Ace Of Spades (Complete Raw First Draft, Unedited)

Twelve: Ink

He came back a short while later, his tousled hair damp from the shower, his tanned skin glowing.

He was wearing grey track pants, but nothing else, his greased staiined clothes nowhere to be seem.  He made his way through the lounge room and into the adjoining kitchen, and, I realized that I was staring.

He wasn't like what I was used to.  Rich men with chiselled, immaculate bodies and perfect golden tans, or out of shape men who spent too much of their fortunes on good food and expensive alcohol.  Ace was neither. 

He was muscular, but not in a showy way.  There was definitely some definition to his abdomen, but he didn't have the chiselled abs like some of the others did, as though they were carved from marble.  His chest and shoulders were broad, though, like he was used to lifting heavy things.  He was fit, because he knew what hard, physical work was, and he needed his body to keep up with him.

"You hungry?"  He called from the kitchen, as he pulled open the refrigerator door. 

He stood, peering into it, and the light from the inside washed him in an orange glow, and I found myself staring at the fascinating hard lines that he was made up of.  He shut the door again, making a face. 

"I can cook us something," he offered, tilting his head at me.

I was starving.  I hadn't eaten all day, but I quickly shook my head, averting my gaze from his tattooed chest.  When I looked up next, his eyes were roaming over my body, as though he was trying to undress me with them, and I quickly folded my arms around my chest.

"When did you last eat anything?"  He asked me, and it took me a moment to realise that he had really just been observing how skinny I was.  There was no lust or desire in his expression, just curiosity with a trace of concern.

"Um," I hesitated, trying to think.  "At the clubhouse, Debbie brought me in something yesterday."

"Yesterday," he repeated, frowning.  "Alright, you go relax, I'll make you something."

I watched his muscles flexed across his back as he took down different ingredients from the cupboards and set about making dinner, and I quietly got up from the couch to hover in the doorway, watching him.

At first, he didn't notice me there, but he threw a quick glance over his shoulder, and gave me a small smile when he saw me staring.

I was about to tear my eyes away and focus on the ground in the hope he might forget that I was there.  It was a tactic I always used, but one that was yet to actually work.  Tonight was no different, because, for once, I was the one who broke the silence.

"What's that?"  I asked.  "The tattoo you have?"

"Which one?"  He wondered, turning to me.

I hadn't paid too much attention to the other pieces decorating his skin.  They had been smaller, more intricate, but I had been mesmerised by the one which took up the majority of his back.

"The wings," I told him. 

"It's just a representation of my club's patch," he explained, and, tentatively, I made my way toward him for a closer look.

Intrigued, I ran my finger up his spine, tracing the ink, in awe of the artwork.  The artist had somehow managed to make his spine actually look like the weathered shaft of the grim reapers' scythe, the razor sharp blades almost glinting as though they were actual pieces of metal in his skin, curving over his shoulder blades, blending into the soft feathers of twisted angel's wings.

"But they're not angel wings," I observed, thinking out loud, and I splayed my fingers across the mangled feathers.

"Because I'm not an angel," he replied, and I jumped, snatching my hand away again.