Tears of Ink (Tears of ... Book 1) Read online

  Gerard Steers: have you slumped into a coma of shock?

  Faith Hitchin: Maybe.

  Gerard Steers: Get some sleep. It’s the end of term in a couple of days, but you’ve still got to look interested during my science of materials lecture tomorrow.

  Faith Hitchin: I’m an artist, not an actress.

  Gerard Steers: You wound me with your sharp words.

  Faith Hitchin: Insert *smiley face* here.

  I giggle. It’s easy to roam into flirting behind the safety of a screen. I could close my eyes right now and think of the night we’d spent together last summer. Hot and sticky, he’d taken the time to explore every inch of my skin, and every tale marked on its surface. It had been intimate, revealing, and I’d surrendered to his touch as a friend, lover, and student. I couldn’t allow the night to roll into more, but it had been sweet while it lasted.

  He was probably the last decent lay I had.

  Thinking about it makes me ache for a physical release. The wine is swilling around my head, those beer goggles slipping back into place.

  I don’t want anything other than a nameless face on me, inside me, smothering me with every sensation under the sun.

  My eyes drop to my lightning bolt. Curse that dream for making me remember the scorch of the burn. I’ve always managed to keep things locked and in place. Now the memory is running free, careering like an out of control freight train.

  I must remember to get Al, or Dan, to send me the picture of the tattoo. I hope it’s bad, real bad. Silly, to hold on to the past from eight years ago, but my history is a dark demon that lives in my soul.

  I fought to free myself from its sharpened claws, but it’s never far behind, chasing me, tempting me, whispering in my ear. Goading me to step back and reclaim the misery I ran from.

  Ignoring the unsettled sensation building from my tummy and shifting through my body until my limbs ache, I swipe my thumb over the surface of my phone, scrolling through my contacts before hitting FaceTime.

  “Hey.” I light another cigarette with my greeting and watch smoke curl into the air.

  “Faith fucking Hitchin. I thought you’d flown to the moon, Sista.”

  I laugh and stick my tongue out. Abi laughs and sticks her own tongue out. What did two best friends do before video-calling?

  Brighton isn’t far away, just a train ride, but sometimes, since I left, it seems like the other side of the earth.

  “How are the kids?” There are shouts in the background, a clamour of screeching despite the late hour.

  Abi and I have been friends for fourteen years. While I fell apart and faced my demons, allowing the truth of the past to tear me into a million tiny shreds of regret, Abi had two children. I don’t know how it happened. One day I woke up, coming out of the fog of destruction, to find my oldest friend had grown up.

  “Fucking awful. I kid you not, Faith, don’t ever have kids. They are a curse on all existence.”

  I laugh and inhale more nicotine until my lungs burn. “You don’t mean it. How’s Adam? Still working hard?”

  “Of course. He’d rather be at work than home with me nagging him.”

  I wonder what it would be like to have someone to nag. Am I even the kind of woman to nag? I shut the thought out, it’s irrelevant. Anyway, Abi nags enough for the both of us. “So… question.” I take another drag. She’s going to be all over this summer idea. I’m not asking the right person for advice, but hey, my options are severely limited.

  “Ooh, I love grown up questions.” She stares at me intently through the phone, opening her eyes. “Better than constantly hearing ‘What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?’”

  I snort, choking on my smoke. “Charlotte is adorable. Don’t be mean to my goddaughter.”

  “Hold on, I haven’t finished yet.” Abi wags her finger at me like I’m her two-year-old. “What’s that do? What’s that do? What’s that do?”

  “She’s a highly intelligent human being.”

  “Yep, that girl, she’s got us all running around at her beck and call.”

  Abi and I stare at one another for a moment, and an odd, unwelcome yearning for home washes over me.

  I’d do anything to go back… back to a time before destruction and violence.

  “You okay, Faith?” Abi drops all humour. She knows me well. Has seen me at my high and at my rock bottom, with varying stages in between. “Are you dreaming again? You look tired?”

  I shake my head, but to my horror tears prickle. “No, no, it’s stupid really. I just dreamed about my lightning bolt.”

  “Babe, I told you at the time and I say it again now. Boys are fucking shits. Some of them are just about good enough to marry and make decent, but the rest are bastards.”

  “Hey,” a voice calls off-camera. My view swings like I’m on a Waltzer, and the next moment I’m staring up Adam’s nostrils. I hadn’t even known he was there. I’d presumed he was at work. Abi’s so bloody nuts.

  “Hi, Adam.” I wave weakly, grimacing an apology. “You know you’re one of the good guys, right?”

  “Too damn right, Faith. I’m one of the best fucking bastards around.” He waves and gets up from the sofa, but not before pecking a kiss onto Abi’s forehead.

  “So, anyway. What did you want to tell me?”

  I have to think for a second. Oh, Bowsley Hall.

  “Oh yeah, I might get the chance to do an installation this summer.”

  “What are you installing? A toilet? Plumbing? Windows?”

  I chuckle and stub my cigarette out. “Don’t be funny, you know what I mean.”

  “Oh… you mean that glamorous life you are going to lead, selling super-expensive bits of odd art to super-rich twats who don’t know what they’re buying.”

  I blink at her before rolling my eyes. “Yes, that exactly.”

  “Well, that’s good then isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Abs. It’s at some crazy posh stately home. I can’t fit in there.”

  “What because you’re covered in tats?”

  I glance down at my exposed skin, at the multitude of colours. “No, because I’m me. I come from the scummy end of Brighton and grew up in a tattoo parlour.” I frown and rub at my face. My eyes sting; the lack of sleep I’ve been culminating is starting to catch up. “I’m hardly the manicured lawns and afternoon tea type.”

  “Hey, we can have PG Tips any afternoon you like.” She pauses as a crash filters from her kitchen. “Will you lot keep it down, I’m on the phone!” she hollers before turning back to me. “Fuckers. I tell you, Faith, they don’t stop.” Her face drops to her serious expression and I know my pep talk is coming. “Listen, you can fit in anywhere you want. You are crazy talented. People would pay thousands to have you ink their skin, and I’m not talking about all the poor bastards lining up because they want to bang you senseless.”

  My cheeks flame. “Abi!”

  “Do it. Get your art out there. Do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true, and then one day come back to the scummy part of Brighton and show every fucker who ever doubted you just what you can do.”

  I grasp at a lungful of air. “I’ll have the meeting with Baroness Fairclough and then decide.”

  Abi peals with laughter. “Baroness? Hahahaha, you didn’t tell me that. Good luck, Faith, you’ll fit in a storm.”

  I squint my eyes giving her a well-practiced side eye. “Thanks.”

  “Always a pleasure. Some of us will have to see your feet firmly in the shit when you are being touted all over the world.”

  Blowing her a kiss, I cut the video call, slumping back in the chair. I suppose I should get some food.

  I reach for my packet of cigarettes instead. That will do.

  Chapter Four

  I fiddle with the neckline of my silk blouse. A pale-blue, the material is just thick enough to keep my secrets hidden underneath. I stare at myself in the reflection of The Ritz’s glass window. I’d laughed until I’d cried when Gerard had t
old me the meeting with Baroness Fairclough was going to be at The Ritz. Who goes to The Ritz apart from tourists? Apparently, she does.

  I’ve had three showers this morning, but I’m still uncomfortably hot and sweaty. I wish the rain would come and clear the air, but there hasn’t been a drop for weeks. I hike my leather tote containing my portfolio up onto my shoulder and push through the revolving door. Cool air from the air conditioning greets me as I step inside, for which I’m very grateful.

  I wished Gerard had accompanied me, but he’d told me it would look better if I came alone. Bloody arse. Who sends a young woman by themselves to meet a baroness for a job interview? Gerard Steers does that’s who.

  He prepped me last night though over a glass of wine and some crackers. I couldn’t eat, my stomach too twisted with knots. I approach the lounge, walking with my head held high in front of the reception desk. Once there, I’m stopped by a neat sign telling me to wait to be seated.

  I glance around. The room is hushed with whispered conversations; groomed and coiffed heads tilted towards one another. Some of the tables have papers on them. People working in luxury.

  It is luxury. Even the air smells rich and clean. Crisp. There aren’t that many obvious tourists. I was expecting a few overweight sightseers with their cameras flung around their necks on straps.

  A waiter sees me and inclines his head in my direction while he continues helping another elderly couple. I smile and fiddle with the neck of my blouse. Calm down, Faith.

  It’s hard to calm down. I’ve never been anywhere like this. The nearest I’ve got is a wine bar.

  “Good afternoon,” the young man greets me warmly, his face open and friendly. Nothing forced, no sign that he hates his job or the rich people he must serve. “Are you joining us for coffee, or lunch perhaps?”

  My tongue nearly falls out of my mouth, but if he notices my discomfort he calmly ignores it. How can he be calm in this place? I want to puke. Coughing and clearing my throat, I attempt to pull myself together. “I’m here to meet Baroness Fairclough.” I’m surprised by my voice coming out so calm and level. Inside I’m flapping about like a fish out of water. He hesitates before smoothing his expression. “Could you wait just one moment?”

  My palms slick with sweat and I clutch my bag tighter, so I don’t wipe them down my silk blouse. “Sure.” I smile.

  He walks off and ducks his head into a booth in the corner. A moment later he returns and asks me to follow, guiding me with his outstretched hand, careful not to touch me in any way. “Can I take your bag?”

  I clutch it closer. “No, thank you, I’ll keep it with m—” my words die on my lips as I glance inside the booth.

  This is no baroness. Not unless I’ve spent my life misunderstanding the title.

  Instead of the middle-aged lady I’m expecting, there sits a man in the sharpest, neatest suit I’ve ever seen. You could cut bread with the edges of navy material.

  Google has failed me. I’ll never trust you again Google. The man stands and towers over me, a clear head and shoulders higher than me, and his broad shoulders block the light in the room. His hair is close cropped, a dark fuzz; but it’s his eyes that render me totally mute. I’ve never seen anything like them, as deep as lapis lazuli, they are more vibrant than any gem I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a few. I’m an artist for God’s sake.

  “My apologies for the confusion; Miss Hitchin, I believe?” Oh God, his voice is soft, low, devilish. It licks warmth along my reeling insides.

  “Faith. Your Faith.” What? “Sorry. I mean, I’m Faith, yes.” I brush at the ends of my ponytail, but there is no hiding the scorching burn travelling up my cheeks.

  “You were expecting my mother, but she’s been held up.” His stunning gaze sweeps over my face. His own is open, his lips turned slightly at the edges as if something is amusing. What could possibly be amusing about this I don’t know. He’s tanned, his skin a dark gold, and a faint stubble darkens his jaw. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single human being in the flesh who is quite so beautiful.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Is she running late?” I don’t know whether or not to take a seat. I’m experiencing total loser syndrome.

  He takes control of the situation, smoothly moving around the booth and motioning for the velvet seat opposite his own. “She’s in New York. She got muddled with her dates,” he says as I slide into the seat.

  “Oh,” I stutter. “Oh. Has she changed her mind?” I’m officially going to kill Gerard for making me deal with this. This is hell.

  “Well, no, she wanted me to do this on her behalf.”

  “Do you know a lot about art?” I snap. This was a waste of my time and anxiety, not to mention the packet of smokes I consumed as I paced outside the back of the hotel while I summoned the nerve to come in.

  He lifts his shoulders, but his eyes never leave my face. It’s unsettling. “I know some, I guess.”

  I raise an eyebrow. I bet he knows jack about art. “And you’re familiar with installations, and how they run? You know your mother’s plans and how she intends to use my time invested pieces to create her exhibition?”

  He doesn’t answer but his lips twitch at the edge. I slide back out from my seat, and as I straighten my legs, I drop my bag on the floor. Curse it.

  “You’ll forgive me if I cut this meeting short.” I bend to pick up my sprawled belongings but he’s already there, a long arm sweeping down to the floor, his slender fingers picking up my glasses case, and portfolio. I stand and hold out my hand to the outrageously handsome man in the expensive suit. “Please,” I say gesturing at my belongings.

  He flicks through the pages, his focus settled on the sheets of my dreams and aspirations. “Sit.” He motions for the chair.

  I glare. I am not a golden retriever. “I think I’ll stand.”

  My rebuke is met with a casual lift of his shoulders. Digging somewhere deep inside me, I find the will to stand tall and nonchalant as he carelessly flicks through images of my soul’s work.

  It’s like being exposed naked and gawped at. I’ve shown the portfolio to other people—of course I have—but I’ve never shown it to someone who looks quite like that in a suit before.

  My nonchalant stance is undermined by the fact my damn eyes won’t behave themselves and sweep over his broad shoulders every twenty seconds. His hair is so short; really, it’s nothing more than a buzz cut. I don’t know why I thought rich people in suits like that would have artfully styled hair, straight out of an expensive salon or barbers.

  I’m so busy on my internal discussion about his military buzz, I don’t notice his eyes lifting from the pages of my bound book to my face. I’m just staring at him. Maybe with drool. I lift fingers to my lips just to check. If he sees my indiscreet drool wipe he doesn’t acknowledge it. And, why would he? He looks like that… he probably has women launching themselves at his feet and hiking their skirts while he walks down the street.

  Jesus, calm down, Faith.

  In the three minutes he’s been staring at my work I’ve become ever so slightly psychotic.

  “So, how do these pieces tie together? What’s your underlying theme?”

  Gah, that level deep voice rumbles under my skin.

  Does he realise how incredibly attractive he is? Probably.

  I can’t think straight.

  “I’d rather discuss this with your mother. I can’t help but think she’d be my beneficial audience.”

  His stare is flat. Direct on my face. It doesn’t once drop to the neckline of my shirt where I know ink teases and waves from under the silk. “Gerard mentioned you were incredibly difficult,” he mutters.

  Did he indeed? Gerard clearly wants a black eye.

  I hold my hand out. I don’t have time for this. I have bar work I need to search for. Or… I need to think of going home…

  He sighs and smooths his hands across the white tablecloth. Those fingers… my eyes stalk out on sticks.

  He stands, and I assume he’s
going to give me back my book and let me scurry away. Instead, with another small, half repressed sigh, he holds out his hand again to me in greeting. “Let’s start again.” His smile when it hits my face is like the beam of a lighthouse. It’s just… just… I don’t have anything to describe it with. It shines, it dimples, it glows with the light of a thousand suns. Okay, maybe I do have words, but they are the crap ramblings of a twelve- year-old.

  “Elijah Fairclough.” The smile is still focused on my face. I don’t know what expression I’m pulling but I’m guessing it’s amusing because his smile morphs into a smirk.

  I should leave, grab my bag and go. The wild beating of my heart I have going on is pathetic. If there is one thing I don’t do, it’s pathetic.

  I shake his hand. “Faith Hitchin.”

  He gestures for the seat and my legs instantly fold.

  “I’m sorry she’s not here. What can I say? She’s easily waylaid at Barneys.”

  I don’t smile. “Is this even a serious project? I don’t want to waste my time. This is my last summer before my final year.”

  The lapis gaze locks onto my stare. “I can assure you this is a very serious project. Bowsley Hall is in need of a cash injection. We want to turn it into something useful to the community, to create a lasting initiative that will improve the fortunes of the building.”

  “And an installation will do that how?”

  “It will give an old tired house a new purpose.”

  “Old and tired? That’s not much to say about your home.”

  He chuckles wryly. “Oh, I don’t live there. Hell no.”

  I raise both my eyebrows. “You aren’t selling it?”

  He leans forward; his gaze hasn’t once broken from my face. “It’s got prospects I think you will like.”

  “How do you know?”

  He pushes my black bound book towards me, but I allow it to sit between us on the table. “I can tell.”

  I narrow my gaze and his lips curve at the edges again.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Or would you like lunch? We can discuss more.”

  The thought of eating in front of this man makes me want to stab my eyes out with the silver fork on the table. “A drink would be okay.” Faith…