My lips curled in a reluctant smile. "I can't imagine what your first clue was."
Audrey shrugged. "Oh, I don't know ..." She took a step back and dragged her scrutinizing gaze over my leather jacket, jeans, and boots. All black.
I chuckled, averting my eyes toward my bike. Gleaming beneath a lamp and begging me to hop on and take it home. Home. Haven. Away from people and Audrey and that tattoo ... That fucking tattoo ...
My eyes flicked back to the sharp black lines, teasing me from beneath her collar. The cross hung above them, playing in multiple contrasts. Darkness and light. Hell and Heaven. Evil and good. Standing there, I then felt the analogy applied to us as well. Her, in pink and denim. Me, in black and nothing but. Her, wearing the symbol of Christ. Me, wearing the anger of the damned.
What was a woman like her doing with the brand of the devil on her chest, disguising itself as art?
"I'll let you leave," she said apologetically. "I just wanted to thank you again for the tattoo. I'd been wanting to get it done for a while, but I was kinda scared, so I put it off. But I'm so glad to have it now. It feels like it's always belonged there."
"I'm glad," I replied with a single nod.
"I wasn't sure I'd feel like that," she admitted airily. "I thought I'd regret it. You know? I don't have any other tattoos, so I wasn't sure what it'd be like after it was done. I mean, once it's there, it's really there. It took my cousins to convince me ..."
She prattled on nervously, and my eyes dipped to her mouth. Her lips moved; her voice as gentle as the breeze around us. Her lip gloss reflected the light, glittering with multicolored sparkles, emphasizing the rounded curve of her bottom lip and the subtle dip of her Cupid's bow. I stopped listening to her speak and focused on those lips, so pronounced in structure but so temptingly soft in appearance. My mind wandered, wondering what her lip gloss tasted like and if it would glide against my lips or create a tacky barrier that would only make me frustrated and angry.
"... you know what I mean?"
I lifted my eyes back to hers. Shame burned my cheeks, realizing I had no idea what she'd just said, and I smiled through the humility. "Sorry. What did you say?"
"Oh." She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk and her shoes, before clearing her throat. "Um, I was just saying that I really love the tattoo."
That wasn't all she had said, and I knew it. I felt guilty. I felt like a pervert. But I pushed myself to smile genuinely as I replied, "I'm glad."
"You truly have a gift, Blake," she said softly, and fuck, I hated when people said that. It implied that it was intentionally given, that it wasn't just a silly, stupid fluke. But I said nothing as she went on, "You make people feel whole."
Oh, if only she knew what a crock of shit that really was. I broke my brother, robbing him of any chance he’d have at being his own artist. I drained the love from my mother’s heart and stole the happiness from my dad. I was a leach, a parasite, and I was paying for it with my life.
And that's why I needed to leave. To remove myself from her presence and get away from the twinkling sparkle of her lips and the taunting glint of that cross around her neck.
With a curt nod and an agonizing smile, I stepped backward. "I really need to get going," I brushed her off, pushing her away with my words, and she nodded hastily.
"Oh, of course, yeah. Get home safe, okay? Have a good night."
"Thanks, you too."
We parted ways and I moved swiftly toward the Harley. I was so close, ready to swing my leg over the seat and get the hell away from there, when a thought wedged itself between my resolve to leave and the need to stay.
What the fuck does it mean?
I thought I had let it go. I thought it no longer mattered. But with the sudden popularity of my work on Instagram and all of it leading back to that stupid fucking tattoo, the curiosity was back with a wild vengeance and I felt my lips move before I could remind myself of why this was such a bad idea.
"Audrey, wait!" I called to her and turned around to see her glance over her shoulder. "I have a question."
"Yeah?"
I approached her this time, moving slowly and breathing evenly. Pulling the air in and out of my lungs, as though I was convinced it'd be the last time I'd savor the sweetness of the autumn air. She stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp that illuminated her in an ethereal glow. Her white-blonde hair pulled in the rays and put them back out into the world, shining like a beacon to be found, and I was a moth to her flame. Involuntarily succumbing to its glow.
"This is crazy," I said more to myself, "but I've been wondering, why did your sister get that tattoo? What does it mean?"
Her lips stretched into a smile. "I think you kinda already know.”
"Huh?"
"It’s life and death,” she explained frankly, never allowing her smile to wilt. “Or, as you put it, a butterfly, but in reverse.”
Chapter Seven
I STOOD, RIGID, with my spine locked, to keep my legs from buckling from beneath me. Had I known it already? Had I understood it's meaning when I wrote that damn poem? Had I remembered it, somewhere in my subconscious, from when I'd tattooed it to her sister's body? That was all possible, all feasible, but hearing her say the words, those exact words ...
The good doctor's voice sounded in my ear, reminding me of signs, and the growling hellhound in my head scared her away.
I nodded in response, unable to speak around a tongue too dry and heavy. So, I let my eyes do the talking, and let my stance tell her I was intrigued and wanted to know more.
Audrey shrugged, her smile now sad, as she said, "It was supposed to be a, uh, metaphor for her life, I guess."
I was hungry now, as Dr. Travetti had said. Starving for a connection, for affection. Famished. I pinned her with my gaze and nodded again, eagerly, feeling an immediate connection to this dearly departed sister of hers. One I had touched with my art and machine.
"Sabrina ... My sister ..." Audrey took a deep breath, as if to prepare herself. "She was born with a congenital heart defect, but we didn't know about it until we were older and it'd already progressed to the point where the doctors knew she was going to die."
What I wanted to say was, we all die. We all get sick, get old, get run over, and we all die. But instead, I tethered myself to her offered confession, a simple piece of twine, and felt that desperation for a connection sigh with satisfaction.
"I'm sorry," I replied.
"It's okay." She said the words so calmly, so sincerely, like it really was okay that her sister's heart had been diseased and gave out. I didn't understand that, how she could be so accepting, when I still hadn't learned to accept my brother's fate of perpetual childhood.
I crossed my arms, warding myself and reclaiming the conversation. "So, how exactly was it a metaphor?"
"Well, she began her life with so much beautiful possibility and potential, and by the time she was diagnosed, it was very black and white, you know? Live and die."
"Isn't that everybody's life?" I countered with a question I never intended to ask. I faltered with a swallow and felt immediately like an asshole. "Sorry."