Page 127 of Rivals
She smiles and squeezes her thighs around my legs. “Because it’s from you.”
I sigh and rub my beard. “Alright, love, you got it. You’ll have to give me a few minutes, though. I have to think about it,” I say, scanning her body. I think I’d want it to go where only I can see it, but I also think she should be able to look at it whenever she wants.
“Do you know where you want it?”
“Wherever you want it,” she says quietly. My heart bounces in my chest.She’s giving me total control.
“I trust you,” she says. I grin and kiss her fiercely, pouring all my gratitude into her.
“I love you,” I say back.
I flip the TV on and sit at my desk. I wrack my brain for the perfect thing. I want her to have something that reminds her of both of us, which is risky. I might want forever with her, but that doesn’t mean she wants the same.
I start with drawing anything that comes to mind. I could do a raven, a paintbrush, a brush stroke that looks like it was swiped over your skin, a skull, and a butterfly. I think of sayings that would be memorable for Revna, something she can say to herself when she’s scared or anxious. I think about what Matisse said, ‘Creativity takes courage,’ or maybe it should just be one word. Maybe it should be the one word she’s been scared of her entire life and has only just learned to say it— love.
Then I think of the tattoo across my chest. The hands in the Sistine Chapel and the idea comes to me, and it just feels right. It fits Revna in all the ways she needs. All the ways I see her.
I retrace my lines for the contact paper and roll over to her. “Ok, I have it. Do you want me to show you?”
“No,” she says.
“Do you know where you want it?”
“No, but I would like to be able to see it on me.” I take her arm and turn it back and forth.
“Ok, how about here?” I ask, pointing to her outer forearm.
I get everything set up and position her arm to keep her steady. “Ready?” She nods, and I lay the contact paper on and get to work. I decided to keep my lines as thin as I possibly could, only doing small bits of shading to make the piece stand out.
“This will take a while, so let me know if you need a break, ok?”
“Ok,” she says. I check my lines one more time and start. I do a small dot at the start of the line and check her face.
“How did that feel?”
“I really don’t care if it hurts, Lach. Just do it,” she says.
I don’t say anything back and start from the forearm to the wrist. It doesn’t take long to do the hands since they are so thin. She hasn’t said a thing about a break, and I don’t want her to put together what I’m doing, so I continue forward. After the light shading on the fingers and wrist, I add lines around the area where the fingers aren’t quite touching. The last bit is the word ‘love’ that fits perfectly between the fingers. I stare at what I have there. It’s a tiny script that you can only see if you’re up close. The script takes me two minutes. I inspect the tattoo. Her skin is red. Other than that, it looks good.
“Done,” I say and roll back. I watch her slowly turn her head and look at her new tattoo. She gasps and stares at it. My heart sinks.Oh man, she hates it. I can probably go over it. It would have to be a bigger tattoo, but if she hates it, we can change it to something else.
I wait for her to say something. “Lach, it’s beautiful,” she says. My heart returns to its proper place as tears gather in her eyes. She lifts her arm so it’s closer to stare at. I clean up my tools while she takes it in. “Thank you,” she rasps. I nod and press a kiss on her temple.
“You’re welcome, baby. I’m going to clean this up and do one on me.”
“You can do that?” she asks.
“How do you think I did half of these?” I ask her, gesturing to my arm. Her mouth dropped open, staring at the tattoos all over my arm. It’s my version of a sleeve. It’s not cohesive because it’s more of a sticker tattoo vibe, but they all seem to work together. After I get her arm wrapped up, I set up and position myself to do the paint swipe. I lay the tracing paper over it and feel Revna’s eyes on me as I trace the tattoo with a thicker line.
“Is that a paintbrush stroke?” she asks. I shade the edges more and turn my wrist back and forth.
“It is,” I say and add a little more.
“Can I have one?” she asks. I chuckle and look up.
“Usually, it takes people a month or two to realize they want another.” I glance at her arm.
“So?” she says.
