Hot Nights, Dark Desires

"Did you hear me, Sophie? I'm getting my new tattoo today and I want you to come with me."

Sophie pulled in a breath, trying to concentrate on her friend's words over the sharp buzz of desire running through her system. Tattoo. That word, the mere idea, had always had this effect on her. And once more, she hated that she wasn't ever brave enough to indulge her secret yearning.

She shifted her weight, the old wood floor of Crystal's apartment creaking beneath her. "Sorry, Crystal. I was . . . thinking about something. Why isn't Boone going with you?"

"He had a last-minute gig come up, a studio job, so he packed his drumsticks and took off. Anyway, he spent the night last night, and if he came with me he'd want to stay again. If I let him stay too often, he'll begin to think he owns me. You know how I hate that."

Sophie rolled her eyes and laughed.

"I don't want to go alone, Sophie; say you'll come with me." Crystal turned around on the old, wobbly piano bench that sat in front of her baby grand, where she'd been playing and singing when Sophie had knocked on her door. "Hey, you're not afraid, are you? I know the whole tattoo thing freaks some people out."

"No, I'm not afraid. I mean, I guess I am, but it's be- cause . . ."

Sophie stopped herself. How much to tell? She'd only known Crystal for three months, since she'd moved into the apartment upstairs. She certainly couldn't tell her new friend that she had such an intense attraction to the idea of tattoos, of being tattooed, that it bordered on obsession. That even thinking about it caused her entire body to surge with an unexplainable, searing lust.

She looked out through the French doors behind Crystal's piano, through the paned glass with its peeling white paint, to the small enclosed courtyard with its overgrown greenery, the profusion of flowers whose perfume fought against the smell of mold and decaying plaster in the air.

This place was like something out of a dingy, perverse dream: old pink stucco that was literally falling down at the corners, every window graced with the intricate black ironwork New Orleans French Quarter architecture was famous for, the wide-plank wood floors countless generations had walked over before her. Sophie had loved the place immediately. And she and Crystal had taken to each other right away, too. But she had to pay attention to what Crystal was saying.

"Because why, Sophie?" Her friend's exotic, turquoise eyes were trained on her.

Sophie shrugged, trying to dispel the knot forming in her stomach. Trying to make this all less important. "I've always had a sort of fascination with tattoos," she admitted. "I've always wanted to get one. You have no idea how badly."

"Then why don't you? I don't get it."

"God, Crystal, I can't!"

"Why not? You're a writer, Sophie. It's not like you have to clock in at an office, wear a suit every day. Or, God forbid, panty hose. And with the stuff you write, all those ghosts and vampires, people probably expect you to be a little eccentric anyway. So, why not?"

Yes, why not, indeed? She tugged on her dark, waist-length brown hair, twisting a strand around her fingers. Maybe because the rules her strict Italian-Catholic parents had ingrained into her ran far too deep for her to ever completely escape? Maybe because, despite the fact that she'd escaped their house, she could never quite get away from what they'd taught her about who she was, and what she should be.

She hated that no matter how far she'd run--and she'd spent most of her life since the age of eighteen running, all over the country--they still had a hold on her. She'd never managed to shake the sound of their voices in her head.

Why can't you be more like your brother?

Maybe because her brother, that uptight, sanctimonious snob, was a priest.