The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(29)

As we exit the city limits of Albuquerque, my eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t like surprises.”

He tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes burning into me, as he grips the steering wheel with one hand. “But it’s taking your mind off of Lucas’s newest bullshit.”

Well, yes. Tonight has been so hectic that I haven’t had time to think about what’s going on with my older brother. “So, you think that taking me to God-knows-where will keep me from reality?”

“Of course it will, Bluebird.”

“It might help if you at least clue me in on where this escape is going to take place,” I reply. He responds by lifting his shoulders, and I sit back in my seat, letting the sound of whatever’s playing on Octane, my favorite Sirius station, fill the silence inside the Suburban.

I’m humming along to an Evans Blue song, staring out my window, when Wyatt drives past the Welcome to Santa Fe sign. Turning to look at him, I scoot as far as I can toward the center console and lean over so that my lips graze his ear. “Babe?”

His back straightens, and he glances at me from out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

“Why the hell are we in Santa Fe?”

He twists his face to mine, leaving less than an inch between our mouths. As he accomplishes this, I’m amazed at how he manages to stay on the road. “Because I want to fuck you in every city I can before we go home in a couple days.” When he laughs after he says this, I know he’s screwing with me.

At least, I think he is.

I quickly find out what his plans are when he takes a series of turns. He finally swings the Suburban into a parking lot that’s hardly large enough to fit the massive SUV. One corner of my mouth quirks up as I glance at the fluorescent lights on the building right in front of us.

“Piercings and tattoos,” I say, and he grants me a nod. “So, which are you here for?” My eyes automatically dip down to his crotch, and I think of his Prince Albert.

He touches his right hand to the left side of his chest. “And before you ask…” He opens his door and gives me a cocky grin. “No, this isn’t one that can wait until we get back to L.A.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” I say as I get out of the SUV. I join him at the front of the building where he slides his hand into my back pocket and stares down into my brown eyes. “It’s late. You sure you want to do this tonight?”

“Corey’s already expecting us. Best fucking artist I’ve ever met, beautiful, and he’s only available right here.”

He holds the door open for me. The second I step inside the tiny parlor, I’m immediately greeted by the aroma of green soap, fresh ink, and witch hazel. I inhale and exhale several times, letting the intoxicating familiar scent wash over me.

Wyatt lowers his mouth to my ear. “Does it to me, too, beautiful.”

As I glide the tip of my tongue over my lips, he draws in a deep breath.

“Know what you’re getting?” I ask.

He nods confidently just as a short man with surprisingly very little ink darts out from behind the curtain across the room. “Wyatt!”

Wyatt quickly introduces us. “Kylie, this is Corey. Corey, this is—”

“Bluebird,” Corey says simply.

I swear I flush all the way down to the tips of my toes. When did Wyatt tell this man about me? More importantly, what did he say?

“Nice to meet you, too,” I reply. I glance back and forth between them, hoping that Corey will tell me what Wyatt’s said about me.

He doesn’t, and while they talk, I wander to the lounge area and sit in a plush suede chair. Every few moments, I catch Corey or Wyatt glancing over in my direction, and it’s unnerving. I pluck a giant binder from the coffee table and begin to flip through it, running my fingertips over each page of intricate tattoo designs.

After several minutes, from across the room, Corey asks me, “See anything you like?”

My lips curve into a smile as I nod my head. He’s prepping the ink on his worktable, but he takes a moment to shoot me a curious look. “Too many. Your work is absolutely amazing.”

Wyatt makes a little sound in the back of his throat that resembles a chuckle, drawing my attention to him. He’s already in the chair with his shirt off, and his blue eyes rake over me.

“Want to watch?” Corey asks as he cleans Wyatt’s skin.

I shake my head. For me, watching lost its novelty years ago, and besides, no artist wants somebody staring over his shoulder while he works. I reach for the next binder, and when I’m done with it, I pick up the next one. Once I’m out of photos to look at, I flip through the pages of Inked while listening to the soothing hum of the tattoo gun as Corey runs it across Wyatt’s skin.

I’m on my fourth issue of the magazine, admiring a tattoo of a skull surrounded by orchids, when Wyatt finally calls me over. Glancing up, I realize that the sound of the machine has stopped.

Standing, I stretch out my legs, which have gone stiff from sitting so long. I cross the linoleum floor slowly, squinting at the design on the right side of his chest until I come right up on it. At the moment, it’s just an outline. His skin is splotchy, but this is something I’ve seen before. It always heals.

What stops me from immediately saying anything is the design itself. It’s a bird descending, and I study it carefully, starting from its tail feathers close to Wyatt’s muscled left shoulder to its beak in the center of his chest. At first, I think it’s a crow because of the creature’s fierce features, but then I notice where the color is partially filled in along the wings.

And I realize that it’s a bluebird.

An aggressive and powerful and utterly sexy bluebird.

Words finally find me. “It’s gorgeous.” I look up from the tattoo into Wyatt’s eyes, feeling my throat swell at just how vulnerable they suddenly look. “It’s my favorite.”

And that’s the truth. Out of every mark of ink on his body, this bird is the one that has the most significance to me. It’s the one that I’ll dream about.

Wyatt and I don’t say too much to each other as he pays Corey, but when we get to the door to leave, I pause. “You okay, Ky?” he asks, touching my shoulder.

I grip the doorknob and shake my head. Turning around to face Corey, I clear my throat. He glances up from where he’s cleaning his equipment and cocks an eyebrow. “Is it too late for you to do one for me?”

Corey’s eyes dart from Wyatt to me, and he laughs. “If this motherfucker is paying, then hell no.”

I draw my hand away from the doorknob to head over to speak to Corey about the design I’m looking for, but Wyatt stops me. “It’s not over yet,” he says in a pained voice. “No more fucking blackbirds, Ky, not yet, not until you give me a chance.”

I peel his fingers away from my arm, one by one, shivering when his thumb brushes the tiny scar on my wrist as he lets go. “No, no blackbirds.”

It doesn’t take Corey long to sanitize his work station, and once he’s finished and I quietly tell him what I want, it takes him a total of fifteen minutes to draw up a sketch for me. Thirty-five minutes later, when the needle cuts into my finger like a razor blade, I suck in a deep breath of air. I can feel Wyatt’s intense eyes on me from the other side of the room, but I keep my focus on watching Corey’s boot work the foot pedal on the floor.

I go through the different emotions as Corey turns my skin into his canvas. At first, there’s the pain. It builds up slowly until it feels like he’s piercing everywhere at once. Then, there’s the high, the sudden rush of adrenaline. It doesn’t kick in until I’m numb to the needle, and the only thing I’m able to feel is the vibration from the tattoo gun. And last…there’s the feeling of release. That doesn’t come until Corey finally leans away from me, and I hold my hand in front of my face to examine the tattoo.

Gone is the name Martin, which has branded me for more than seven years. In its place is a knotted design. It races around my ring finger with a tiny bow in the center. My new ink is nowhere near as intricate as the bluebird between my shoulder blades, nowhere near as painful as the blackbirds on my collarbone, but it symbolizes something none of the others do.

Letting go of the past.

It’s 2:49 a.m., when we climb back into the Suburban. Wyatt takes an alternate route out of Santa Fe, a back road, which causes the GPS to reset and estimate our time of arrival to 3:53 a.m.

He reaches into my lap and pulls my hand into his, being careful not to squeeze my wrapped-up finger. “I’ve been amazed by you since the first time I touched you, Ky. I’ve wanted every part of you since that day,” he starts in a rough voice. “Do you know what the bluebird is for?”

“Happiness,” I say, repeating what he explained to me about my own a few years ago. “A new beginning.”

He shakes his head. “It’s for you. You’re my happiness, and I’ll fight until the end to make sure you know that.”

In all the years we’ve played this toxic game, in all the years when we’ve sworn off being a real couple, this is the closest he’s come to telling me that he loves me. It’s even closer than the time on my parents’ porch four years ago, and it leaves me speechless.