Page 34 of Inked & Bloodbound

“You won’t be able to help everyone who comes through. You know that, right? Knowing when to learn to walk away and put yourself first is important, too. You don’t owe the deceased anything.”

She narrows her eyes at me, and her bottom lip gets marshmallow-soft as she pouts. “I know, but I like the part where I’m helping people. Isn’t that the whole point of this so-called gift? Otherwise, it’s just a lifetime of bad headaches and dead people floating around in my brain. Speaking of, I reached out to Harold’s wife on Facebook, and she found the deed to the house!”

“Who the hell is Harold?”

“Seriously? He’s the guy from the other night. The patient? The one who asked me to talk to his wife?”

I rub my temples. “You’re telling people about this? I thought we agreed you’d keep it quiet.”

She leans forward to blow out the candles, and the fabric pulls away from her body, leaving just enough of a gap for me to see down her top. I follow the path of that exquisite blue vein that marbles through her skin, closing my eyes for a moment to hear the blood pumping through it.

“I didn’t tell her I was a medium.” She laughs. “I just said that I’d suddenly remembered something Harold told me at the hospital and that I thought I should pass it on.”

I’m relieved. “Good. We can’t take any risks. Not now.”

“I won’t.”

We sit there for a moment, saying nothing, just watching each other. She unties the scrunchie holding a small ponytail and shakes her chin-length hair free. As it falls, the scent hits me like a punch in the nose. It’s a heady scent of coconut, verbena, and sunshine blended like a torturous smoothie. It’s cruel. Her hair actually smells like the sun.

It hits me in waves, and I get a powerful urge to press my nose against her scalp, to inhale it deeply, filling my lungs as I tangle my fingers into the threads of spun gold.

But I don’t. Instead, I get up and grab my leather jacket from the arm of the couch. “It’s late. I should be going.”

As I turn, she grabs my arm and gazes up at me with bottomless blue eyes, pleading with me to stay. “Do you have to? Can’t you stayfor a drink or something? I’d like to get to know you better and…I really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

I consider it. I want to, but I know it’s probably not a good idea. The more time I spend away from the shop and the Hollow, the more suspicious Lazaro gets. But I only have a few more days to deal with Beau and get this mess wrapped up before I skip town for good. Maybe this could be good? The closer she feels to me, the more willing she’ll be to help.

As I sink back into the couch and try to appear relaxed, I tell myself it’s purely practical, but deep down, I know there’s something that goes beyond her usefulness and heady scent, even if I keep denying it. I want to protect her, but this feeling is anything but familial.

“Sure, I can stay awhile. What do you wanna know?”

She leaps up, and she’s smiling now, bouncing on her feet. “Oh, anything really. How you got into tattooing, where you’re from, just stuff like that.” She heads toward the kitchen, her voice carrying back to me as I hear cabinets manically opening and closing. “I realized I don’t know much about you beyond the whole brooding-artist thing you’ve got going on.”

The sound of a cork popping echoes from the kitchen, followed by the clink of glass. “Though I have to say,” she calls out, “the mysterious vibe is working for you.”

She returns with two glasses and a bottle of red tucked under her arm, that little spring still in her step. “Is this okay? I don’t know much about wine, but it’s supposed to be good. My stepdad Pat brought it back from some vineyard trip he took last year. I’m usually more of a beer girl, to be honest.”

I accept the drink. “This is fine. Thanks.”

She settles back onto the couch, tucking her smooth, tanned legs under her. “So, you’re not from here, right? I can tell from your accent; it’s got something to it. Let me guess, you’ve got a little Italian in you?”

I take a slow, fake sip and place the glass on the coffee table. “Good guess. I am, but I have not been there for many, many years.”

“You got family nearby?” she asks.

“No, it’s just me here.”

“Are you close?”

“Not anymore.”

It’s a blunt answer, and it kills the conversation dead, leaving us to navigate the uneasy lull together. She taps her fingers on her glass restlessly and chews the corner of her lip, like she’s thinking about what to say next.

I break the silence first. “How are you healing?”

She raises her eyebrows, not understanding, so I point to her ribs.

“Your tattoo,” I clarify. “Have you been putting the balm on? Washing it with gentle soap?”