She knew she ought to say something, to respond in some way, but her head throbbed and her back ached, and the truck’s leather seat cradled her so well, and the warmth of Eamonn’s hand and his thumb circling her palm in a light massage lulled her into the neutrality of silence as they drove.
“You want me to carry you inside?”
Nell blinked. Must have dozed off. She unbuckled herself and eased her way out of the truck, grimacing. Every muscle in her body seemed to have stiffened up and was protesting. “My legs work just fine. And you’ve got to stop trying to carry me across thresholds, already.” She wanted to call back the words as soon as she’d spoken them — being carried across a threshold had echoes of wedding bells around it, and there was absolutely no way she’d entertain that sort of nonsense, even in theory and far in the future.
The truck was parked inside the garage, and Eamonn led the way through a small laundry area into a room with soundproofing tiles on the walls and ceiling — a music room, clearly, since a grand piano sat in the center of it, half a dozen guitars and bass guitars hung from hooks on the walls, and a Celtic-style lap harp and gleaming brass saxophone were displayed on stands in the corners. Nell thought she ought to say something admiring about the impressive setup, but he didn’t seem to expect it, waving dismissively at the instruments and saying, “This is my workspace, as you can probably tell. Have to go through it to get to and from the garage. The stairs are over here. Hungry?”
She was.
He made them grilled cheese sandwiches and cream of tomato soup.
I ought to be content, she told herself, sitting at his kitchen table, dipping a corner of her sandwich into her mug of soup. She wasn’t damaged, only a little sore. A week off wouldn’t kill her. But the blue feelings welled up inside her anyway, and she was having trouble suppressing an unfamiliar urge to cry.
“Hey, now,” he said, apparently seeing something of that in her face. “Everything will be all right.” He pushed his chair back as though he might get up and come around the table to hug her.
“Don’t. I can’t do comfort.”
“Okay, let’s do something fun instead. So you’re on vacation for a week. There’s nowhere I have to be. Wanna go to Paris?”
“Not helpful.” But she felt her lips curving into a reluctant smile.
He chuckled, not seeming put out. Apparently, he hadn’t expected her to roll with that suggestion. “Well, is there anything you want to do that you haven’t been able to do because of your training?”
“Get a tattoo.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could even think about the question. “I’ve wanted one for years, but I roll around on the mat so much…”
“This is your lucky week, then.”
“How? I don’t have an appointment, or the money to burn.”
He waved that problem away. “I have a friend who’ll take care of you. Know what sort of thing you want?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, but she didn’t elaborate. I can explain it to an artist. Not to you.
“Okay. I’ll fix something up. Getting inked is… I don’t know, it helps when you’re hurting.”
I’m not hurting, she wanted to say, but it would be a lie. She wanted to lie, as she’d lied that time when she’d had a rank test go all wrong, a catastrophic pile-up of circumstances that led to failure. When they’d asked her if she was okay, she’d smiled through gritted teeth and pretended it was nothing — and regretted forever after that she’d held everything inside a false front instead of admitting to her misery and anger. “I suppose we’ll see about that,” she said with a shrug, hoping he’d have the sense to let the subject go.
He did. “How’s your head? You want an ice pack for it? Some ibuprofen?”
“Ice would be good.” Fatigue washed over her, more pressing than aches and pains now that hunger wasn’t clawing at her. “But I really just want to go to bed.”
“I think we can manage both of those things.”
Music woke her, heavy bass chords and Eamonn singing, “Getting inked today, gonna be okay / Scratch of the needle, love that feeling / New tattoo today, gonna be okay / Scratch of the needle, addictive and healing…” He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, with his hair still damp from the shower, playing his iconic blue Warwick Corvette bass — his favorite concert instrument, and Nell still couldn’t quite believe she’d searched that information out on the internet one night. It was unmistakable, though; a shimmering metallic threadburst edged the bleached-ocean varnish of the custom-built bass.
“What are you singing?”
He grinned. “Just doodling around to wake you up.”
“You made that up just now?”
“Sure. But you do need to get up. My tattoo artist doesn’t usually work Tuesdays, but you’ve got a special appointment.”
This is really happening? I’m getting a tattoo? Nell moved to sit up, then froze with a suppressed groan at the stiffness and pain in her back and neck. At least her head seemed to be all right — she prodded the area with careful fingertips, and although it was tender and bruised, she had only the mildest headache, barely even noticeable, and no signs of nausea or dizziness as she inched herself to a sitting position. “Do I have time for a shower?” she asked. Hot water would help with the muscle aches.
“Sure.” He stood and held out a hand to pull her to her feet.
I don’t need help. But as her back cramped again, she took his hand and let him ease her into a standing position.
