Chapter 8 #3
The tea arrived in delicate china that looked like it would shatter if I breathed wrong. The cups were basically thimbles, the handles too small for my fingers.
"Pinky out," Lena reminded me, demonstrating with perfect form.
"Not happening."
"Spoilsport." She took a sip, then set her cup down with satisfaction. "Now. Tell me something real. How'd a nice boy like you end up in the Army?"
The shift from playful to serious caught me off-guard. But her eyes were warm, genuinely curious, and somehow the ridiculous setting made it easier to talk. Like none of this was quite real anyway.
"Wasn't much else for a kid from my neighborhood," I admitted, setting the tiny cup down with excessive care. "Parents split when I was twelve. Mom worked three jobs to keep us fed. The recruiter showed up at our school with promises—structure, purpose, brotherhood. Everything I was looking for."
I set the cup down carefully. "So I joined and quickly found out I was good at it. Strategy, leadership, keeping my guys alive. Until it all went wrong, of course."
Her hand found mine across the tiny table, fingers threading through like they belonged there. No platitudes, no empty reassurances. Just touch, warm and grounding.
"After that, I . . ." My throat closed up.
How to explain the months of drinking, the absolute certainty that I didn't deserve to breathe when better men couldn't? "Duke found me.
In a shitty bar, working on drinking myself to death.
Most people walked past the drunk vet talking to ghosts. Not him."
"He saved you." Not a question.
"Gave me another chance at brotherhood. At purpose." I turned her hand over, tracing the ink on her wrist with my thumb. "The MC became everything. Family, mission, reason to keep going. Without it . . ."
"You'd be lost." She squeezed my hand. "I get that. Finding something that saves you, that gives you meaning when everything else is ash."
"That why tattoos?" I needed to shift focus, to step back from the edge of that particular abyss. "Your saving grace?"
She grinned, but it held understanding. She knew I needed the redirect and gave it freely. "Started as pure rebellion. Eighteen years old, fresh out of my mother's house and her endless expectations. Got a tiny butterfly on my ankle just to piss her off."
"Bet that went over well."
"She cried for three days. Said I'd ruined my body, my future, my chances at a 'good marriage.
'" Lena made air quotes with her free hand.
"The tattoo artist was this badass woman, covered head to toe in the most beautiful work I'd ever seen.
She looked so . . . free. Unapologetic. Everything I wanted to be. "
"So you started hanging around the shop?"
"Like a lost puppy." She laughed at the memory. "Swept floors, cleaned equipment, begged to watch her work. Obviously I was drawing, drawing, drawing the whole time. Practicing. I kept showing her my work and at first she just kept telling me to keep going and then eventually told me this one thing—a skull with sunflowers behind it—was rad. That’s what she said. ‘That’s rad as fuck, Lena.’ So she let me try on practice skin. Then real skin. It felt so good. And my best work was always about taking someone’s pain, and making it something beautiful. "
My chest went tight. That was Lena—taking damage and making it into something more. "Like those memorial pieces you do."
Her eyes widened. "You looked into my work?"
Heat crept up my neck. "Course I did. Wanted to understand what you did. How you did it." I cleared my throat. "That sleeve you did for Morrison—his whole unit in silhouette against the sunset. It's . . ."
"You know Morrison?"
"Served with his younger brother. Heard about the piece through the vet network. How you spent hours getting every detail right. How you wouldn't take payment."
"He tried to pay." She ducked her head, uncomfortable with praise. "But how do you charge someone for carrying their brothers? For keeping their memory alive? It's not . . . it's sacred. You know?"
I knew. God, I knew. The weight of carrying the dead, of being the one who walked away when they didn't.
"You're giving them a way to grieve."
"Art therapy disguised as badassery." She smiled, self-deprecating. "Plus I volunteer at the vet center. Teaching actual art therapy, not just sneaking it into tattoos."
"You volunteer?" Something warm unfurled in my chest. Of course she did.
"Don't look so surprised. I have depths." But she was blushing, pleased by my obvious admiration. "What about you? What does the tactical genius do when he's not playing bodyguard?"
"Build models." The admission came easier than expected. Maybe because she'd already seen my vulnerabilities. "Military vehicles, mostly. Helps with the . . ." I tapped my temple.
"The noise?"
"Yeah. Focusing on tiny pieces, exact specifications. Quiets everything down." I picked up another micro sandwich, examining it like tactical equipment. "Thor mocks me mercilessly."
"Thor's an idiot. I bet they're incredibly detailed." She leaned forward, interested. "What's your favorite build?"
"Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk. It’s a stealth plane. Took three months. Every rivet perfect." Christ, I sounded like a nerd. I was a nerd. "It's stupid—"
"It's not stupid." Fierce certainty in her voice. "It's meditation. It's control. It's taking chaos and making order." She grinned. "Plus planes are cool. Very phallic, but cool."
I choked on my tea. "Phallic? This one doesn’t look very—"
"All that thrusting through the air,” she cut me off, a dreamy look in her eye. “Very masculine." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Bet you look hot when you're concentrating. All focused and precise. Steady hands working on tiny parts . . ."
"You're incorrigible."
"You love it." She popped a tiny cake in her mouth, humming with pleasure. "Mm. Lemon. Want some?"
She held out another cake, and I leaned forward to take it from her fingers. Her breath hitched when my lips brushed her fingertips, and suddenly the air between us went electric again.
"So what else?" I asked, voice rougher than intended. "What does Lena Rivera dream about when she's not turning skin into art?"
"You mean besides riding off into the sunset on a purple motorcycle with a dangerous man?" Her foot found mine under the table. "I want to open another shop someday. Maybe a chain. Build something special—a nationwide space where art and healing meet. Where people feel safe being vulnerable."
"You'll do it." No doubt in my mind. "You're too stubborn not to."
"Stubborn. Is that what we're calling it?" Her toes traced my ankle, and I had to grip the table edge. "What about you? What do you dream of?"
The question hit deeper than she probably intended. What did I dream of? For so long, it had just been survival. Then purpose through the club. But sitting here with her, watching her eyes light up with dreams and mischief in equal measure . . .
"This," I admitted quietly. "Someone who sees past the damage. Who doesn't run when things get dark. Who makes me remember there's more to life than duty and ghosts."
Her foot stilled against mine. "Tyson . . ."
"And maybe a bigger table," I added, needing to lighten the moment before I said too much. "This dollhouse furniture is killing me."
She laughed, but her eyes stayed soft. "We should probably go soon anyway. Before these ladies stage an intervention."
"Or call the cops."
"Please. That lady in the corner definitely has a bad boy fetish. She's been staring at your forearms for twenty minutes." Lena signaled for the check. "Bet she goes home and reads biker romance novels."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it," she repeated, and this time I didn't argue. Couldn't argue with truth.
The check arrived—doily-covered folder and all—and I snatched it before Lena could reach for her wallet.
"I asked you out," I reminded her when she protested.
"Such a gentleman. Very un-biker-like." She watched me count out bills, leaving a generous tip despite the hostile service. "Taking me to tea, paying for tiny sandwiches, not even one bar fight. Duke would be so disappointed."
"Duke can’t know about any of this."
"Our secret," she agreed, and something about the way she said it made my blood heat. "Speaking of secrets . . ."
She leaned across the table, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not wearing anything under this dress."