17. Maeve
CHAPTER 17
MAEVE
“Where are we going?” I ask again as we pull up in front of a tattoo shop.
We’re once again in a different neighborhood, and while this city is all one, it’s amazing how different the experience is depending on where you are. It’s part of why I love it so much here, why I never wanted to leave even though my family and the social expectations make it miserable.
My hands ball into fists with my nerves. I can’t think of a single good reason for him bringing me here, yet there’s a strange sense of excitement coursing through me. I’ve always loved tattoos and been fascinated by them. I was told repeatedly by my father and family members that they’re the mark of the lower class. Why anyone would pay to lower their value is insane. Maybe having my “value lowered” is a dream that’s come to mean something more like freedom.
How free would I be if I was covered in tattoos and already ruined?
He looks toward the door and then pointedly at me. “Seems obvious.”
He steps out of the car, and rather than wait for him to drag me out and around again, I hop out of my seat and onto the sidewalk. I’ve never been in a tattoo shop despite how much they appeal to me. I’ve always been too nervous, too afraid. The only time I’ve ever done anything, it was a crime, and I was pretending to be someone else.
We walk up to the door, and the open sign is dimmed.
“Looks like they’re closed,” I tell him.
He gives me a cocky smile as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the door.
“You own a tattoo shop?” I ask, much more impressed than I want to be, given how fucked up our situation is.
He doesn’t bother to reply, but I feel his pride. He turns on the lights and checks the station, which is already prepared with a tattoo gun and little caps for ink. There are bottles of black ink out, but the caps aren’t filled yet. Looking around the shop, I find myself impressed and highly intimidated.
I started stealing cars for adrenaline and to be noticed, but if I look really deep inside, I need to acknowledge it was a coward’s way out. A way to be something else without really being something else.
Tattoos are different. This is permanent. Something I have to own.
“You used to draw a lot,” I tell him, feeling oddly safe with a man who’s made it more than clear he hates me.
But if he hates me so very much, why did he feed me before bringing me here?
“Do you know how to tattoo?” Genuine wonder fills my eyes as I look at him. Is he here to tattoo me? Is that what he considers a solid move against me and my father both? Maybe I should pretend I don’t want this just to avoid scaring him out of doing it.
“Lucky for you, I do,” he answers, too pleased with his own cunning to really notice how badly I want this. How he’s offering me everything I’ve ever wanted, from tattoos to a ride on a pierced dick.
Yeah, my father is going to be disgusted and beside himself, but I’m more alive right now than I’ve ever been, ready to officially shed the superiority I never wanted—the superiority that killed Miss Angie.
He pats the seat with a tilt to his brow, expecting me to deny him. I take a few lazy steps forward, letting my hips sway, and surprise him. Now, that’s a satisfying expression.
My eyes trace the drawing on his table. I can’t tell exactly what it is, but the writing is bold and distinctive. I just pray it doesn’t say whore. My pussy pulses at the thought, but I couldn’t actually live through that much humiliation.
I sit down and look him deeply in the eye. His are so dark, so beautiful.
“It might be stupid, but I’m trusting you.”
My words knock a little puff of breath out of him as I lie down in the crinkling plastic seat. A myriad of conflicting emotions race through me, but none of them are fear.
“It is stupid.”
I made my choice when I stole those cars and when I married Diego. I don’t want to be a Sinclair anymore. I want to be free.
He tips my chin up, exposing my throat, and I swallow hard.
“Does it have to be there? It’s my first one.”
“I know,” he says, like I’m an idiot for clarifying. “It doesn’t have to be anywhere. I’m choosing to put it here.”
He starts to clean the area, and my pulse races, fear officially setting in, but I’m aroused too, and ready.
“Fine, Diego, throat it is.”
His face puckers.
“I thought you preferred me agreeable.”
He picks up the stencil and lays it against my neck, the back of his gloved hand running smoothly over the column of skin.
“It’s not going to be a butterfly or some flowers.”
“No. I didn’t think it would be.” Everything about him is hard and aggressive. The work around his station is intense, black heavy, but he’s skilled as hell.
“I don’t do girly shit,” he warns as he turns on the machine. It’s battery-powered, and I’m delighted. I guess I’ve seen too many movies because I didn’t even know it was a thing.
“Are you trying to convince me to be scared?”
What’s worse than the magazine he threw at me this morning? I shiver as I think of my family’s faces when they see it. It will take some time for them to see it, but a publicist will call soon enough. Maybe tomorrow…
“I assume you’re smart enough not to let your guard down around someone who hates you.”
My guard doesn’t matter. He’s agreed to protect me, he’s married me, and now his fate is tied up in mine whether he likes it or not. This tattoo feels like a seal on that.
“I don’t let my guard down at all,” I tell him over gritted teeth as he lines the gun up with my skin and draws the first line. “I’ve never known anyone worth trusting other than your mom.”
“I haven’t either,” he surprises me by agreeing. I thought anything I said was wrong, just a personal point of pride for him.
The lines burn as he works, but the pain isn’t what I expected. It stings, aches, and gets worse as he wipes and takes an additional pass over the same spot, but it’s tolerable, and I like something about it. The process is intimate, and when he leans on me to hold me down, I find I’m desperate to have him inside me again, even if he is a mean son of a bitch.
I watch his face as he tattoos, fascinated by his focus, the way he holds his body as he works. He’s a work of art himself, and I wonder what lurks behind those eyes. Pain, and plenty of it, that’s for sure, but there’s clearly more. He doesn’t seem to notice me watching him, too wrapped up in his work, in ruining me.
“Please tell me it doesn’t say whore,” I finally beg with a deep swallow. It’s the first sound I’ve made since he started.
“Don’t tempt me.” But I take that to mean it’s not what it says.
“Why aren’t you doing this full-time?” I ask, wishing this could be him all day every day, that he could be happy and doing what he loves. It’s so clear this is his passion. Even with his hatred for me burning in every part of him, his enthusiasm for tattooing is clear.
“Medical bills are expensive, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“Of course not. I’m too stupid and spoiled to understand anything. I couldn’t have basic empathy.”
He presses a little harder than he did before, but I don’t make a sound.
“Your father doesn’t,” he tells me, anger pouring off him.
“I know that much better than you think,” I assure him.
“What did Daddy do, princess? Buy you the wrong pony? Didn’t get you the right car so you started stealing them?”
I grind my teeth together. The pain is harder to ignore with his bullshit. He knows who’s after me, and he knows I’m stealing cars. What doesn’t he know?
“For someone who seems to know everything I’ve been up to lately, you don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Oh no?”
I shouldn’t taunt a man tattooing me. I should shut up, behave, and let him finish, hoping he took mercy on me with his design.
“No.”
“I know you want to fuck me right now,” he says, trying to maintain some power in this situation like he doesn’t already have it all.
“Then hurry up and finish this damn tattoo.”