Page 50 of Mourner for Hire

I tilt my chin just slightly. “Tell me more.”

“The one on my calf is a lion because it stands for bravery and righteousness.” He holds up his right arm, revealing the cross on his inner forearm. “I got this on my eighteenth birthday. I love God and all that, but I think I just got it to be tough.”

“Tough for Jesus?”

“Exactly.” He laughs, pulling his left arm out of the water and letting his finger drift over every tattoo. “This date is when my dad died. That’s his name… obviously.”

I grin at him but stay silent.

“The ship more or less has to do with the child in me’s wild obsession with large vessels of transportation…”

Again, I laugh, but let him continue.

“But really, it’s the reality that two things can be true at once. Steel is heavy and powerful. It will sink, even in the smallest amounts. But if shaped the right way, it can float.”

My throat starts to tighten, and my chest does this weird thump-thump-ache thing that it does when I’m about to cry.

“A lot of this is just design I liked, and the snake—” he stops at his shoulder, “—reminds me that we can shed our old skin and create new versions of ourselves.”

“Oh, not Satan?” I tease, and he laughs. “Which leads to the butterfly, right?”

“Which leads to the butterfly,” he agrees.

We hold our stare for at least five seconds. Five heated, intense seconds. I can’t tell if we’re about to kiss each other or tell the other to fuck off.

Finally, I blink away, not ready for either to happen.

“You have more tattoos than I thought.”

I flash him a small smile. “A lot can be under a sundress.”

I hold his gaze, leaving the insinuation hanging in the air.

“Tell me about your tattoos. ”

I’ve told many people about my tattoos, but for some reason, when Dominic says it, it feels like he’s saying, take off your clothes.

My breath trembles as his fingers reach out and trace the butterfly on my ribcage.

“Well, you know about the butterfly. The peony is for my mom—she died when I was eight. Carpe Diem is pretty self-explanatory,” I add, my fingers falling to my hipbone. “The moon phases on my foot was my I-just-turned-eighteen tattoo.”

He nods and laughs.

My hand touches the heart-shaped birthmark on my shoulder. “When I was little, I used to pretend this was a tattoo. My dad would yell at me about it and say, don’t you dare!? ”

“Your dad isn’t a fan of tattoos?”

“My dad wasn’t a fan of anything.”

“Wasn’t?”

“He died eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, then think better of it. “You know what? No, I’m not. Not really. My father was a miserable human—all TV dinners and resentment. I don’t think he ever wanted me. He was just left with me. When he died, I promised never to let my life fall under the thumb of another person.”

He scoffs, his lips dipping into his dimples. “You’re doing a pretty good job at that.”

“Anyway…” I smile, shifting the spoon ring off my middle finger, revealing a red thread tattoo.

“And this one is for my soulmate, wherever they are. I lost my mom so young, and my dad was… not great. But I’ve always believed in love bigger than what I’ve known.

Whether it be a best friend or a greatest love.

Maybe it’s stupid to believe in something you’ve never experienced, but I guess that’s why they call it believing.

And I believe there’s someone out there for me. ”

I run my fingers over the red ink and then panic at my vulnerability, shoving the ring back on and then scratching my neck.

A raindrop hits my nose, and I glance up at the inky sky.

The rain pours drop after drop to the steady rhythm of my heart.

It’s cool against my skin, counteracting the heat of the water, and I welcome it.

Dominic’s jaw is tight, pulsing with every thought coursing through his mind. The silence lingers, the jets of the tub exploding into the quiet as the raindrops create circles in the water.

“You know, of all the marks on your skin, this one is my favorite,” he whispers, reaching out and touching the birthmark on my shoulder.

“I was always a little embarrassed of it growing up,” I confess, and his gaze meets mine with a burning intensity in his eyes.

“I love it.” He circles it again with his thumb, his touch sending a chill down my spine.

I pause, almost giving in. Almost, but…

“Yeah, well…” I lean forward. “I’m getting hot in here. It’s raining. We should get out. Thank you for helping.”

I’m rambling, and my words are jumbled. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. When I stand to get out of the hot tub, Dominic grabs my wrist.

“Hey…” he says, soft and deep. The voice of my worst nightmares and sweetest dreams.

I turn to face him, ready for him to make fun of me, make a joke, or tell me to hurry up and fulfill my duties so I can get the hell out of town.

When I turn to look at him, with soft eyes and tender lips, he says, “I think of that night, Vada.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” he argues, pulling me closer. I let him. “I think of it all the time. And I’ll think of last night, too.”

“Only because I’m here,” I reply, my chest pressed against his. “If I never came back to town, you wouldn’t even remember my name.”

“Lie,” he murmurs, running a hand up my neck.

I swallow against his palm .

“Thank you for helping me fix the wall,” I breathe, though it’s more or less a joke. The wall will need to be fixed tomorrow, and the mess we made will need to be cleaned.

His lips are inches from mine. His hand is on my neck, and the other is on my waist. The heat of his skin is pulsing against mine.

I hate him, and I want him. The dichotomy of the feelings is ripping me apart.

I want to escape from this town and never return, and I want to stay here, in his arms, for as long as he lets me.

“You make me crazy,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be gone soon.”

I swallow as his hand encases my jaw, tilting me so I can meet his mouth. My lips brush against his until they are firmly planted in the perfect kiss.

“You hate me,” I pant against his lips.

“I do,” he admits, kissing me again, running his tongue against mine.

He pulls back, running his thumb over my bottom lip with a dance of fury and passion in his eyes. He trails his thumb over my shoulder, gently outlining the heart shape.

“Don’t do this,” I warn.

“Please tell me to stop.”

And I should. But I won’t, despite his polite pleas.

There is so much at his fingertips. He barely touches me. Still, I throb. I ache. And if he doesn’t act, I’m going to beg. I hold his gaze, pulling him to me by the small of his back. Closer. Closer. My spine pulls taut, rigid with nerves.

“It’s okay, Vada. Relax.”

But I don’t know how to relax. Instead, I exhale, releasing the tension of my body into him.

“Kiss me,” I beg.

He does. His fingers grip my wet hair. My teeth bite his lips.

Our bodies ache and throb against each other.

The heat of the water surrounds us as the cool autumn rain pierces our skin.

The rain comes down harder and faster until we are both gasping for air, drowning in the night sky and each other.

“Do we stop here?” he asks.

My thumb plays with the waistband of his wet boxers, and I dip my fingers inside.

“No,” I pant. “Please don’t stop.”