You know why, Sadie. You know what you’ll see if you look.
“I’m a bit of a mess. We had a big night at the bar. Anyway, I’m so sorry I didn’t notice your mom sooner. She was sort of hiding. And we didn’t over-serve her. When I tapped her, a flask fell out, so it looks like she brought something in.”
He stopped moving, stopped following me. Instead, he stood there waiting patiently for me to meet his gaze.He knows you.He knows not to push.To let you pretend.Finally, I peered up. His eyes, large and penny-brown, demanded mine. I staggered back a few steps, and even across the distance, through the makeup covering his face and the coat obscuring his body, his presence filled in more empty space than I’d known was there.
Once he had my eyes, he spoke. “When I heard you on the phone, I thought at first it was wishful thinking. Especially since the last time I tried to contact you, I found out you’d changed your number. But then when you said Hal’s, I knew.” He shrugged out of his coat.
How had I not recognized that voice immediately?Hadn’t I?Growly and sexy and low.It had haunted my dreams, along with a decent portion of my waking thoughts, for nearly a year. I drank in the markers of him—his six-foot frame, its lean sinewy lines, the roll of his shoulders, the telltale way he placed weight on his left foot—buried in my consciousness. And as the picture came together, peeling back layers of memory to bring him to the here-and-now, I felt my skin flush. He ran a hand over his black-capped head, and the motion drew my eyes to his long fingers. I could almost feel them on me.
“Sadie,” he breathed out.
I had dreamed of those fingers, rubbing on my body, making circles, making lines. So many nights I’d lain awake, wishing they would touch me again.
“Renn.”
CHAPTER
One
October 2014
The distressed metallicletters on the entrance read Studio Obscurum. It was ironic that I was trying to make progress in shining a light on my future at a place literally named after the Latin word for darkness. I shook my head and braved the door handle.
It had taken a long time to get here. Ten months since I had made my escape. Ten months on top of eight lost years. I might still be figuring out my next steps, but I was ready for a permanent reminder that my best days were still ahead.
Never having been in a tattoo shop before, my expectations were entirely based on reality shows and the googling I’d done when I’d first dreamed up this idea. Studio Obscurum more than exceeded these imaginings. There were black walls and dim, moody lighting. Mismatched frames displayed gory yet subtly macabre artwork, and decorative creatures preserved in mason jars burdened the shelves. Loud, repetitive death metal music vibrated. Stickers plastered the cabinets and front countertop, advertising everything from gay pride to veganism to the local donut place to Yosemite.
Beyond the gothic aesthetic, this was clearly a well-run and professional workplace. Dark though it was, each workstation had an extensive lighting and magnifying setup. Tattoo recipients were either going to get a kick-ass piece of art or be subjected to an epic interrogation. The two artists I could see had their hands and arms covered in gloves and plastic as they worked. One was shading a pineapple on a woman’s ankle while the other concentrated on a man’s elbow spiderweb. The antiseptic smell of cleansers permeated the air.
I felt equal parts excited and apprehensive about getting inked. My communications with one of the studio’s owners—and potential artist—over the past few months had mostly eased my nerves, but now that I’d arrived, my anxiety roared again beneath the surface.
“Hey, you must be Sadie,” a deep voice reached me before my worries could boil over.
I looked away from examining a tiny octopus in a jar as a man came forward to shake my hand. He was wearing a white t-shirt and black Adidas athletic pants, with the three stripes down the side. His light-brown hair was longish, tamed in a loose bun on the crown of his head. The muscles of his forearm corded as he extended it, highlighting a colorful full sleeve. I didn’t see other visible ink. I pegged him in his early twenties but didn’t catch the dude-bro vibe that radiated from many of the similar-aged students who came into Hal’s.
“Yeah. Hi.” I shook his hand. “I’m looking for Renn Stoller. We’re supposed to talk about my tattoo. My theoretical tattoo.”
“That’s me.” The unfiltered smile on this attractive twenty-something was distracting. I dropped my hand from his before realizing what he’d said.
“Wait…you’re Renn?”
“Yep.” His grin was the perfect balance of cocky and authentic, highlighting a dimple in his right cheek.
Noticing his smile? A dimple? Jesus, brain. Just stop.
“Um. Okay.” I shrugged away my errant observations, stuffing my hands into my back pockets. While the ambience of Studio Obscurum had conformed to my expectations, this man in front of me did not. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the whole time we’ve been emailing and DMing I somehow thought you’d be a little older, from how you write…and I guess also since you own the place.”
He nodded, as though this came up a lot. “It’s alright. But I’ve been doing tattoos for five years, besides being co-owner. I have a big portfolio you can check out if you want to. There’s more than what I’ve got online.”
I’d been communicating with Renn for over two months now, after finding his work on Instagram. He was the third artist I’d reached out to, but the only one who seemed genuinely interested in what I wanted to do. I didn’t know exactly how I’d pictured him. Definitely older—maybe less Jonas Brother and more Son of Anarchy—but who was I to judge?
“Don’t worry, Sadie, you’re not the first person to hesitate because I’m young—I’m twenty-three, by the way—especially with the size of the piece you’re considering. And it makes sense to be cautious. Ink is permanent and you want your artist to know what they’re doing.” He reached behind his head and pulled out the elastic holding his bun in place. This lifted his shirt enough to tease a strip of flat, smooth belly, and revealed his hair to be just below chin-length. He twisted it up in the rubber band again before continuing, “And if you really want a more experienced artist, I have someone here with two decades who does great work. But I don’t want to abandon the progress we’ve made with your design. Maybe we can just talk a little and see how it goes?”
His expression was so approachable and open.That smile. I was…disarmed.
Forcing myself to shake off the awareness, I exhaled before replying. “Alright.”
“Great.” He gestured for me to follow him toward the side of the room, where a desk and computer indicated an administrative area. “Did you get a chance to look over the last sketch I sent?”
