I shake my head. “I shouldn’t.”

He nods. “You shouldn’t. But you are.” He motions me forward. “He’s in the back.”

It’s like my feet have a mind of their own. I walk toward the back of the store, and the girl at the front desk shoots me a heated glance. I ignore her. There’s a curtain in the back of the shop, and I’m guessing that’s where he is. I push it slowly to the side. He can’t hear me and he’s facing away. But there’s a woman on the table who’s na**d from the waist up. He’s standing in front of her with his arm wrapped around her; his hand is busy around her right breast.

“Shit,” I say. I feel like someone has just punched me in the gut. The lady on the table startles and Logan looks up. I have no choice but to leave. I’ve done nothing but think about this man all day long, and he’s with one of his skanks. I knew he had them. But seeing his hands on one of them is worse. I have no right to claim him. I didn’t even plan to come and find him. Paul insisted. Did Paul know what I would walk into?

Paul steps into my path as I run toward the door. “Kit,” he says, blocking me from leaving with his body in front of me.

I put up my hands to ward him off. I can’t take a deep breath, much less stop to talk to him. Before I can get to the front door, Logan runs from the back of the shop to the front, chasing after me. I can hear his feet on the laminate floor.

Logan reaches for me, taking my elbow in a tight but gentle grip.

Tears are stinging the backs of my lashes. I don’t know why they are. But they are. And I don’t want him to see. He holds up a finger telling me to wait. I can’t wait. If I wait, he’ll see me break down.

He takes my hand in a firm grip and starts to tow me toward the back of the store. He pushes the curtain to the side, and I see that the woman is still sitting exactly like he left her. Only now she’s holding a thin piece of paper over her breasts. “Hi,” she says. He points toward a chair and indicates that he wants me to sit.

I shake my head. “No.”

He points toward the chair again. I drop into it because I feel like my legs won’t hold me up anymore and that’s the only reason.

He turns back to the woman and urges the paper down. He’s tattooing her nipple. I look away. “It’s all right,” the woman says. “He did beautiful work. I don’t mind if you see it.”

He’s doing a tattoo. Of course he is. All the breath rushes from my body in a huge exhale. He’s doing a tattoo. I look over his shoulder as he’s finishing up. He’s not just tattooing her nipple. The tattoo is her nipple. What the hell?

“Double mastectomy,” she explains. “Logan does free tattoos for mastectomy patients.” She arches her back, pressing her br**sts out. “What do you think?”

They look like real nipples. The shading around the edges is perfect, and he’s drawn a simple nipple with a large areola. But there’s nothing simple about it. It’s a work of art. The color is the same shade as her lips, and I can’t believe how real they look. “Wow,” I say. What do you say? Nice nipples? Beautiful boobs? “That’s amazing.”

Logan holds up a mirror for her, and she looks from one to the other. “They’re perfect!” she squeals. She throws her arms around his neck, and he hugs her tightly, smiling over her shoulder at me. He steps back from her, and bends down, softly placing a kiss on the top of her breast. Her eyes fill up with tears, and so do mine. “I’m going to show everybody,” she says. She holds the paper over her br**sts as she walks out into the shop. The girl that runs the front of the shop comes over to admire them, and Paul pretends to look everywhere but at her boobs. There’s no one in the shop, but I get the feeling she wouldn’t care if there was.

“She wanted to feel sexy again,” he says quietly, yanking the curtain so that we’re behind it.

“You did beautiful work.” I bat my guitar case against my shins, not sure what else to say. It really was remarkable how lifelike they looked. The shading and the colors and the way they fit the size of her new br**sts – it was all perfect.

“She needed them.” He shrugs. He’s so humble.

She bounces back behind the curtain, looking so pleased. She tugs her shirt over her head and takes money out of her purse. “I don’t have much,” she starts.

He presses it back into her purse, shaking his head.

“He won’t take it,” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Who are you?”

“No one.”

She nods. She kisses Logan on the cheek, waves at me and leaves.

He starts to clean up his supplies. He looks over at me out of the corner of his eye and says, “Why are you here?”

I open my mouth, but can’t think of the right thing to say. I close it again. He stops and leans his hip against the table, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Can I buy you dinner?” I blurt out. I have no idea where that came from. But there it is.

He smiles. “Yes.”

Logan

“What do you want to eat?” I ask as we leave the shop. Kit asked Paul to join us, but I think he saw the pleading in my eyes when I looked in his direction. I need some time alone with her. I need to take her on a date. Technically, she asked me out, but I’d never let her buy dinner for me. Ever.

“I don’t care,” she says with a shrug.

I realize I have no idea what she likes. “Italian?” I point to an Italian restaurant on the corner by my apartment.

She nods, smiling at me.

“I didn’t think you were going to come back.” I hold the door open for her, and she walks into the dark restaurant ahead of me. The waitress leads us to a corner booth and she slides in across from me.

“I shouldn’t have.” She puts her guitar under the table, banging me in the shin with it in the process. “I’m sorry,” she says, wincing. She’s suddenly uncomfortable with me.

Is she sorry for knocking me in the shin or for leaving me this morning? “What did you do today?” I ask.

She makes a face and points toward her outfit. “Playing in the subway.”

“How did it go?”

She shrugs. “It was cold. My butt is still freezing,” she admits. I get an immediate and strong image of me helping to warm up her ass. I saw that perfect globe that is her ass cheek this very morning. “What?” she asks.

My thoughts must have played out on my face. “Nothing,” I say. But a grin tugs at the corners of my lips.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, her head tilting to the side.

I shake my head. “My mind was in the gutter if you must know,” I admit. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please go ahead.” I motion for her to keep talking using my hands.

“You were thinking about my butt,” she says. And now she’s grinning too.

Heat creeps up my cheeks. She’s so damn pretty.

The waitress comes to the table with menus, and lays one in front of each of us. “Welcome,” she says. “Do you want to know our specials?” She blinks at me, trying to catch my eyes. I make it a point not to look at her.

Kit nods in answer to her question. She rattles off some menu items and their prices, and I see Kit reach into her pocket and count her money beneath the table. There’s no f**king way I’m letting her buy dinner.

“What can I get for you to drink?”

Kit arches a brow at me and I motion from her to me and back so she’ll get me what she’s having. “Root beer?” she asks.

I nod. The waitress leaves us with the two menus. I open mine and she doesn’t. “Do you know what you want?” I ask.

“What are you having?” She smiles at me.

I open the other menu in front of her and point to the word at the top. “What do you see when you look at that?”

She scrunches up her nose. “I see someone who thinks he can teach me to read.” She closes the menu. “Believe me, better people than you have tried.”

“Who tried?” I ask.

She takes a sip of her root beer through a straw, her lips pursing around it. “A better question would be who didn’t try. I have been poked and prodded and put through special ed and been to therapists who thought they could unlock my brain. No one could.”

She doesn’t look upset by this. She just looks resigned to it. I open the menu back up, just because I’m curious. I point to the word at the top of the page again. “What does that say?” I ask.

She looks down at it and closes it. “I know words,” she says. She looks like she really wants to explain it to me, and I really want to hear it. “I can spell words. And I know what they mean. It’s just the way they lay on the page that’s hard for me.” She shrugs. “I don’t expect you to understand.” She’s looking everywhere but at me now, and I wish I hadn’t pushed it.

“So, you know the words, and how to spell them in your head?” That baffles me.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” She laughs, but there’s no smile on her face. “Dyslexia’s a bitch.”

The waitress reappears with a basket full of bread and places it in the center of the table. Kit reaches for a piece and I wonder if she ate today.

“Did you decide what you want?” the waitress asks. I point to the chicken parmigiana. She nods and looks at me funny. She’s catching on that something isn’t right. But apparently, she still finds me intriguing.

“What’s good?” Kit asks her. She did this same thing at the diner. It must be how she copes.

“The chicken parmigiana is amazing,” she says, smiling down at me. Kit’s not impressed. “But the alfredo is my favorite.”

I raise my brows at her in encouragement. She laughs. “Ok, but if I don’t like it, I’m taking your chicken,” she warns. I nod. “I’ll take the alfredo,” she says to the waitress.

Kit lifts a piece of bread to her lips and takes a bite. A crumb sticks to her lip and I want to reach over and catch it, and bring it to my lips. But I don’t dare. I have her at dinner with me. If I push her too hard, she’s going to run away.

“Did you eat today?” I blurt out.

Her face flushes and she nods. She’s lying. I’m sure of it.

I push the bread basket toward her and say, “Eat.” She takes another piece.

She chews silently for a minute and then she looks at me. Her face is soft when she says, “What you did for that woman in the shop, with the tattoos…” I nod when she stops. She’s referring to the nipple tats. “That was amazing and beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?”

I shrug. I don’t remember learning it. I just knew I could draw it. And if I can draw it, I can run a tat of it. “I think she was pleased.”

“Are you kidding?” She slaps the table. “She was ecstatic. And they really were beautiful. Like art. Can I see your tattoos?” she asks hesitantly.

I’m wearing my coat, so I have to shrug out of it to show her. I want to show her my art. I drew most of them, and my brothers put them on me. But I take my coat off and lay my hands face down on the table. She leans over, looking closely. I have full sleeves, which means I have tats from my neck all the way to my wrists.

She touches the lips on my forearm with a light finger. The hair on my arms stands up, but I pretend I don’t notice. “Why did you get this one?” she asks.

I smile. “That one goes with this one.” I point to my other arm. “It’s something my mother used to say.”

Her forehead crinkles as she looks at the cross on my other arm.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I explain. “In my case, I have a lot of distance between my lips and God’s ears. That’s why they’re on different arms.”

“Do you see your mother often?” she asks. She’s still eating bread, and that’s good. I want to keep talking to her so she’ll keep eating. I know she hasn’t eaten today.

I shake my head. “She died a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Her mouth stops moving, and she swallows hard. “I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. It was a freak accident.

“And your dad?” she asks.

“He left after Mom died,” I explain. This part is always difficult. “There were just too many of us, I think.” I laugh. But it’s not funny.

“So, it’s just you and your brothers?” she asks.

I nod. “Paul took responsibility for everyone when our dad left. He had to so we wouldn’t all be split up.”

“Wow.” That’s all she says. Just wow. She looks baffled.

“We make do,” I explain. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “How about you? Where’s your family?” I wait, like a kid in a candy store.

But she shakes her head. “No,” she says.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

She holds up a finger, just like I do to her all the time. “I know it’s not fair,” she says. “But it’s better if you don’t know.”

“Better for who?” I ask. I’m a bit irked that she’s keeping secrets. She has a right to them. But I don’t have to like it.

“My situation is difficult,” she begins. “And I can’t explain it to you.”

She looks back down at my tats. Her eyes play across them. There are too many to count. But I need to show her the one that’s hers. “I want to show you something,” I say. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be angry at me.”