Love Resolution - By Michelle Mankin Page 0,50

“What about you, Red? Are you fascinated by them?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo.”

“Why haven’t you then?”

“I don’t know. Money at first. Now, I guess I’m just afraid I’ll get a disease from the needles.”

“Reputable artists don’t reuse their stuff, so that’s not likely. What kinda ink would you get?”

“Musical notes,” she said wistfully.

“Where?” His hands brushed the small of her back. “Here?”

“No.” She shifted away. “Around my right wrist like a bracelet. With my mom’s name written out along a musical staff.”

“That’d be beautiful.”

“Music means everything to me.”

“And your mom obviously,” he prompted. “You must be pretty close.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “She died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes softened and he lightly touched her hand. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s alright.” She moved her hand to her lap. “I mean it’s not really. I still miss her every single day, but it was a long time ago.” She gestured to his arm. “Tell me about your tats. I’ve never gotten a close look.”

He scooted closer, stretching one arm out in front of her. “Here’s my mom’s name in Japanese script.” He pointed to characters interwoven into the complex designs. “And here are my sisters’,” he said proudly.

“Are they coming to a show?” she asked, touched by the obvious affection he held for his family. “I’d love to meet them.”

“Yes. The second one in New York.”

“What about your dad, is he…”

“No,” he said abruptly. “He’s been out of the picture for a long, long time.” His gaze hardened. “I have a lot of unresolved issues with my old man.”

“So do I,” she said soberly. “So do I.”

The walk of shame continues, Marcus thought after dutifully submitting to not only one but two interviews that Beth had arranged for him this morning. The videotaped interview for ET had gone well and had been conducted at a decent hour, but the phone conversation with New York City’s Star magazine had been at five a.m. Not that he had been sleeping. From the moment he walked into that hotel room and looked at the empty bed he’d abandoned all thoughts of doing so. He’d pulled out the old running clothes and hit the treadmill, instead of the bottle as he’d been sorely tempted to do.

No matter what, though, the memories relentlessly played out in his head. Even taking a shower reminded him of the last time that he’d made love to her. His heart hurt just thinking about it. The connection they had outside the bedroom was something he’d never experienced with another woman. They had forged a close friendship before they became lovers. There would be an irreplaceable void in his life without her.

In her absence even music had lost its ability to soothe him. She had become his inspiration, his muse, from the first moment he’d looked into those expressive emerald eyes of hers. His creativity was held captive by her, and he feared that he might never release it again.

His resolve to do the right thing and keep away from her had waned by the time the sun came up. Only pulling out her bracelet, the one she’d worn the night of the accident, had helped him regain it. Focusing on the talisman had reminded him how he had failed so miserably.

Don’t be a selfish bastard. Their relationship had always been lopsided. He needed her a lot more than she needed him. She wasn’t made of glass. She’d bounce back from the accident and the breakup soon. With her determination and inner strength, he was confident she would emerge even stronger than before.

Dwight flopped down on the plane’s sectional beside him, jarring him out of his morose musings.

“Little brother,” he said, slapping Marcus on the knee and giving him a searching sidelong glance. “You look like crap.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he grimaced.

“You’re welcome. You and I need to talk.”

Great, he thought. Then his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the display. Red alert. Red Alert.

Worse and worser. A lecture from his brother was preferable to the dose he was about to take. Gut check time. He showed the display to Dwight.

Dwight’s brows rose. “I’m not here,” he said, waving his hands in front of his body and went over to the mini-fridge. He pulled out a can of soda, and popped the tab.

“Coward,” Marcus told him before sliding open the call. “Hey Mom.”

“Marcus.”

Dwight slumped down in a chair and flicked on the television, scrolling up the volume.

Marcus gave him the finger.