11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

A pinging sounds beneath my face, jerking me upright. I fumble with my phone to silence it before anyone else hears.

" Shit, shit, shush! " I whisper as if the device can hear me. Managing to find the snooze, I slump back onto the fluffy blanket. My head is spinning, an empty bottle of gin knocking my knees as I draw them into my body. Settling back into a hungover, miserable state, the sudden realization of what my alarm was for physically slams into me. Fuck, I'm going to be late.

I scramble to gather my phone, bag, and heels, stopping in the middle of the darkened room. A deep inhale and rumbling exhale comes from the four poster bed, Huxley's outline strewn across the covers. There isn't an ounce of fat on him, every limb honed with defined muscle. His blond hair is scruffy against the pillows. I glance from my fishnet stockings and crumpled shirt to the dead-like figure on the bed. On second thoughts, I can't attend my appointment like this.

There's a solid wood dresser, each drawer presenting neatly folded stacks of clothes. I ‘borrow' a white t-shirt, pair of gray sweatpants and patterned boxers, before heading into the bathroom. Huxley doesn't stir once. After quickly washing, scrubbing my face and finding a pack of new toothbrushes in the vanity, I dress in his clothes. The sweatpants have a drawstring, the t-shirt I twist at the side to reveal my navel. It'll have to do. Across the far side, I'm provided an escape into another bedroom. Thankfully, this one is empty. I raid the wardrobe for shoes, finding a pair of sneakers which are only a few sizes too big. That's what laces are for I guess.

Cracking the door, voices travel from downstairs. All male. Wyatt is shouting, Garrett is laughing, and Axel is trying to mediate.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Wyatt barks, evidently slamming something soon after. I creep out into the hallway, careful to stay against the far wall. "I told you to keep the fuck away from her. "

"Ohhh," Garrett exaggerates. "I thought you said, ‘keep fucking her'." His laughter is infectious. I find myself smirking, despite no doubt being the subject of their conversation. Just knowing there's someone else in this world who doesn't drop to their knees and worship Wyatt's every word is enough to lift my spirits. But then Garrett has to keep talking and douse my amusement.

"Look, she's different from the rest. Our usual tactics won't work on her. I needed to knock her off-kilter, throw her off-beat. Trust me, getting beneath her defenses will bother her way more than any pathetic hazing attempt." I sober in an instant. So that's the game we're playing here? Who can make Avery look like a fool the fastest? Movement shifts to my left.

"Dax, you going to come down and have some input in this?" Wyatt calls, no doubt seeing his friend over the banister. Dax is staring at me, an unspoken question in his face.

"No thanks," he responds evenly. "I'm thoroughly entertained up here." Striding closer, he lifts a finger to his lips. Once in line with me, Dax grabs my arm and pulls me along, using his body as a shield to the end of the hallway.

"What are you doing here?" he whispers, opening a window. I look over the tree just beyond. A thick branch stretches towards the house, its leaves beginning to brown and wilt. On the trunk, a rope ladder presents an easy exit from the second floor into a line of bushes. I briefly wonder if the escape has been set up for the many women who stay over against Wyatt's knowledge, or if it's for the men prisoned inside themselves. Either way, Wyatt doesn't seem to have the control he believes and that makes me immensely happy.

"It's a long story. I have to go. The buses are hourly on a Sunday." I know this, because I carefully preplanned my route before I knew I'd be having a secret sleepover and feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.

"What-where?" Dax fumbles and then composes himself. His hand is still wrapped around my arm. "Don't worry about buses, I'll take you wherever you need to go."

"No thanks," I pry my arm free. Even if Wyatt hadn't so clearly warned me to stay away from his friends, twice, there's no way I want Dax following me around today. Lifting one leg out of the window, my second alarm pings from my phone. Shit, I've missed the bus anyway.

"What was that?" Wyatt calls, his steps ringing out on the stairs. Dax panics, shoving me out of the window and onto the low branch. I've almost crawled to the trunk when his heavy weight follows, causing the tree to wobble. Using the rope ladder, I hit the ground just before Dax drops down, grabs my waist and drags me into the bushes. We press against the wall, Dax's front to my back and his hand gingerly covering my mouth. "Dax?!" Wyatt calls from above. I still, closing my eyes as if that will help me become invisible. There's a grumble and a slamming of the window, leaving us in the clear.

"Let me drive you," Dax attempts again. He releases me and steps aside, running his hand over his short hair. "It's the least I can offer." I watch his blue eyes, accepting the sorrow sparkling within. True, Dax owes me, but he also doesn't know I won't let him off so easily.

"Fine, go ahead," I gesture out of the bushes. His rewarding smile is so similar to that first day in English Lit, when he was just a guy and I was just a new girl trying to find my feet. Dax leads me to the garage, careful to crawl beneath the windows. I do get a chance to appreciate his ass and glutes for a few minutes, his gym shorts riding high. Once inside, I stop short at the series of cars. Huxley's smashed-up SUV is in the corner, beside an orange Nissan. Dax walks towards a green Mercedes beside a small motorcycle collection. I glance at the time on my phone, not having time to hang around.

Opening the car door, I slide into the comfy leather seat and roll my palms over my knees. Dax settles behind the wheel, closing us into a confined space thick with tension.

"So…where is it you need to go?" he asks, drumming his fingers on his thighs. I smile sweetly, mounting my phone on his dash with the navigation set up for an OB/GYN in the neighboring city. I wish I could have taken a picture of his reaction and mounted it on my wall.

Smirking to myself, I relax as Dax activates the rolling garage door and eases us out onto the street, out of campus and into the countryside. I wasn't prepared for the weight of stress to lift from my shoulders, as I hadn't fully realized it had settled there. Winding down the window, I let the wind brush over my face and work through my hair, breathing deeply for the first time in weeks.

Remaining quiet for the entire ride, I steal glances at Dax's unusual appearance. His blonde afro-style hair looks soft, despite being shaved at the sides and kept short on top. His powerful blue eyes stand out from his bronzed skin and his hands look big enough to-

"My mother is Latino, and my father is Brazilian." He answers the burning question in my gaze. I blush at being caught out, but only because my mind had started to drift. The Mercedes turns sharply into a car park beside the practice, the tall glass building looming above us. "I want to apologize," Dax swallows hard once we're stationary. I twist to face him fully.

"What are you apologizing for?" I cock one brow, my blonde hair falling forward.

"Well…um, for not doing anything I suppose. With the trunk, and then the cupboard…" Dax fumbles with his keys. I gently extract them from his hands to gain his focus .

"So not for trying to befriend me in the first place then?" I keep my face impassive. "You must have known who I was, the new girl in class who happened to start the same day as Wyatt's sister." It feels weird to call myself that but we quickly move on.

"I didn't know you were new. I was just transferred up to AP English Lit last week. I thought I was the new student and I just…I just wanted to talk to you. No strings, I swear." He watches me intently, no trace of a lie to be seen. The sharp lines of his jaw are close enough to trail my fingers over, his Adam's apple bobbing. The spunky attitude is stolen from me, my revenge scheme going up in flames. But he is Wyatt's best friend. He stood by while I was trapped in a confined space twice. He read my therapy transcripts. They all deserve my retribution.

Reaching for the handle, I look over my shoulder innocently. "Aren't you going to come in to keep an eye on me? They offer free chlamydia tests if you want to get checked out while we are here." Dax's shocked expression tickles me but I keep my face impassive.

"I'll wait out here." He states. Shrugging, I take my phone and step out of the car, walking straight through the rotating doors leading into an open reception area. Waiting in the line patiently to approach the front desk, I peer back to see Dax has gotten out of the car to lean against it with a cigarette in his fingers. I didn't know he smoked. The woman in front of me moves aside so I approach the receptionist. Thick rimmed glasses sit on her dainty nose, her hair is pulled into a tight bun with every strand perfectly in place.

"Excuse me," I lower my voice, "I believe the man by that green car outside is following me, so I ducked in here. Do you have a back door I could use?" The receptionist's brown eyes widen, quickly looking at Dax and back again. She nods quickly and directs me towards the fire exit. As I walk away, I hear her call for guards. The smile that graces my lips stems from pure evil. I start to run as soon as I reach the corridor I was pointed towards. Pushing my weight against the door release, I almost fall onto the street and continue running, laughing the entire way to my real destination.

The tattoo shop is set back from the high street, accessed by a staircase to the upper level. I inhale the sterile smell, a knot forming in my chest. The walls are adorned with designs, a showcase for the indecisive to choose from. Each glass unit has an artist's name printed on the plaque, so I can easily see who adopts each style. I'm already booked in with Ben, having seen his Instagram and fallen in love with his delicate lines, dot work and watercolor splash aesthetic.

I'm asked to read and sign a waiver and provide my ID, then I'm directed to the waiting area. The entire studio is alive with buzzing. Reclining leather chairs sit in front of each station, surrounded by bottles of ink and various supplies. The artists are covered in ink themselves, their arms and hands moving deftly as they work on their clients' skin.

"Avery?" A huge biker kind of guy, with multiple piercings, hundreds of tattoos and a long, thick beard approaches me. I raise my brows, a small laugh escaping me.

"I'm so sorry," I cover my mouth and take his gloved hand. "I was expecting someone a little more…"

"Less manly?" Ben's eyes sparkle. "Yeah, I get that all the time. These hands however," he holds them up, "are as gentle as a lover's kiss." There's a snigger around the studio, led by Ben himself. I'm immediately put at ease. Leading me to the back of the studio, to his table in the right corner of the room, Ben slides the dividing curtain closed to block us from public view. "I've got a stencil drawn up from the images you sent me. Let's get it placed and you can tell me what you think."

Shrugging the baggy t-shirt off, I turn in my bra and throw my hair up into a bun so Ben can line the stencil up with my spine. That knot in my chest lowers to a heavy weight in my stomach. I've been waiting so long for this day, but I never thought I'd be here alone. Ben guides me to a full-length mirror and asks my opinion. It's perfect. A thin arrow from mid-back to nape, a swirling line trailing the length to the feathered end. In the center, the rod stops short for roman numerals to fill the gap. Ben has put his own spin on the design, adding dots in additional swirls. It's delicate, feminine and meaningful. The best part is, it directly covers a scar in the center of my back I've grown to despise. I blink back the tears while I approve and lie on the lowered table.

"Now remember what we spoke about in the messages. Scar tissue is harder to tattoo over, so I'll have to press quite hard in some places." I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Once the business is out of the way, Ben is all kind smiles again. "It's a lovely design. Did you draw it?" Ben unpacks a fresh needle and sets up the gun.

"Yeah," I sigh into the leather. "My mom and I drew one each. We'd always planned to get them on my twenty-first birthday. It's the age she was when she got her first."

"Well, happy birthday! I'm honored to be permanently marking you for the occasion. And your mom? Is she on her way?" It's an innocent question and one I saw coming.

"No, she couldn't make it," I smile sadly. Ben seems to understand, wiping down my back in an overly caring gesture. Then the gun is powered up and I brace myself.

"Deep breath for me. We have sugary drinks if you start to feel dizzy."

"I'm all good," I respond bravely. I've been through much worse than this. The first stroke sets in. Soon followed by the next until they all blend together. Aside from my mom and Meg, Ben is the only one to have seen, let alone touch, one of the scars that litter my body from a previous life. Nixon is more of a ‘pretend-it-doesn't-exist-and-everything-is-okay' kind of guy. I bite down on my lower lip, resisting the urge to jerk away from the tattoo gun. Ben spoke of physical pain, but he can't know of the emotional affect his poking and prodding will have of me later.

I tense each time the gun lowers and relax each time he twists away. Mom promised to be here, to hold my hand. I have a moment of regret for coming alone. I don't know why I thought to do this by myself. If Meg wasn't away with her lacrosse team, she'd have been here. It's a harsh reminder that I have no one else in this world. My own fault really, I wanted to be a hermit. I thought if I only existed at the manor, the world would carry on without me. But now I've been thrust into it, and the only objective is to survive.

Breathing deeply, I desperately try to focus on the tattoo gun's pain, rather than the visions that filter into my mind from my damaged skin being touched. The sharp sting of the needle blends into that of a leather belt or the burning of a cigarette, my mind tricking my nose into conjuring the singed smell. Bile rises in my throat, shudders raking my body and tears leaking from my eyes.

I snap back into reality and realize the tattoo gun has stopped. Ben offers me a tissue, passing me the promised soda. I don't dare tell him it's not the pain that is affecting me.

"I'm sorry, I'll do better this time," I reassure him, sipping my drink. It might have been a good idea to eat before I arrived. Once he's satisfied, Ben sets back to work.

The vibrations of the tattoo gun reverberate through my upper back and I suck in a breath, waiting for the images to flood my mind again. However, this time they seem to hover on the edges and blur slightly, seeming to know that I'm on the home stretch to covering them from existence. If I can't see them, they can't hurt me – right?

Ben fills the cubicle with his voice, giving me another focus. I listen to his entire life story, from his various childhood homes to his cat, Beau. He's a softie for his kitty, treating him to a bowl of ice cream every Sunday afternoon. We run through the best ice cream combos for a cat, imagining all the favors he'd probably create if he had opposable thumbs. I hadn't realized how much time has passed when Ben announces he's finished.

The sting of an alcoholic spray is wiped across my back before I'm directed to stand. Ben opens the curtain and points to a long mirror in the hallway. The lighting is better out here, he informs me. I wrap my arms around myself, mustering some new-found confidence and step through the curtain. There are a few more scars to tackle on my ribs, smaller circular ones that are easier to hide with my arms. He promptly hands me a second, smaller mirror to hold .

"I added a little flair. I hope you like it." Ben steps away as I angle the mirror, my jaw dropping open. Like it? I can't form a coherent thought. Around the arrow, there are splashes of color in a watery effect. Pastels blur effortlessly around the feathers and arrowhead. His dot work creates many pathways, I can't keep track. I knew Ben had talent, but seeing it on myself is something else entirely.

"Woah" I breathe when nothing else comes out.

"Nice job, Benny Boy," another tattoo artist catches sight of the piece in the mirror and comes closer to get a better look. A navy-blue cap sits backwards on his dark hair, his ears have large discs in the lobes and thick black tattoos cover his otherwise creamy skin up to his jaw. But it's the way he's looking at my back which makes me weak. I've imagined this moment many times, where the tattoo didn't quite cover my scar and all onlookers gift me a wince and a heavy dose of sympathy. But no, it's nothing like that. It's so much better.

More people come over, complimenting me, congratulating my first ink session. I'm a mumbling mess, promising I'll be back for more when Ben calls my name, drawing me away from the small crowd to get patched up. My head is reeling that I just stood out in the open in only a bra and no one is whispering things like ‘oh, that poor girl'. ‘How horrific'.

"So, this is wildly inappropriate, and I promise it's only with noble intentions." Ben helps me ease the t-shirt over my head. I adjust to the feeling, careful not to move too much. He then lowers onto his stool, choosing his next words carefully and quietly. "I recognize the demons you hold inside, and it doesn't seem like you have many people in your corner. If there's ever a time you feel trapped, don't hesitate to call me. I'm rather intimidating to those who don't know me." Ben winks, scribbling his number and address onto a scrap piece of paper and tucks it into the leg pocket of the sweatpants. I'm speechless by his offer.

I make my way to the main desk, where Ben shouts over to the receptionist that my money is no good today. Consider it a birthday present, which sets off every artist and client singing ‘Happy Birthday' as I stumble out of the door and into Dax's hard chest. Large hands steady me, piercing blue eyes glinting with curiosity.

"It's your birthday?"