She Ain't From Around Here

17 | chilvalric situations & embarrassment

"NICE TATTOO." I SNICKERED.

Clint dropped his wrench on the floor whilst muttering some incoherent words.

He still didn't come from under the car although he adjusted his shirt.

He muttered bitterly. "What are you doing here, Elaine?"

"Hanging around. " I murmured, scrutinizing my nails with a shrug.
I need to get them done. I thought.
"Cowgirl isn't here, is she?"

With the help of the creeper, Clint rolled out of the car. "Who?"

"Cowgirl." I spurred. "You know; the girl with the blonde hair, short, brought fake wine to me yesterday."

"You mean Ashley-Anne?"

I snapped my fingers. "That's the one."

Clint got up from the creeper and wiped his hands with a rug.
He rolled his eyes at my statement. "No, she isn't here. Any problem?"

I let a silent breath of relief. "Nope."

"Now," I said, firmly, jutting my chin and raising my eyebrows in questioning.  "About the tattoo..."

He glared at me in response but I stubbornly continued, smugness taking over my face. "What was that even, A bird?"

I feigned a dramatic gasp. "Wait. Do your parents know?"

Clint folded his arms over his chest. He pursed his lips and narrowed his sea-green eyes at me. "Are you done?"

I grinned at him and waved him off. "I have one too."

His dark eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Have what?"

"A tattoo," I said.

His eyebrows rose in interest and his eyes gleamed in curiosity but he shook his head in denial. "Doubt it."

I wanted to see that again. It looked like a bird or a tree; I couldn't remember.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Tell you what." I began. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine."

He contemplated on it for a while before he said.
"No." He took a few steps toward me. "Show me yours and then mine."

I mulled over the thought for a moment before I agreed.

I unzipped and shrugged off my fleece jacket.

I raised my shirt to the top of my ribs to reveal a minimalistic drawing of a hand with scissors, chopping up a rose that was lined with thorns at the stem.

And below that image was a sentence written in Mandarin.

Clint was hesitant at first but curiosity took over and he gazed at the body ink. His eyebrows creased in fixation and focus. "Mandarin, right?" He inquired.

"Yeah."

His lips parted and my heart rate sped up just a tad bit at how close he was to me. "What does it mean?" He asked when he looked up into my eyes.

"'what a beautiful tragedy.'"
I admitted. "I had it when I was in Hong Kong a few years ago."

The tattoo was a result of absolute boredom after a photoshoot in Hong Kong.

My colleagues and I decided to stay for a day or two and a not so sober decision got me to get a tattoo.

I was however sober enough to pick a sensible tattoo and not one that said 'shave my balls' and I knew bloody well that I could have chosen that if I was really pissed.

I was also glad it was small enough not to be noticed too much.

My parents don't even know I have a tattoo. My parents know way too little about me—they think they do, but we all know that's a lie.

The secrets I kept were much too foul and seeing as how they reacted to what happened last year, I decided to shut my mouth even if it'll kill me.

I pulled my long-sleeved shirt back to my hips and wore back my jacket.
I placed my hands on my hips before gesturing for him to proceed. "Go on."

As promised, Clint tugged his shirt up. I found myself staring at a little bird perched on a thin branch.

There was a small calligraphy lettering. I pursed my lips as I tried to make out the words. Bloody cursive writing. I thought.

'Birdie will fly up to the night sky, even when the rushing water currents want to pull him back.'

I managed to make out the words after several retries. By this time, Clint probably thought I was using this as an opportunity to ogle at his toned stomach.

Maybe I was, but that's beside the point.

I looked up to Clint. "You fancy birds?"

He pulled his shirt back down and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. I like animals."

"And poetry?" I couldn't help that my tone sounded disturbed.
He looked nothing like a person who likes poetry.

"It's not a poem." He said.

"Sounds like a poem to me," I mumbled.

"It's not."

I was not convinced. "I'm pretty sure it is."

Clint snorted. "Where did you get your quote from?" He retorted. "A fortune cookie?"

Taken aback, I countered. "As a matter of fact, Clinton. It was an intoxicated perfect accident."

"Of course it was." He murmured, his voice heavy in sarcasm.

I narrowed my eyes at him. He caught me staring and snapped. "What?"

"What do you have against me drinking? It's not like you've seen me drunk before.

Clint scoffed in disbelief. "First off, drinking will kill you. I bet your liver is surprised anytime you drink water. If no one will tell you, I will."

My therapist has. I just wasn't paying attention to that part. I thought.

"And." He added. "I have seen you drunk."

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "When?"

"The day you came to Creakwood." He said. "It was quite early. You were drunk in the car. I had to carry you to your bed."

Oh.

I flushed in embarrassment. I fiddled with my shirt sleeve and I could feel the hot sensation on my ears.

The memory hit me like a bucket of ice water.

All I remember was plopping on a bed and enjoy the faint smell of petrichor and old spice.

So he was the one who put me on the bed.

Well. Isn't that chivalrous. I thought.

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