Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
I’m speechless. I don’t even know how to respond to what Nick is saying. I’m feeling sick to my stomach at the very thought of his awful memories.
Nick is quiet for a moment but then asks, “So, your mother…” he begins, pausing as if searching for the right words to use. “She bounced from one scam to another, correct?”
“Yes.” I drink from my Prosecco, trying to not roll my eyes.
“Money was important, but I get the feeling you never had it.”
“Correct. We were always chasing the dream of money.”
“So, why did your mother not go after Bryant for child support? Why did you not?”
I inhale deeply. “My mother wanted nothing to do with Bryant. She didn’t want to talk about him often. She almost seemed afraid of him. Who knows? Maybe he already paid her off at one point and she blew the money. Maybe they had some sort of deal. She’d answer the questions I had about him, but with short answers not giving away much.” I shrug. “We just kept him off-limits for some reason. I never really questioned it. Dylan didn’t either. Bryant was always just a fairy tale off in the distance. Not obtainable, and not a place we wanted to go.” I refocus my attention on the violinist. “Maybe I was afraid of rejection. What if I went to him as a daughter would a father and was laughed at and turned away? I think it was better to just keep up that wall around my heart.”
Nick picks up his glass and raises it for a cheers. “Here’s to shitty parents and becoming stronger because of them.”
I tap my glass to his. “Cheers.”
We both had that fact in common.
“I’m ready to take you back to our villa.” He leans in so close that I wonder if he’s waiting for me to meet him halfway so we can kiss. “I want to take you back so I can fuck you so hard that you scream my name loud enough for everyone to hear.”
My face heats at his words, but I can’t help but wish we were already back in bed. I fear that Nick has unleashed a beast inside of me. At least now I can keep up with his monster.
“But first,” he cuts into my fantasies, “tattoos!”
Blinking, I ask, “Tattoos?”
“Absolutely. We’re in one of my most favorite cities in the world. I’m with a beautiful woman. We just shared shit I wouldn’t tell a single soul.” He smiles. “Yeah, we have to mark this day with ink.” He stands up from the table and extends his hand. “We can walk to the tattoo shop. It’s just a few blocks away.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lyriope
“We won’t need an appointment?” I ask as we walk into a small shop that is off one of the busier streets.
“We’re good,” Nick says, as he strides into the shop, cane in one hand, me in the other. His swagger as he enters gives me a strength and a confidence I never knew I could have. I almost feel the need to walk with a different cadence to my usual footsteps as well.
“Let me guess. You own the tattoo shop, too?” I ask.
He chuckles. “No, but not a bad idea.”
He begins speaking in Italian—which shouldn’t have surprised me in the least bit—to the girl behind the counter greeting us. They chat for several moments, and then she leaves.
“You didn’t tell me you could speak Italian,” I say.
“I haven’t told you a lot of things.”
A few moments later, a man walks out, covered in tattoos from head to toe, his ears gauged, piercings on every spot possible to pierce, and shakes Nick’s hand. “Nick! Long time no see.”
“Long overdue, my friend,” Nick says, moving to the side to introduce me. “This lovely lady and I would like some of your art on our bodies.”
My mouth opens in protest. “Me? I thought you wanted the tattoo.”
Nick smiles as if saying “you’re cute,” and then returns his attention to the tattoo artist. “Both of us.”
It’s not like this is the first time I’ve walked into a tattoo shop. I have a tattoo of flowers that run up my spine. The difference, however, is it took me months and months of agonizing decisions over a design. I didn’t act spontaneously, nor did I go into the choice after having drunk several glasses of Prosecco and being drunk on Italy in general.
The tattoo artist turns to the lady at the counter and says something in Italian. She nods and walks over to the scheduling book.
“You’re a busy man, I see,” Nick says. “I appreciate you taking the time for us and rescheduling all your clients.”
“Are you kidding? I owe my success to you. Ever since you allowed me to put the picture of the Jabberwocky I gave you on your back in the tattoo magazines, I can barely keep up.”