Scarred Soldier, Inked Angel by Angelique Voisen

Author:Angelique Voisen [Voisen, Angelique]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Evernight Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

Mike

Four Weeks Later

Saying I fell hard for my human canvas in the first few hours he lay on my table during our first session, would have been a lie. How would Rider react if he knew the truth? I absolutely had zero interest the first time Rider called the shop, back before his accident. Uninterested in doing any work for an arrogant prick, some cocky kid who thought having a few tattoos was cool, I made up an excuse. Said I was busy, although I could have squeezed him in but the sound of his voice pissed me off.

The next time he called, humbled and broken, I did a double-take and wondered how this voice could belong to the same man. How can you tell another man that you didn’t give a fuck about him when he was perfect and whole, but now you wanted him the moment he was broken and imperfect?

Scars never lie. Those intimate moments he lay still under my needle, Rider loosened up. He broke open the hard shell encasing his soul and practically offered it to me on a plate without knowing it. Rider spoke to me with his body at first, through the little twitches and shudders, before he shaped the words with his lips.

We talked about the little things—about the movies he missed, the little comings and goings of the town. On his third visit, he splintered and started talking about the remaining brothers in his unit who kept pushing him to meet, about his family and few friends he wished would get the fuck off his case.

Slowly, I managed to stitch together the story of an angry and incredibly lonely young man. A broken soldier who couldn’t realize he deserved to live as much as anyone else. Rider never talked about the accident though. About the demons he wanted gone. Fine with me. I was a patient man and I liked challenges and puzzles.

Instead, Rider talked about the explosion of color that began to come to life on his back. Blinding orange, tones of fiery red and yellow—it was my finest work to date. Each stroke was calculated, each feather vivid with detail.

Take a step back and you can see the Archangel Michael with his sword drawn, blood-red wings flared open, its tips reaching to the tops of Rider’s shoulders. Was it coincidence Rider picked Michael, and not Gabriel or Raphael? Graced his entire back with my name, the only thing my druggie mother ever gave me before she died.

“Should I come back the same time next week?” Rider asked when I finished taping the new gauze to his back.

Each time he came in, at the same time and day every week, I blatantly lied to his face. I kept telling him I needed more time, but that was far from the truth. Lately, the full-length mirror behind the chair wasn’t the first thing he approached after I was done. Maybe because he could see the same thing I did—that I was running out of skin and excuses.

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