The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

4. Chapter 4

four

Quinn

M y parents weren't home, and I wasn't about to spend my Saturday morning at home bored. And I definitely wasn't going to prepare myself to become the perfect wife. So I got dressed and headed to the art expo my father said I couldn't go to. The Art Museum was just downtown, making it easy to take a tube and head over there. I always came when my parents left the city to visit my grandma.

As I browsed the different paintings, I noticed one in particular that held me captive. It had a special place in my heart for unknown reasons, but it spoke volumes to me. Holding Onto A Memory was a masterpiece that allowed me to reflect on my life. The piece displayed a woman with closed eyes, almost like she was longing for someone. Her tears stained her creamy cheeks, but the faceless man she held onto stirred something inside me. It reminded me of myself for some strange reason, almost like someone was missing .

I could spend hours just staring at it, and I did until my stomach started to growl, indicating it was time for me to eat since I had skipped breakfast. I dug through my bag and took the container of cranberries I had. Too busy opening the lid, I hadn't noticed a person standing near me.

When I turned to my right, I saw him. Alexander was staring at the same image as me. He hadn't noticed me yet, too busy focusing on the woman crying in the painting. His hand traced the missing puzzle pieces that seemed to be disappearing from her head and flying away into the unknown. His hand then traveled to the faceless man, who was a silhouette. Lastly, he traced the woman and how she held onto him, almost like she was gripping onto a memory.

I opened the lid and started munching my cranberries while my free hand pulled my skirt even lower, trying to hide myself. What was he doing here? Not many knew about this hidden exhibit.

"You, again." His raspy voice caused goosebumps to appear on my skin.

"Are you talking to me?" I looked behind me to make sure there was no one.

There wasn't.

It was only him and me in this room, and that was because the museum was partially empty. This particular room was hidden in the far corner. I discovered this place by accident when I got lost trying to find the restroom, and ever since then, I've been coming here to see this painting whenever I am upset.

"Unless you can see ghosts, I'm talking to you," he chuckled, still not looking at me.

"Last time I checked, I couldn't see dead people except for Casper," I replied, my voice laced with sarcasm.

"Smartass," he teased and continued talking.

"Quinn, you don't give yourself enough credit. Why do you always think I'm talking to someone else? When all I see is you, Princess." He turned his body ninety degrees to give me his full attention. We stood face to face, and I could see the tug on his lips when he called me princess. Alexander dragged me to a nearby bench, the emotions in his eyes told me he needed more of a connection, or perhaps I did.

Maybe we both do.

His eyes were softer than I ever imagined they could be. Or maybe it was all in my head? I was going to go with that. I breathed in and breathed out. "Boys don't see me. They don't speak to me. They don't try," I admitted, as there was no harm in telling the truth .

Alexander wore a tight black T-shirt and black jeans—he looked devilishly handsome.I looked down at my outfit. I was wearing a white T-shirt with a long ruffle skirt that hit my ankles now since I pulled it down even lower. My entire body was covered except for my arms. My whole wardrobe consisted of clothes that were very nun-like.

My mother had made it impossible for me to buy anything revealing. Not only had my mother prevented me from buying such clothes, but she also forbade the shopkeepers from selling me anything revealing. She decided what was suitable for me or not. She made me think my future consisted of joining a convent and wanting to be a hardcore Catholic.

"Princess, I can assure you I'm no boy," he hinted with a smirk. His voice was deep and gruff.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I— I umm, I mean, you aren't a boy. You're more like a man. Yeah, a man," I said as I stumbled over my words. Oh my God, kill me now.

He raised his hand, and his thumb caressed my cheek. "Explain what you meant by boys?" It felt like a demand, and something inside me wanted to defy him, but no, like a good girl, I listened. Alexander was no boy. No, he was all man. Alexander exuded masculinity with his commanding presence, characterized by his broad shoulders, towering stature, and sharply defined jawline.My hands shook a little as I closed the lid on my container and stuffed my cranberries into my bag. Why did he have to touch me? And why did I feel like lightning had hit me and traveled throughout my body with just one touch?

I dropped my sketchbook, forgetting that I was holding it between my armpits. As I went to pick it up from the floor, both of us crouched down to do so. My hand touched his, and for a second time, I felt something.

"You draw?" He questioned as he picked up my sketchbook and analyzed the sketch in front of him. I stood up and patted my skirt down with my hands. Alexander handed me my book back.

"Yeah, I plan on majoring in art," I smiled and nodded, feeling confident.

"You're very talented. Would it be okay if I saw your work?" He asked, and I was in total shock that he asked permission to look at my sketchbook. No one had ever asked me that, not even my parents. I had asked Sophie several times, and she always claimed that she didn't need to see my work because she already knew it was incredible, but the one time she did see my artwork, she cried. She blamed the tears on her allergies, but I knew better.

I nodded enthusiastically and handed him my sketchbook; his large hand accepted it back. I quickly drew my hand away when I felt his fingertips skim mine. My skin was buzzing with electric sparks.He opened my book, focusing on each one of my drawings. He nodded as he flipped through the pages until he came to a particular sketch that drew him to an immediate stop. His fingers halted, and he stopped flipping and tracing. He looked up at me, and I couldn't read his emotions.

"That's me?" He questioned, but more to himself, I think. Honestly, I'm not too sure, as my eyes widened at the realization that he would probably think I was crazy or weird. Oh, no, no, no. This can't be happening to me! I had completely forgotten that I had a few sketches about him.

I just embarrassed myself in front of the one man who had paid attention to me. I snatched my sketchbook from his grasp and stuffed it inside my book bag. I slung it over my shoulder once more and made a run for it. "I have to go," I rushed out of the museum, practically running. Alexander was going to think I was a stalker. I rushed my fingers through my hair, too scared to look back.