Page 113 of Beat of Love
Yeah. The dark green color had given him pause. He’d’ve preferred black. Charcoal. But it wasn’t as if it wereemeraldgreen. Nowthatwould’ve been just plain dumb. He shrugged. “It was either this or wait three months.”
Jo gave him a long, piercing look. The kind that saw straight through his shrug and easy tone. Then she backed away, pulling keys from the material satchel draped over her shoulder. She unlocked the shop, and minutes later, Jo indicated the chair. “What are we doing?”
He shed his jacket and knitted skullcap, hanging both over the coat hook, and dug into his jeans pocket. He held out the scrap of paper to her.
But she was staring at him. Or rather his bald head. “I’d forgotten just how impressive the artwork is.”
“You mean the rose you inked?”
Jo tilted her head. “I never told anyone you visited me in D.C. after …” She trailed off. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring it up.”
“Thank you, really — but it’s okay. You don’t have to hide the fact that I came to you to add the rose after Charlie died.”
She snorted. “Not a chance. Ma will be mad at me for months.” Giving the red rose a thorough inspection, she added, “It’s holding up well.”
“Of course it is. You’re the best in the game.”
“That scorpion is pretty good, too.”
“The guy who did it in prison had been a professional tattooist.”
“You were lucky. I’ve covered some really bad prison jobs.” She pulled up her stool and took the note he still clutched in his hand.
Ná déan dearmad choíche
She wrinkled her nose. “Irish is your and Mammy’s thing. What’s it mean?”
“Never forget.” He peeled off the plaid shirt, leaving him in his white sleeveless undershirt. And admitted, “It’s been six months. Since my return.”
Jo blinked. “Strange,” she murmured. “It feels like so much longer. And yet … not at all.”
He gave a small, wry smile. “Time’s weird like that.”
She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Especially when it’s tied to pain and healing. It stretches and contracts in the oddest ways.” She cleared her throat. “Where are we inking?”
He held out his left arm and rubbed over the inside of his forearm. “Here.”
Rafferty half expected her to comment on the position, but she went with, “Are we going for bold and clean, or something more flowing and handwritten?”
“You decide. But nothing too girly. And black ink.”
“Simple calligraphy, then.”
“You’re the artist.”
Jo snorted, slid across the floor, and lifted the lid of her laptop. “It’s your arm.”
“I trust you, Jo.”
She sent him a side glance before focusing on the laptop, her fingers tapping away, a smile hovering on her lips. The printer spurted to life, and she studied the design, nodding to herself. She snipped excess paper, moved back to his side, and laid the lettering down his left arm. “Yes?”
He viewed the words centered between elbow and wrist. “Perfect.” His eyes lingered on the track marks visible in the bend of his elbow. They were fading but not fast enough. He sighed, wondering if they ever would.
Jo followed his line of sight, and he flinched when she traced the puncture wounds with her finger. “So glad you made it home, Raff,” she murmured, meeting his gaze.
“Me too.” His voice was as low and gritty as hers.
She cleared her throat and lifted the stencil. “We’re gonna be busy working for a while. About your ugly Jeep … it needs a name.”
