an angry gesture. That had to hurt.
I brush off the dramatics as my heart twinges in pain for her. What made that mark? A piece of glass, maybe?
No matter, Addie. Get focused.
I click my tongue as I debate what would look best. I’m not seeing a flower here. This needs something else.
“You dead-set on a flower?”
“N-no,” she frowns warily. “Can you do it?”
“Course I can. But I’m not making a fool of you. I’m thinking lightning. That blue like ice, ready to kill you if you get too close. A Valkyrie.”
Her good eye, a dark brown, focuses on me in confusion. “Aren’t those warriors?”
“Yes, just like you. Allons ,” I jerk my chin to the table so we can get to it. Any woman who can survive whatever this was with a ton of attitude left over is a warrior. No one will convince me otherwise.
We work together to convey my thoughts to her. I create several sketches with adjustments until we settle on something we both agree on and a mutually acceptable price. She’s miffed that I don’t bow down and do whatever she wants, but I’ll show her why a flower won’t do her justice.
As soon as she sees the stencil on her face, she stops with the flower nonsense.
It’s one of the most heartbreaking tattoos I’ve ever done. It hurts her a lot. She cries as quietly as she can and insists it’s emotional, not physical distress. We take a lot of breaks and chit-chat about nonsense. I show her my raccoon obsession portfolio until she smiles. We’re at the halfway point when she starts telling me what happened.
Grace had an abusive ex-boyfriend when she was much younger. A broken mirror. Enough said.
I stay quiet, letting her talk as she likes and trying not to cry. I don’t dare. I’ve heard forty minutes of it. She lived it for four years, beginning at the tender age of fourteen. I’d never have that strength. All I see in her is a tower of will that’s made some mistakes, taken a beating, and is still standing. I hope that’s what she sees when she looks in the mirror, too.
“Done,” I whisper, my eyes wide on the tattoo. I hurry to hand her a mirror and start praying to myself.
There aren’t any dark outlines to make it stark. I opted for a more watercolor feel, incorporating eddying shades of blue to create a subtle outline of color around the scar. It streaks over her forehead and fades to a lighter hue, forming branches of azure that lead to her hairline. I added some color at the edges of her eyes to give her a permanent, cerulean corner eyeliner. A cat’s eye at its finest.
Her jagged scar is now the focal point of a bolt of lightning.
She gasps when she sees it, and we both burst into tears, holding each other like sisters in a storm.
“I love it. Thank you so much.”
“Good. There are no refunds.”
We both get a good laugh out and settle ourselves.
She’s ready to go with her instructions when she asks me the oddest thing.
“Will you put me on the website?”
I frown at the odd question. “I don’t have a website.”
Her eyes widen a bit, and she fumbles her phone out. A few taps later, she’s showing me a site I’ve never laid eyes on.
It’s a black background with my shop’s name blinking in neon lights. Right below it is a flashing welcome sign with an arrow. It perfectly matches the one in the window, with the arrow pointing toward the entrance. The words at the bottom make my heart clench.
“Beauty is pain,” I whisper with a frown.
“It got my attention,” Grace says with a wince. “Not a lie, by the way.”
I tap the welcome arrow and get a well-done selfie of a very familiar body cropped to remove the face and above the hip bones. It’s a before picture of Poe’s scars. I blink, and it morphs into another picture with the gladiolus covering the marks like a warning beacon. There are several angles taken to emphasize the detail. The photos look professional.
The bell jingles as I try to catch my breath. Damon freezes up in the doorway, his jaw dropped.
“Holy shit, woman. You are smoking hot!”
Grace blushes sweetly, shocked at Damon’s upfront approval. He makes it obvious she’s the one he’s talking to by giving her a slow once-over. I leave them to it as I tap around. There are a few empty slots where new before-and-after pictures can be set up. The shop’s address. At the very bottom, it says, “Ask Addie for a flower.”
The bell chimes again, and a new person comes in. A younger man with a misshapen burn scar along his right cheek and down his neck. It skips his ear and the rest of his face but starts again in his hair. A bald patch of scarring he’s trying to cover with a bad haircut.
“Um, can I talk to Addie?” He mutters, shifting in discomfort. “I want a flower.”
Grace points her finger directly at my face with a smug smile.
“Beauty is pain,” she grins at the newcomer.
The damnedest thing is when he smiles and repeats the phrase back to her.
I’m halfway through the sketch of his cover-up when the bells go off two times in a row.
A new customer shows Damon a scar and explains what they are looking for. Grace listens in and proudly shows off her lightning bolt. They seem to know each other. It irritates Damon to no end. He hates rivals.
Poe is watching the interaction from the door.
Seeing him again makes my stomach somersault, followed by my heart speeding up. I’m short of breath as I watch the light from outside shine over his hair, pulling out all the maroon highlights hidden in plain sight. His intense focus moves from Damon’s interaction to me in a snap. Like he felt me watching. Our eyes meet over the distance, and that tug to go to him hits me square in the chest. All of my air disappears as his intensity lightens into pleasure at the sight of me.
“Excuse me for a second,” I tell Edgar with a distracted mutter and stand up.
Poe’s eyes follow me, searing me with intensity again. I crook my finger at him and turn to go into the back room.
We’ve barely made it past the door before I spin back to whisper, “Did you do this? The website?”
He’s startled by the quick movement, but his voice is calm as he gives me a one-word answer.
“Yes.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “Why? How? It can’t have been up for long. That’s the third person today who’s come in asking for me. How did you know my name? How much did this cost? I can’t pay you back for this.”
Every question makes his lips turn up more until I’m smiling with him without meaning to. He reaches up and traces my confused smile with his fingertips, stopping my words in their tracks. I gape at him instead as my heart begins to race.
Bold man.
“I’m paying it forward,” he explains quietly. He shifts, and the door slowly swings closed. The faint click of it latching barely registers as he steps into my space.
“W-what’s that mean?” I whisper helplessly. That simple, soft touch has broken me open in too many ways to count.
“It means you gave me back some of myself. I want other people to have that. Those of us who need it. I’m part of a global group. Survivors of Tragedy. I made the site in our private group to inspire people that there’s another way to see yourself. I thought if I was brave enough to do it instead of talking about it, someone else might get the courage to step up.”
“What?” My voice is faint as a punch of sorrow strikes me. A survivor’s group. I’ve never heard of anything like it. I don’t have any doubts from the scars I’ve seen today. Grace’s story is going to stay with me for a long time.
“I put your name out there to see if anyone local wanted to take the plunge. You made me feel comfortable with it. No questions or judgment. No disgust. I told them you’re safe, which makes you an honorary member, by the way. There’s only one rule to follow, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem with it.”
“A rule?” I let out a weak laugh. Rules and I don’t have the best track record.
“Don’t talk about it,” his brows furrow with discomfort. “A lot of us have scars we can hide and don’t want our stories out there for reporters to mull over. The website is for the group only. No sharing or posting it to the public. All of this isn’t happening, ok?”
That is one rule I can follow without question. All I have to do is think about Asher and how much his skin disgusts him. He hates people touching him and all the questions. It’s nobody’s business unless he wants to talk about it.
I also understand because of my own issues.
“I won’t tell a soul. I need to warn Damon too,” my brows furrow.
“I thought I’d have time to come tell you about it,” he muses with a crooked smile. “I didn’t expect them to step up this fast. I’ve never seen Grace smile before.”
“She’s so brave,” I nod, trying not to tear up. “All of you are.”
My eyes move up to see his face, and I freeze. His tongue is licking along his lip. His attention is on his finger, dragging across my lower lip in the same motion. My breath catches at the naked want in the look.
“When can I get another one?”
My brain must be leaking out of my ears because I don’t have an answer.
“Addie,” he whispers roughly and leans closer. Our lips almost touch while I stand dazed by his charm. “When will you touch me again?”
Our mouths awkwardly meet as I go to my toes to make up the difference in height on impulse. His fingers are trapped between us. I meant it to be a quick kiss. Closed mouth. He changes it without hesitation.
He follows me down as I drop to my heels, a finger pulling my lower lip so his tongue can barely trace along the inside. I gasp in a surprised breath, and he takes advantage. His hand withdraws as his head tilts to get a better angle, and his tongue slips inside. The languid pace of his kiss sweeps me under faster than a rip tide. It’s hard to catch my breath, and he’s barely started.
My fingers dig into his hair to keep him close as he savors each kiss like he’s memorizing the feel of me. My butt bumps into the table, and I’m suddenly lifted up to sit on it. My knees part to welcome him before I can think better of it. I can’t let go of him. The slower he kisses me, the more desperate I get for him to hurry. Like this moment is stolen and we need to rush before it passes us by.
He’s The One. My One.
The thought comes at me, hitting me like a freight train. A life-altering event that shifts me all around inside until I don’t know up from down.
I pull my head away, trying to catch my breath. His eyes open slowly, like he’s been drugged. They meet mine with the laziness of a satisfied cat, and his lips turn up in a smile.
“You look scared.”
“I am,” I barely manage to get out. I don’t know what else to say. I’m terrified of what this means.
What if I’m wrong? What if I’m bad for him?
“I have to go,” I panic and look around me as if I’m lost. All I want right now is to call my Maman and beg her to tell me I’m right, that I’m okay, and everything will be fine. We’re all safe, and I’m not making a mistake.
I’m messed up in the head. If he doesn’t see that now, then he will soon enough.
“I have to go,” I repeat, my voice a tad firmer, but not enough.
“You’re right where you need to be, siren.” His raspy assurance melts me into a puddle, especially when his lips brush over mine in a tease.
“Stop saying perfect things,” I hiss angrily, trying to regain my thought process. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I haven’t taken my hands away from the back of his head and neck.
“No,” he chuckles and gives me a sweet kiss, his lips lingering over mine.
I’m so tempted to give in. To let this happen and say to hell with it. If the feelings weren’t this intense, I would. Anything that feels this raw and perfect can’t be good for me.
“Please,” I whisper, wincing at the weak plea.
“Addie,” he groans and presses his forehead to mine. His eyes are squeezed closed as if he’s struggling for composure. I know I am.
“I’m scared, too.”
His confession makes it better and worse in so many ways.
“You’ve got a hold over me that’s strangling,” his voice is rough over the last word. “I’m not resisting it, and I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands slip away from me, lingering on my hips as long as possible as he steps back. My hands fall as if my arms don’t have bones in them.
I feel a little lost. As if he had taken away everything with that single step back. He bites his lower lip, staring at my mouth with that blazing intensity that makes my heart start pounding again. I’m already leaning forward, waiting for him to kiss me.
“I’ll be waiting,” he mutters, shaking his head.
He leaves the room like he’s running from something. Maybe temptation.
I’m stuck with my mouth open, staring at the door he closed behind him. By the time I make myself leave the backroom, he’s gone. Damon takes one look at me and wiggles his brows.
My heart is hammering with fear and excitement long after he’s gone.