“So he took you under his wing?”
Walker nodded. “I went up there a lot, any time I could. I did my homework up there because, when he knew I was gonna keep coming, he made me bring it with me. He taught me how to hold a hammer. He taught me how to use a drill. He taught me how to change oil, fix brakes and switch out a clutch. He taught me that any man worth anything works hard and he does it usin’ his hands. He creates shit. He fixes it. Although the folks who could afford his stuff were lawyers, stock brokers, he had no respect for them. That was just his way, his opinion and he taught me a man should form opinions, do it for a reason, stick by them but keep an open mind. He was an artist both in New Zealand and here. That’s how he made his living. He gave me a pen and ink. This,” he lifted his left arm then dropped it back to the bed. “After he died, I had it inked on me. Took what he gave me to a tattoo parlor right after the funeral and got it started.”
Her voice held a tone of light dawning as she whispered, “So he was your Ella.”
Her light dawned clear for her and for Walker because she was right.
“Yeah, he was my Ella.”
“So it was Tuku who brought out my Ty.”
My Ty.
My Ty.
Christ. Fuck.
Christ.
Two words. Just two words. Walker had no clue until that moment that two words could mean so f**king much. He’d never belonged to anyone. He’d never belonged anywhere. Never thought he wanted to.
Until he heard those two words.
He couldn’t keep the thick out of his voice when he confirmed, “Yeah, it was him.”
Her hand slid from his shoulder to curl around his neck when she said gently, “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet him.”
“I’m sorry too. He’d like you.”
She tipped her head to the side. “He would?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know? If he wasn’t social –”
His arm gave her a squeeze and he cut her off, “Because you are who you are, Lex, no bullshit. Tuku was not a fan of bullshit. And he was old as f**k but he was still a man and, the way you look, not a lotta men wouldn’t like that.”
She grinned at him.
Then she asked, “Where’s the pen and ink?”
“In a scroll in a closet in one of the rooms downstairs. Had it framed but when the movers moved me in here, they dropped it, glass shattered, frame cracked. Wanted it reframed but wanted it done right, didn’t get to it before I went down.”
She studied him then suddenly she lifted her torso and moved her legs so she was straddling his lower gut. He felt that gut tighten when she unexpectedly exposed the lush beauty of her body to his eyes and he was concentrating on that so he didn’t resist when she wrapped her fingers around his right wrist and pulled his arm up between them. Then she ran her fingers down the black marks that wound a line up his forearm starting on the inside of his wrist and ending just under the outside of his elbow.
“What does this say?” she whispered.
“Got that inside. Artist in there, tools primitive, work first-rate.”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” she agreed, still whispering, “but what does it say?”
His eyes held hers.
Then he answered, “Vengeance is mine.”
Her fingers convulsed on his wrist but she didn’t move her eyes from him.
Then she dipped her head and he watched as she watched her fingertips trailing back up the marks. Then she bent slightly forward, lifted his arm and pressed his hand flat to her chest. Then her eyes moved back to his as she slowly slid his hand down, between her br**sts, down her midriff, down over her stomach and down.