Chapter 107.2

Chapter 107.2

The punk, pupils blown wide, lay sprawled out puffing on a joint, while the biker, face flushed bright red, drank cheap rum straight from the bottle, gritting his teeth every time the needle bit into his skin.

[Hey, art student! You got your first client!]

The “art student” was a red-haired kid, maybe barely past twenty.

[Seriously? You’re letting me do it? I’ve only been learning for, like, a month!]

[Yeah, that’s what I said.]

The bald man covered in cross tattoos had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Still chuckling, he kept working on tattooing a woman’s breasts onto the biker’s arm.

[There’s a first time for everything. Think of it as losing your virginity. Just take it easy!]

The kid, clearly nervous but excited, motioned André toward a small table.

André gave a bitter smile. Maybe this was for the best. He wanted the sting of the needle on his ribs to drown out the pain in his chest.

[Where and what kind of tattoo do you want?]

[Name. On the ribs.]

The kid grabbed a notepad and a sample book, flipping through them in a flurry.

[Do you want to look at some designs? Or do you already have something in mind?]

[You decide.]

At André’s flat reply, the redhead’s eyes lit up, his voice dropping to an eager whisper.

[Good call. The designs we’ve got here are all old, 80s stuff. Suuuper outdated. These old guys don’t get it. Tattoos aren’t about rebellion anymore, they’re about turning skin into art. You’re lucky, man. I actually went to SVA, School of Visual Arts, before I dropped out. Since this is my first ever piece, I’ll make sure it’s something killer. So, what’s the name?]

When the redhead handed him a notebook, André wrote one word on it: Miran. The kid smiled.

[Pretty name. Someone you love?]

André’s bloodshot eyes lifted slightly as he gave the faintest nod.

[Hmm… since it’s going near your heart, the name of the person you love—]

Muttering to himself, the redhead began sketching quickly on the page, then turned it toward André.

[How about this design?]

André simply nodded again. The kid clenched his fist with excitement.

[Awesome. Then let’s get started. Take off your shirt and lie on your side over there.]

André de Lafayette, vice president of the Lafayette-Lowell Group and heir to one of France’s oldest noble families, took off his shirt beside a punk and a Hells Angel, baring his torso. He lay sideways on a cheap vinyl bed with the corner torn and cotton stuffing poking out.

Like carving a name into his soul, the needle left behind trails of dark ink that seeped into his skin. Etching Miran’s name into his body was both punishment and salvation for the wrong he had done.

Now, Miran would exist on him forever. As he felt each sting of the needle along his ribs, he understood what he needed to do next. That realization pushed the weight of helplessness and despair to the far edge of his mind.

When it was over, the redhead brought over a mirror and showed him his left side. Miran’s name flowed in graceful curves, rippling like the heartbeat on a monitor.

For the first time since she left, his heart beat without pain.

It was time to set things right.

—

By the time André reached the Lafayette Residence on the Upper East Side, dawn was already breaking. He collapsed straight onto his bed and slept for two full days, waking up on Sunday afternoon.

According to Higgins, he’d been burning with fever, and the family doctor had come by to check on him. While removing his bloodstained shirt, the doctor had seen the tattoo on his side. Higgins had looked at André like he’d committed a mortal sin.

André climbed out of bed with an awkward smile. His body felt lighter than expected. When he reached for his side, he could feel the bandages. The doctor must have disinfected the tattoo and dressed the wound.

With a disapproving look, Higgins handed him a silver tray with antibiotics and a glass of water. André tossed the pills into his mouth and gave a bitter smile.

Between the sedatives from the emergency room and the whiskey he’d downed on an empty stomach, he had wandered through Manhattan half out of his mind. It was a miracle he hadn’t been hit by a car.

He pressed his palm over the side of his ribs, still burning with pain. It hurt.

Love Hurts.

Because love always hurts.

But now Miran was etched into his body forever. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

For now, that was enough.