4. Kiss It Better
FOUR
KISS IT BETTER
? Not Strong Enough - Boygenius
NOAH
The steady buzz of the tattoo machine crawls up my arm as I press the needle to Ben’s ribs, finishing the last few strokes on his touch-up.
Overall, it’s been a boring day, with only a set of matching fine line tattoos for some walk-ins, a lengthy consultation for a large, elaborate chest piece, and this.
My coworker, Gwen, materializes in the doorway. She’s the only other artist in the shop, but she’s one of the best in the business. I would know—I’m a walking Gwen Lawson billboard.
“What do you need?” I ask curtly.
“Who crawled up your ass today?”
I lean back on my stool, eyeing the nearly finished piece. “Can I help you with something, or are you just here to piss me off?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the doorway. “It’s a perk of the job.”
“People pay good money to be degraded,” Ben quips. “You should look into it.”
Gwen snorts. “How do you know I haven’t?”
He chuckles. “Christ, Gwenny.”
I dab a paper towel over Ben’s ribs to clear the excess ink. “Are you two done?”
Gwen lets out a resigned sigh. “My next client cancelled. I’m gonna grab lunch, and I was going to offer to bring you back something, but now, I think I’ll let you fend for yourself.”
“I’m good. Turn the sign while you’re gone, would ya? I’m just gonna finish up with Ben, then I need to pick up Auggie.”
“Got it, bossman. See you later.”
“How’s Auggie settling in?” Ben asks.
“He’s doing better than I am, that’s for damn sure. I don’t know how to do this whole parenting thing.”
“Nobody does. They’re all winging it.”
“What do you know? You’ve been single for almost as long as I’ve known you.” Which is a long goddamn time considering we were best friends in high school and we’re both in our thirties.
“Some of us actually have friends. Why don’t you call Jax? He might have some advice.”
“The twins aren’t even walking yet, let alone talking back and dealing with the trauma of losing their parents.”
“That’s fair. We’re here for you, man. You don’t have to do this alone.” Sentimentality has never been my strong suit—or Ben’s, for that matter—but I appreciate the effort.
“Thanks.” I think he knows I won’t ask for help, and he definitely knows better than to push my buttons. I slide back on my stool and eye my work.
After eight years in business, the whole process from setup to cleanup is like muscle memory. I apply some healing gel across the tattoo, deepening the contrast. “Check it out. Let me know what you think.”
He stands and walks over to the full-length mirror. “Perfect as always.”
Ben’s been in my chair a few times over the years, but it still feels good to get his stamp of approval.
He comes back to my station so I can finish up the aftercare.
“You know the drill. Bandage stays on for a couple of days. Keep it clean and dry. If you have any issues, hit me up and we’ll take care of it. ”
He tugs his shirt back on and slaps my hand. “Thanks, man. Lunch is on me next time.” I don’t ask for payment, and he doesn’t offer anymore.
“You ever gonna tell her?” I ask, letting my curiosity get the better of me.
He frowns. “Nah. This is just for me.”
Part of being a tattoo artist is knowing people’s secrets, and that level of trust is a privilege I don’t take for granted. For some clients, tattoos are their therapy. Who am I to judge?
As Ben strides out of view, movement catches in my periphery. It’s Clio on that ridiculous yellow bicycle with the wicker basket and streamers on the handlebars.
I shake my head. Sometimes, I swear she’s a caricature of a person.
After our middle-of-the-night run-in, I headed out to the fire escape to find solitude.
I’d been a royal piece of shit; I knew the second I saw the tears glistening on her freckled cheeks, and the way the light in her eyes dimmed like a flickering candle.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to apologize.
She’s right. I am an asshole.
Clio Marsden wears every emotion on her face, and last night I saw something I’d never seen before—pure anguish. Instead of offering compassion, I lashed out.
She caught me in a weak moment. When I looked at her, my first thought was how goddamn gorgeous she is, and my second thought was what a terrible time it was to notice.
As much as I’ve tried to deny it, Clio left a hell of an impression on me the first day we met. It’s probably why I didn’t bother interviewing any other potential tenants after she showed up. But she has commitment written all over her, and I don’t do commitment.
You could accuse me of trying to outrun my past, and you’d probably be right about that, but it’s worked well for me so far.
Until now.
Lately, when I stand still for too long, there’s been an emptiness I can’t seem to shake. Now that Auggie’s living with me, I have too much time to think, and thinking only leads me down dangerous roads starring gorgeous, off-limits redheads.
Heaving a sigh, I grab my leather jacket off the back of the chair.
As I’m locking up the shop, a scream pierces the air. I glance up just in time to see Clio careening off her bike, her ankle hitting the ground at an awkward angle before she crashes to the pavement.
My stomach sinks, and instinct spurs me on as I rush toward her. I kneel beside her crumpled position on the ground as she writhes, holding her injured ankle. Angry red marks decorate her calf, and there’s already an impressive bruise forming.
Tears stain her flushed cheeks. “Go away,” she says, shoving at my chest.
“Easy, killer. I’m just trying to help you.”
She scoffs. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need your help.”
I take a step back, arms crossed. “Fine. Stand up then.”
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she carefully shifts onto her knees and tries to hoist herself up. A squeak escapes her as she falls back onto her lush ass.
I hold out both hands. “You ready to let me help you?”
“Fine.”
She slips her hands into mine, and I try to ignore the way my body reacts to the contact. It has nothing to do with Clio and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in months.
When she tries to put pressure on her injured ankle, she falls against me. I band my arms around her shoulders, keeping her upright. That’s when I notice the blood soaking through the tear in her jeans.
“I’m going to carry you.”
“No way.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I can walk.”
“You can’t. Your ankle is already swelling. We need to get it wrapped. Besides, you’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her knee as though she hadn’t even noticed the blood. “Ah, man! Not my favorite jeans.”
Leave it to Clio to be more worried about the state of her fucking pants.
I lift her into my arms and carry her into the shop, depositing her on my chair. I grab a roll of gauze and tape and settle on my stool in front of her. Gripping both sides of her battered jeans, I tear them open, exposing her bruised and bloodied leg and her swollen ankle in one swift motion.
“Hey!”
“Calm down, princess. I’ll buy you new ones.”
“That’s not the point.”
Ignoring her protests, I run my palm down the outside of her calf, stopping when I get to her ankle. I give it a gentle squeeze. “Does that hurt?”
She shakes her head, but her downcast eyes betray her.
“Don’t lie.”
“A little, but I don’t think it’s broken.”
I smooth my thumb along the darkening bruise. “I’ll wrap it, but I think you should go to the hospital to be sure.”
“Ok.”
I huff out a breath. “You’re not gonna go, are you?”
“Nope.”
I grab the roll of gauze and gently wrap it around her ankle and foot, careful not to pull it too tight. Satisfied, I move onto the wound on her knee, first cleaning up the blood, then applying a layer of antibiotic ointment, blowing lightly on her marred skin.
My hand lingers on her calf as our eyes meet. Something crackles between us for only a second as I gently cover the cut with a bandage. “There. Good as new.”
She draws in a long, slow breath and pinches her eyes shut. “You can let go now.”
“Right. Sorry.” I snatch my hand away and run it through my hair, focusing on anything but her.
She slides off the chair, keeping the pressure off her injured leg. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
She starts to limp away, but I stop her.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “For what I said last night. You caught me on a bad night.”
She snorts. “Wow. An apology from Noah Weston. I’ll have to write this down.” She mimes holding a pen and paper. “Dear diary, Noah Weston apologized to me today. I think he actually meant it. I still can’t stand him, but maybe he’s not so bad after all.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Her smile falters. It’s the second time I’ve caught her faking it in as many days. Maybe there’s more to this ball of sunshine than meets the eye. She rolls her lips together and tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I should go.”
“Miss Clio!” Auggie’s voice carries through the shop as he rushes toward us. “Aunt Emma got me ice cream!”
Clio lowers herself to his level, and this time her smile is genuine. Maybe it’s just me she can’t stand.
“That’s awesome, Auggie. What flavor did you get?”
“Banilla with sprinkles,” he mumbles.
Clio giggles. “I think you mean vanilla.”
Auggie shakes his head. “Nuh uh. Banilla.”
“It’s vanilla mixed with banana,” Emma explains. “Sounds weird but it’s actually pretty good. I’m Emma, by the way. This dipshit is my brother.”
Clio and Emma shake hands, and I suddenly feel like I’m in for a world of trouble if these two band together.
Auggie holds out the cone and nearly smears it on Clio’s nose, but she manages to dodge. “Wanna try?”
“No, thanks. It’s all yours.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought I was picking him up?”
“Change of plans. I was in the neighborhood. Auggie wants to go to the park. You in?”
Auggie bounces on his feet as ice cream melts down his hand. “Please.” He draws out the word until it loses all meaning.
“Sure. I’ll take my bike and meet you there.”
“Can Miss Clio come, too?” Auggie asks.
“Aw. I’d love to, buddy, but I hurt my ankle.”