Page 4 of Tears of Ink

His thumb runs along the skin of my palm, and in my peripheral vision, I sense the guy with the dark eyes shifting away, his quarry stolen from under his nose. I don’t want that. I want to scratch the itch burning in the pit of my belly.

“You are an enigma.” Gerard relaxes. He knows I won't change my mind.

“It’s the best way, baby.” I laugh and tilt my head back, a spurt of euphoria rushing in my veins. Half my wine slips down with ease and then I gulp the rest. Sliding off my seat, I pat Gerard on the shoulder and lean down to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for the heads up for the installation. I’ll apply if you think it’s best.” A flap of unsettled butterfly wings causes my stomach to clench.

He sighs. “I’ve already applied on your behalf.”

My hand pauses on his shoulder. “You did?”

His eyes settle on my face. I can’t read his expression. “I won’t let you mess up, Faith. You are too special.”

I don’t know whether he’s talking about my art, my untouched marble, or my life. So I don’t say anything, I don’t know what I’m thanking him for.

I weave through the tables. As I pass by the man with dark eyes, I run my finger across the sweep of his T-shirt covered shoulders. He straightens his back and I sense his gaze burning as I head through the exit. I wait around the corner of the bar, watching a long shadow walk towards me.

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

The stranger appraises me, eyes drinking in the loose fit of my shirt, the cotton trousers that cover my skin.

Lips meet mine, and hungrily I eat them up, burning with a fire of need, a dart of danger. “You seem like an opportunity not to be missed.” His words come in breathy gasps as he nibbles and nips my throat.

“I live around the corner.” My legs weaken, the pit of my stomach hot and tender. Girls are told not to take strangers home—I’m not most girls.

“Good.”

C H A P T E R T W O

The leering grin taunts me from across the cafeteria. It’s as though I can read from his face everything he knows about me. And he knows everything. The tray of food I don’t intend to eat trembles in my hands. Who can eat when their stomach is tied into knots? It’s impossible. If I shut my eyes, I remember his hands on my skin. The taste of his tongue. The sharp sting as he pushed inside me.

I wave, wondering if I should go across and say hi. I think we are past hi, but I’m not sure. Hesitation roots my feet to the floor. He doesn’t wave back; his eyes slide to the side and my stomach rolls. Maybe he didn’t see? I try again, “Hi,” I say it this time.

Slowly, his eyes meet mine. Everyone at the table he’s sat on all turn to look my way. Then he laughs, and with a shuddering shock I know what it’s like to burn under the scorch of the lightning bolt. It crashes into my chest, stealing my breath.

His laughter draws attention and then everyone’s eyes are on me, their gaze burning.

I turn, place my tray on the table and run. As I reach the gate, I understand the futility of running. I don’t have anywhere to run to. With no clear direction in mind, I turn towards the town filled with its salty air. There, down a side road, I will find a hiding place. I jangle through the door.

“Faith, what’s wrong?”

I hold my wrist. “Make me remember.”

Grey brows scrunch together. “You aren’t eighteen.”

“I don’t care. Make me remember.”

So he does. With a tender touch and painful needles, my skin reminds me to never give myself to anyone more than once.

A heavy arm rests across my waist, and I stare at the ceiling. I managed to doze a bit, ignoring the strange form next to me in the bed. I don’t know where that dream came from. What was that, eight years ago? Sliding out from under the stifled snores of the man from the bar, I tiptoe across the wood floor and grab my phone.

Me: I was thinking of my lightning bolt. How are you?

I don’t expect an answer, so I shove my phone back in the recess of my leather tote and head to the kitchen. I need coffee. The wine from last night is making me blurry-eyed. I hate it when the buzz of the short-term fix eases and leaves me exposed. In the bedroom, there’s a stir from the bed. This is always the awkward part.

“Hey.” I spoon coffee into one mug.

“I’d love one, thanks.” The guy, Mike… Matt, maybe… comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. Yeah, that’s not comfortable. I squirm out of his grasp.

“Look, I’ve got to get on, I’ve got a project due.” I carry on making one coffee.