“Please,” he muttered around a bite of ice cream. “You’ve never been all over anyone’s ass, so don’t give me that.”
I gaped at him for a moment. While it was true I hadn’t dated anyone in the time that spanned the duration of our friendship, I still—low-key—resented his comment. Before I could think of a smart retort, we were interrupted by another knock at my door.
The movie played on as I signed for the pizza and stowed our ice cream in the freezer. I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels I kept in the kitchen and tore one free as a plate for my first slice. As I chewed a large, gooey bite, I returned to my previously occupied spot. It didn’t go unnoticed how Geoffrey seemed to have no real interest in dinner. I was still thinking about his previous statement when he started to trace his finger along the exposed artwork on the side of my right thigh.
My dreamcatcher.
The ink started at my hip. The top ring, covered by my shorts, spanned the width of the outer side of my leg. Attached were three smaller circles that dangled a little below. I didn’t need to look at it to remember the intricate details. The crisscross webbing in each ring was done in black ink. Hanging from the smaller rings were the feathers—each of them shaded in vibrant hues of teal, royal blue, and dark purple. The entire piece extended until inches above my knee. It was my first of many tattoos—each of which I hid from the world. I only ever displayed my scars to those who truly loved me.
“Do you think if I sleep with you tonight, this thing will catch my dreams? I swear, every time I close my eyes, he’s there.”
“Oh, babe,” I murmured softly. I leaned toward him and cupped my hand around his cheek, turning his face until he was looking at me. “Geoff—”
He interrupted me with a soft peck on the lips. “Don’t, okay? Just—let me stay?”
“Of course,” I said. Still holding his face, I returned his kiss with a kiss of my own before I insisted, “Stay as long as you’d like.”
Chapter Three
With my elbow buried in my pillow, and my cheek propped against my fist, I watched him sleep. He appeared even larger than normal lying next to me. My bed was hardly big enough for the both of us, but we made it work. There was no chance I would have accepted anything less.
I thought back to the first time I laid eyes on Geoffrey Fink. Andrew had recently opened Mountain Time Art Gallery, on the corner of Mountain and Mason, and I was so anxious to get a peek at the collection he curated. It was the first semester of my junior year at Colorado State, where I studied art history, and I knew I needed to be thinking about trying to line up an internship of some kind. Except, school was the farthest thing from my mind the first time I stepped foot into the gallery.
A striking, blond man—who looked dashing in his navy blue suit—came up to me and asked if he could help me in any way. My answer was no, of course. I couldn’t afford a single piece of their collection, but that truth didn’t bother him. Even more, he wasn’t put-off by my presence as I lingered and admired. He didn’t see me as a wasted opportunity for a sale. He was kind, even taking the time to speak to me about the artist who painted the piece that caught my eye. Geoffrey was half the reason I went back again and again.
I knew, from the outside looking in, our relationship appeared quite strange. He was more than a decade older than me, and far more mature than any of the peers who should have occupied my circle. Though, I never could bring myself to care about appearances. Truth of the matter was, he coaxed me outside of the shell in which I’d hidden myself. I trusted him; and in ways that could only be explained by the profound beauty and expression of paint on canvas, he understood me. He saw me. And when he looked at me, I wasn’t afraid.
Gazing upon him, he lost in the peace of quiet slumber, I sent up a silent prayer for him. I hoped his broken heart would be mended—that the pain he felt would not rip away the parts of him which made him so wonderful. I prayed the memory of Reeve would not darken his spirit, but that he would come alive again. More than anything, I didn’t want him to get stuck in his sorrow. I knew, all too well, what that felt like.
I reached over and brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. As I did so, he opened his eyes. His baby blues found my hazel-brown irises.
“Are you watching me sleep?” he asked. His voice was gruff and gravely from lack of use.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Creep.”
I giggled groggily as I pushed myself into a seated position. My messy mane fell down my chest and back, and I swept a few strands behind my ears. “I’ve actually been thinking we need to get you out today. No beer, no ice cream, just good ol’fashioned fresh air and sunshine.” I leaned toward him and gently shook his shoulder as I suggested, “Let’s go on a hike up Horsetooth.”
He scrunched his brow at me and grumbled, “You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”
A grin stretched across my face as I shook my head at him. I giggled again, pressed a quick kiss against his forehead, and then climbed out of bed. With my back turned toward him, I stood in front of my dresser and used my reflection casted in the vanity mirror to pull my hair up into a ponytail.
“Maybe I should get a tattoo.”
My arms were still up, my fingers lost in my ginger tresses, when his declaration brought me to an abrupt halt. I shifted my gaze to catch sight of his reflection, and I saw him eyeing my naked shoulders. I knew, without even having to think about it, the spaghetti strap tank top I wore covered most of my back piece—but not all of it. The little black birds, inked in flight, were scattered from my spine to my right shoulder blade.
I forced myself to finish my task and then turned to face him directly.
“You don’t want a tattoo,” I told him, folding my arms across my chest. “You’ve told me—repeatedly—you’d never ink your pure canvas.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it would help dull the pain. It did for you, didn’t it?”
We stared at each other for a moment, and I didn’t hasten to fill the silence. I let it linger, hoping the residue left in his mouth from his flippant comment would turn bitter. Only, the longer we stared at one another, the more cognizant I became that it wasn’t my closest friend who spat those words—it was the ache in his heart. He wanted a cure, but we both knew love didn’t come with such a thing.
“My ink is not about Justin, and you know it. I get it that your heart is broken and you’re looking for any distraction that’ll help you get through just another day, but doing something you swore you never would? It’s not the answer, babe.
“Look…” I freed a sigh and crawled back into bed with him. “Every piece of art on my body is about me. Justin broke more than my heart, Geoff. He took my body. He stole my peace of mind.” I casted a pleading expression at him, desperately hoping for him to hear me—for him to remember what he already knew. “My tattoos are my battle scars. My victory marks. I needed to reclaim ownership of what was always supposed to be mine.
“You’re different. This is different. You’re still you.” I paused and bent over until my forehead was propped against his. “Today, we’re going for a hike. When you’re over Reeve, when you’ve moved on, if you still want a tattoo, you know I’ll be right there with you holding your hand. But I risk losing my best friend if I let you do something that crazy and spontaneous. One day, you’d wake up and hate me for not making you see reason.”