Page 13 of Coco and the Misfits (The Candyverse #4)

COCO

A nxiety.

Not a new feeling for me. After all, I’ve spent my life trying to convince others that I’m not what the letter on my ID says I am, and those bad dreams are proof I can never really relax.

But this level of panic is new. As I cross the street, almost running, I’m convinced someone is following me. Forget asking at the tattoo parlor for a job, forget the groceries. I need to get home and lock the doors and windows.

Maybe I’ll barricade myself behind my sofa and eat ice cream from the container. If I have any ice cream left.

This early summer day feels cold.

I’m crossing another street, heading toward my apartment, when a tall figure almost crashes into me.

I can’t help it. I scream. I feel the scream tearing through me like a storm and I can’t seem to stop.

“Hey, girl. Hey!” He grabs my arms, holding me on my feet but also keeping me far from his own body. “It’s me, Ryder. Remember me? From the bar?” He frowns. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

“Ryder,” I whisper, my voice raw. “The tattoo artist.”

He gives a strange laugh. “Yeah. That’s me. Who did you think I was?”

I gulp and step back until he releases me. “Sorry.”

“Hey. What happened to the fizzy, laughing girl I met at the bar?” He arches a dark brow. “Bad day today?”

“She was almost…” Biting my lip, I take another step back. “She had the shit scared out of her.”

His brows draw together slowly. “What? What the hell do you mean?”

Another step back. “Nothing. I need to… go home?—”

A screech, echoing inside my head—and Ryder lunges toward me, grabs and swings me around…

“Fuck, be careful! What the hell.” He’s staring at me with wide eyes, his face pale, while a car races by, honking at us. “Trying to get yourself killed or give me a heart attack? Didn’t you see the car? You almost stepped in front of it! What the fuck.”

I’m struggling to breathe. Did that just happen? What’s happening to my quiet life?

“Come with me,” he says, grabbing my hand. “The shop is right across. You can sit for a minute and I’ll get you a glass of water. You’re white as a ghost.”

I don’t question it. I follow him. Too many shocks in two days. My brain is shutting down, and yet I somehow think I can trust him. He’s rough and not a gentleman like Atticus, or a ray of sunshine like Zach, but his big hand around mine feels right.

He doesn’t make me feel safe, but he makes me feel… stronger. As if whatever is going on with me is normal. Human. Expected. Not a big deal.

The screeching of the car tires still echoes inside my head.

He drags me into Ink and Shadows, past a desk with a frowning receptionist, and to the back of the shop. There is a small sitting area there but he doesn’t stop. He pulls me into a cubicle and sits me in a large leather chair.

“Wait here,” he says, and by the time I blink and glance around—a picture of three laughing children, a black dragon figurine, a pack of cigarettes—he’s back with a tall glass of water. “Here you go.”

I take it and sip. The water is cold, numbing my mouth. I like that. I like sitting in this chair, in this cubicle that smells of him. It smells of ink and leather, with a subtle dark musk underneath.

I like looking into his eyes. They are a beautiful gold, a warm honey color, and I imagine I see worry for me in them.

I imagine kissing his full mouth, feeling that silver hoop pressing into soft flesh.

“How are you feeling, Candy girl?” His voice is a low purr and he’s staring at my mouth, too, as if he wants to kiss me.

The same way he’d looked at me that night, so intense the thrill had shocked me, fascination bordering on fear. And I’m still fascinated. He reminds me of a wild animal, savage and beautiful. Untamed. You don’t know if it will lick or bite you.

A bite seems more likely and the thought makes me smile.

“Ah, there you are,” he says softly. “You’re looking better already. Had me scared for a minute.”

Well, good. Why should I be the only one scared? The only one fascinated, distracted, panicked and lost? Let’s all fall down this rabbit hole.

“You’re thinking all the dark thoughts,” he whispers, “aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A slow grin spreads over his lips. He tugs the silver hoop between his teeth. “Mm… Is this an invitation to look inside your head?”

“My head is a mess right now,” I admit, handing the glass back to him.

He absently places it on his desk. “That suits me fine. Think mine is any better? I bet yours is a beautiful mess, though, Candy girl.”

“Don’t think that,” I whisper.

“Our messes are beautiful. They are a part of us.”

“Spoken like an artist.”

“Spoken like a fellow-sufferer.” He takes the pack of cigarettes, pulls one out. “Wanna share your mess with me?”

“Is that a come-on line?”

He laughs, shakes his head and pushes the cigarette back into the case. “Gimme some credit. I have better come-on lines than that.”

“Do you have more piercings?”

“Would you like to find out?” he throws my words back at me with a smirk.

I lick my lips. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Why now, of all times, my body is taking the reins. Most probably because my mind is off to la-la-land, trying to stop screaming and find a coherent thread to bind itself with.

“One kiss,” I hear myself saying. “Just one kiss.”

He studies my face from under his dark lashes. Then he nods. “One stolen kiss.”

“Why stolen?”

“So you will be back for more. Girls like thieves and thugs.”

“Do they?” I whisper.

“Don’t you?”

This conversation is ridiculous and I find myself smiling. “Go on, then. Steal your kiss.”

“You’re not supposed to notice when I do it.”

“Oh, for f?—”

He kisses my smile, swallows my gasp, cups my face and takes my breath away.

Then, before I tense up and the panic returns, he pulls back, smooths his rough palms over my cheeks and gives me a softer smile. “There. Stolen. Gone.”

I touch my mouth. Sweet and bitter. His taste is an echo of his scent. “Gone?”

“Gone.”

For some reason, it’s as if a weight has lifted off my shoulders. Is this kissing therapy? Did he really take something from me, some part of the fear?

“How did you…? How did you know how…?”

“Broken souls recognize each other,” he says softly.

I shake my head. “I’m not broken. You don’t understand. Nothing really bad happened.”

“I’m not talking about the car,” he says.

Me neither, but he doesn’t know what happened that night at the bar after Atticus chased him away.

“I knew,” he says, “from the moment I saw you. I knew our broken pieces would fit together.”

“But I’m not?—”

“You have a crack in you,’ he says, his voice dropping lower until I can barely hear it. “A wound that hasn’t healed. Let it show, baby. Scratch it until it bleeds, until you see it. Only then will it heal enough to let your heart beat again.”

“So philosophical,” I whisper, my chest aching.

“Not all traumas seem big or deep. Not all of them are terrible accidents or sickness, near-death experiences or rape. Some are more subtle, overlooked, but they are important. Essential. They take lives, Coco. Don’t bury your wound. Let it show.”