“I did most of them myself.”
I freeze, caught off guard by his actual answer to my question. My eyes sweep over his tattoos again, and I marvel at his skill.
“Really?” I look up to meet his gaze once more.
He nods. “Yeah. Some of the early attempts aren’t that great, but I’ve … practiced.”
I blink. “Shit … yeah. Some of these are really, really good.” That’s an understatement because every single one of his tattoos is a work of art. I swallow hard before continuing. “You’re really talented, Liam.”
He visibly tenses and stares at me like I’m a crazy person. Maybe I am. Why else would I compliment one of my tormentors?
“Thanks,” he replies slowly.
I can think of nothing else to say, so I decide it’s best for me to leave. Turning, I make my way to the ladder, climb up, and grab my towel, leaving the room without a backwards glance even though I feel his gaze burning into my back.
There’s a shift between our dynamic after that night.
We’re not friends, not by a long shot, but it doesn’t quite feel like we’re enemies anymore either. I keep going back to the pool, and he keeps being there. Now, though, he actually talks to me. Not full conversations at first, but small comments and the occasional compliment about my swimming.
After a few days, though, we start asking each other questions. He asks me where I come from. I give him the partial truth and say Georgia. I ask him why he decided to start tattooing himself. I’m pretty sure he also gives me a partial truth when he says he started doing it himself because his parents wouldn’t let him get one professionally done, and then he got hooked on the art. A voice in the back of my head whispers there’s more to it than his parents simply not allowing him to get inked, but I don’t push it.
I’ve got a tenuous understanding with Liam Halloway going on that could possibly make my life a little less terrible. I’m not going to do anything to fuck that up.
After two weeks of swimming and interacting and warming up to each other little by little, I feel like I can ask him for his help. I’ve been biding my time, hoping I can get him to like me—at least a bit—so he might start to feel bad when I’m harassed by his dipshit friends.
I wait until we’ve been swimming for about thirty minutes. We both stop to take a break, meeting in the middle of the pool, which has become our neutral zone. Nothing bad can happen in the middle of the pool.
We chat for a while, batting mundane topics back and forth as we navigate this strange companionship. It isn’t until he’s visibly relaxed, talking easily, that I ask him what I’ve been hoping to for a few days now.
“Hey, Liam, I have a small favor I was wondering if you could help me with?”
He tenses immediately, and I suspect I’m making a mistake.
“What is it?” His tone is low and suspicious. There’s a warning underlying it, as if he knows what I’m going to say.
I gulp, then press forward. “We’ve gotten to know each other over these last few weeks, yeah? I don’t think you hate me quite as much as you did when we first met.”
“Ellis…” The warning becomes more obvious.
“I’m not asking you to be my friend or anything,” I hurry to continue before he can stop me. “I’m just wondering if maybe you could … could you convince Saint to back off? Please? I’ve apologized for what I did, but it’s not enough and I don’t know how much longer I can take his bullshit without going off and losing—”
“Ellis, let me give you some advice when it comes to Saint,” he interrupts me, a shadow coming over his face. “He’s a stubborn bastard who’s used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it. If he wants you gone, you should just make it easier on yourself and go home.”
I stare at him, soul-crushing disappointment coursing through me. His words echo Saint’s, and I can see by the firm set of his jaw he’s not going to change his mind. Is he afraid of Saint? Is he just that loyal of a friend?
Whatever the reason, he isn’t breaking rank with Saint, which just puts me back right where I started.
Anger heats my blood, and I release a breath of frustration. “Well, while I appreciate