Chapter 11 Marfil #3
I hesitated. If I’d been wearing a shirt, I wouldn’t have had to get fully undressed. I didn’t want to lie there with nothing but a thong and my ass out in front of them.
The tattoo artist seemed to understand my dilemma. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover you with a sheet.”
“How about I cover her and you come in once she’s lying on the table?” Sebastian suggested in his usual cool tone.
“Jealous boyfriend, huh?” He laughed. “Don’t worry. That’s the standard procedure.”
Sebastian didn’t answer, and I didn’t feel like explaining that he wasn’t my boyfriend but my bodyguard, who was currently looking at me like he wanted to kill me.
The tattoo artist laid a white sheet on the table and left the room.
“Are you sure you’re not going to regret this later?”
“Totally sure, and don’t you dare mention this to my father,” I said, starting to take off my dress.
He let out a soft “I won’t,” then turned around as I slipped it over my head and stood there in my matching red bra and underwear.
I picked up the sheet and lay face down on the table, covering myself.
“You can look now,” I said calmly, wishing, not for the first time, that the tattoo artist’s comment about Sebastian being my boyfriend were true.
I liked him; there was just something so sexy about the way he protected me, albeit annoying at times, and I wanted so badly to break through his impenetrable facade.
“Can you pull the sheet up a little higher?” I asked him. “Oh, and unhook my bra, please.”
If he was at all affected by my request, he didn’t show it.
He leaned over and lifted the sheet to just above the end of my spine, his fingers brushing my naked skin.
It was a fleeting caress, but it made my entire body tingle.
Then, with one smooth motion of his fingers, he unhooked my red lace bra.
I closed my eyes and imagined him running his hand up and down my body, from the base of my neck to the end of my back.
But he didn’t.
The door opened, and the tattoo artist got to work. First, he cleaned the area where he was going to tattoo me, the cold alcohol giving me goose bumps.
“Are you cold?” he asked, running his hands up and down my back the way I’d wanted Sebastian to do.
I tensed, and Sebastian noticed.
“Keep your fucking hands still,” Sebastian said.
The tattoo artist laughed and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Sebastian then grabbed a stool and, to my surprise, sat beside me, where he could see the man’s hands up close.
“Let’s get started,” the tattoo artist said after placing the outline of the image on my skin.
The buzzing of the machine scared me, and I suddenly had second thoughts.
“It’s going to hurt,” Sebastian said. “It’s a tricky area because there’s hardly any fat, just skin and bone.”
That gave me a clue.
“Is that where you have one of your tattoos?” I asked as I felt the touch of the needle against my skin. I closed my eyes tightly. Fuck, it hurt.
“Not in the middle of my back, but on one of my shoulder blades,” he confessed, and I knew he was saying it to distract me.
“What do you have there?”
“The Japanese symbol for bravery. And before you ask, I got it as a tribute for a fallen comrade.”
“Just that? You don’t have any more?”
“I have a full sleeve on my arm. That’s not enough?”
“I get the feeling you have more tattoos than you’re telling me.”
“I might have a few more.”
“How many in total?”
“Just three others.”
“Will you show me one day?”
“Definitely not,” he answered, although I thought I saw a hint of a smile on his face.
That brief moment of conversation was followed by an hour of suffering.
The tattoo was small, but it consisted of intricate details and line work.
Even though I hated every second of it, I didn’t back out.
In fact, I was so excited when I finally sat up, covering my breasts with the sheet, and saw it in the mirror.
“I love it,” I said, unable to stop smiling.
“I’m going to cover it up now. For the next week, you’ll need to wash it three times every day with unscented soap and apply a dab of antiseptic lotion. I’ll give you the name of a good one.”
“Thank you,” I said, unable to stop looking at it.
They left me alone so I could get dressed, but I took my time, admiring the tattoo in the mirror. Eventually, after a few minutes, I left the room and paid. Two hundred dollars didn’t seem like a lot for a ballet dancer on her toes, arms in fifth position. She’d come out perfect.
We left the tattoo parlor, walking back to where we’d parked the car. I was still on cloud nine, and still very much curious about Sebastian’s tattoos.
“Why a full sleeve?”
“Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
I stood in front of him, blocking his path. “Will you let me see them?”
Sebastian hesitated for a few seconds. “It’s late.”
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get him to divulge something so personal.
“Did it hurt?”
“No,” he admitted as he picked up his pace. “I have a high tolerance for pain.”
His response surprised me, but I let it go.
“When did you get your first one?”
Sebastian looked down at me for a few seconds. “At sixteen.”
“You were a baby! Your parents let you?” He didn’t answer, and I froze, realizing that I’d just put my foot in my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I never even met them.”
My God, Sebastian Moore revealed something about his past.
“What happened to them?”
“I don’t know.”
His tone told me that it was best to stop prying.
I felt sad as we got in the car, the adrenaline of the tattoo draining out of me as I remembered my mother. I also hated that Sebastian had grown up without a mother, too. Without anyone, really.
Had he grown up in some orphanage? In foster homes?
He must’ve noticed I’d gone mute because before starting the car, he turned to me and said in a soothing tone, “Hey, it’s okay. You can’t miss what you never had.”
That was a lie, and he knew it. There wasn’t a day when I didn’t miss having a mother to take care of me, to give me advice, to ease my fears. Even so, I could imagine how he must feel, since my father had never paid much attention to me, but at least I had Gabriella.
“Hey, Marfil, I’m serious; don’t feel sorry for me,” Sebastian interrupted my thoughts, clearly trying to distract me from them. “Let’s talk about something else.”
I let out a sigh, suddenly no longer in the mood to talk. “Sure. You pick.”
“Okay. Your name.”
“What about it?”
“It’s unique. Why Marfil?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s the Spanish word for ivory. According to my dad, it came to my mother the moment she held me in her arms.” I let out a small laugh. “I didn’t like it at first. I thought it made me stand out too much. But over time, I grew to love it. It was chosen by her.”
“It suits you.”
I chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do I really have to elaborate?”
I toyed with the edge of my sleeve, suddenly unable to stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. “I used to be obsessed with elephants when I was little. Still am, honestly.”
“Elephants?” His smile widened.
“Their tusks, they are made of ivory,” I said. “Or at least that’s what Lupe used to say to me all the time.” I paused. “They’re gentle, loyal. They remember everything. They grieve. They love deeply and never forget the ones who matter.”
Sebastian was quiet for a beat, then softly said, “That tracks.”
“With what?”
“With you.”
He didn’t elaborate, and neither did I, but the weight of his words followed us back to the apartment, where we said goodnight to each other with a cold “See you tomorrow.”
At least he’d told me a little bit about himself, and cared enough to ask me about me, which also happened to be the reason why I lay awake practically all night.