Page 20 of Through the Flames
But Ella was marked now. Inside-out. I’d bring her back here one day soon. Alone, and on purpose.
Seven
Ella
End of Summer Break
A large hand covering my mouth. The cool wall was pressing against my front as a hard body was plastered against my back. Hot breath hitting the back of my neck. A raspy voice in the dark.
Fuck.
Not the right moment.
Heat began pooling between my legs, and considering I was in the process of getting fucking tattooed — on my thigh no less — there was no way to relieve the pressure coiling inside of me.
The memory kept haunting me, though, popping up at the most random times and slowly driving me insane.
I’d spent way too much time trying to figure out who the guy at the party a couple of weeks ago had been.
I never saw his face; I only felt the hard length of his body pressing me against the wall and short-circuiting my brain.
Though I had a hunch, entertaining this thought as often as I did was ridiculous and embarrassing.
Even if said hunch was right — for some insane reason — was I really ready to face what that meant?
I pushed the thought aside and tried to focus on the present: the buzz of the tattoo needle, the cool prick of the ink, and the odd intimacy of someone tracing patterns across my skin.
In a way, it was grounding and almost pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts about that night.
Logically, I knew why the lighting in tattoo shops was set up the way it was, but emotionally it made me want to claw my eyes out.
The buzz of the needles and the muted music flowed through the space as I lay on the bench with my eyes closed.
Yet somehow I could still feel the ungodly bright fluorescent light penetrating my fucking eyelids.
When Savannah, my artist, leaned back to examine her work in progress, I quickly adjusted my position, the paper rustling under my body.
“Ew,” I whined, as I literally had to peel it off my leg because my sweat had plastered the sheet against my skin.
“Try to not slide off, mhkay?” Savannah chuckled.
I snorted. “Rude.”
“No, honest,” she quipped, switching needles with quick, practiced movements.
“It’s hot.”
“The AC is fucking blasting. What the hell are you talking about?”
Chuckling, she set to work again, the needles scratching over my skin.
Oh joy, the shading had begun.
I puffed my cheeks, huffing out a breath. Definitely my least favorite part of getting tattooed.
With my eyes still closed, I let my thoughts wander until the buzzing of the needle and the heat in my body sent my mind spinning toward something dangerous.
The memory of the night at the party — the stranger pressing against me — kept surfacing.
