Page 15 of The Confidant

“Pardon?” I ask with wide eyes.

“Are you Addie?”

I lean back with both brows high.

“Oui,” the word is very cautious.

“I want a flower. To cover this,” she roughly gestures to her scarring and scowls. “Can you do it or not?”

This is unexpected. This woman is all fire with no give. I can appreciate it, but not the way she’s using it.

“Eh, stop being rude now,” I frown. “Take a look around while I wake up a bit. Then we’ll meet again with a dash more polite in your tone.”

I leave her floundering and turn the lights on to get ready.

This is a brand-new experience all around. Did Ash send her to me? I’d ask, but she’s so aggressive, I’m not sure if she’ll even stay.

I approach her again, with her defensive arms crossed posture, and firm my lips for this.

“A flower on your face, then? Let’s take a look.”

She chews her lower lip as if I smacked all the sass out of her. Then she pulls her hair away from her face with both hands in an angry gesture. That had to hurt.

I brush off the dramatics as my heart twinges in pain for her. What made that mark? A piece of glass, maybe?

No matter, Addie. Get focused.

I click my tongue as I debate what would look best. I’m not seeing a flower here. This needs something else.

“You dead-set on a flower?”

“N-no,” she frowns warily. “Can you do it?”

“Course I can. But I’m not making a fool of you. I’m thinking lightning. That blue like ice, ready to kill you if you get too close. A Valkyrie.”

Her good eye, a dark brown, focuses on me in confusion. “Aren’t those warriors?”

“Yes, just like you.Allons,” I jerk my chin to the table so we can get to it. Any woman who can survive whatever this was with a ton of attitude left over is a warrior. No one will convince me otherwise.

We work together to convey my thoughts to her. I create several sketches with adjustments until we settle on something we both agree on and a mutually acceptable price. She’s miffed that I don’t bow down and do whatever she wants, but I’ll show her why a flower won’t do her justice.

As soon as she sees the stencil on her face, she stops with the flower nonsense.

It’s one of the most heartbreaking tattoos I’ve ever done. It hurts her a lot. She cries as quietly as she can and insists it’s emotional, not physical distress. We take a lot of breaks and chit-chat about nonsense. I show her my raccoon obsession portfolio until she smiles. We’re at the halfway point when she starts telling me what happened.

Grace had an abusive ex-boyfriend when she was much younger. A broken mirror. Enough said.

I stay quiet, letting her talk as she likes and trying not to cry. I don’t dare. I’ve heard forty minutes of it. She lived it for four years, beginning at the tender age of fourteen. I’d never have that strength. All I see in her is a tower of will that’s made some mistakes, taken a beating, and is still standing. I hope that’s what she sees when she looks in the mirror, too.

“Done,” I whisper, my eyes wide on the tattoo. I hurry to hand her a mirror and start praying to myself.

There aren’t any dark outlines to make it stark. I opted for a more watercolor feel, incorporating eddying shades of blue to create a subtle outline of color around the scar. It streaks over her forehead and fades to a lighter hue, forming branches of azure that lead to her hairline. I added some color at the edges of her eyes to give her a permanent, cerulean corner eyeliner. A cat’s eye at its finest.

Her jagged scar is now the focal point of a bolt of lightning.

She gasps when she sees it, and we both burst into tears, holding each other like sisters in a storm.

“I love it. Thank you so much.”

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