Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss)

study it closely to see it.
    Belle.
    Who the hell is Belle?

 

     
    She saw it. I had hoped she wouldn’t, but I should have known better. Scarlett was a tattoo artist for shits sake; it was her job to see what others didn’t. I didn’t know how to explain this to her. I didn’t know how to tell her about Belle. How did you tell the person you’re falling for about the only girl who’s even been in your heart?
    I’d just broken through; she just started opening up a little, and then I couldn’t resist my sudden and strange urge to fucking hold her. I wanted her to know about my life, about my commitments. I wanted her to know me. That couldn’t happen unless I was honest with her. Though that right there was the catch. If Scarlett knew about Belle, she’d run a mile. I was sure of it. I wouldn’t expect nor ask her to stay once she knew the truth. One thing I had never been and never would be was a liar. I decided that if she asked, then I would tell. Just thinking about Scar walking away from me struck a pain in my chest and made my stomach knot up. I was into this girl more than I thought.
    FUCK.
    Scarlett sat up abruptly, throwing her dress back on sans panties that lay torn on the floor, and muttered quickly, “I should probably get this stuff cleaned up and I’ll need to reapply your cream and wrap it.”
    Fuck it! Fucking hell! I could see she’d closed herself off again. She wouldn’t make eye contact and was clearly in a hurry to get me to leave her alone. I had to do damage control; I wasn’t ashamed of Belle’s name on my skin, her permanent mark over my heart, but I was quickly realizing Scarlett meant something more to me than I’d originally thought. Thoughts crowded my head, memories and snippets of My Belle. Anger started to take root deep in my stomach; Scarlett wanted to jump to conclusions, didn’t care to know who Belle was or what she was to me. Belle would forever be in my life, in my heart. It might not be an easy situation to understand, but it was a part of me. Reining in the overwhelming feelings, I sat still, staring down at Scarlett working on my side. I didn’t care if she wanted to know or not, she was going to.
    “Scar—”
    Shaking her head, she cut me off. “It’s not my business, Mace. It was fun, but I told you, I don’t share. So, great, let’s just move on, yeah?”
    What the fuck?
    She not only jumped to conclusions, but she’d decided I was a cheater. I didn’t fucking think so. That tightly reined-in anger flared back to life. My jaw was ticking as I ground my teeth together, stopping myself from saying something shitty I wouldn’t be able to take back. Instead, I ripped my wallet from my back pocket and pulled out a worn photo; its edges were frayed and the image was slightly faded from being pulled out and looked at so often. I put the photo down on the table in front of Scarlett who was packing things away. Her eyes lifted from the ink pots. She dropped the roll of paper towels she’d been holding, and picked up the photo looking back and forward between the image in her hand and me.
    “Is she—?” The softly spoken question was left unfinished as she looked back up to me.
    I nodded. “She’s mine. That’s Belle.” Now came the hard part. I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. “She died, almost three years ago. She was only two years old.”
    Scarlett’s eyes dropped to my tattoo then to the photo of Belle still in her hand. “She’s beautiful, Mace. She looks just like you.”
    I was immediately thankful she didn’t offer her apologies. Sorry is such a shitty word, used too often for the wrong reasons. I didn’t deserve or want her sympathy. Belle’s death was all on me.
    Taking the photo from Scarlett’s outstretched hand, I noticed it was trembling slightly. I looked up to her face, a single tear falling down her pretty cheek. “Don’t cry, baby; it hurts when you cry, especially for me” I reached up and wiped her tear away with my thumb.
    “I hate that you’ve lost like that. I hate that it happened to you, to her.” Right there I could see the pain in her eyes. Scarlett didn’t pity me; she felt some of my heartache. Just like that, I fell a little more, for all that was Scar.
    I could see the questions running through her mind. Scarlett might play the tough, “nothing can take me down” chick, but everything she felt played across her face. I’d opened the can of worms and it was time to tell her all of