"So dark-and-pierced wasn't on duty?" Rianne flashed a wicked grin at Aislinn, who blushed predictably.

"No Seth. Today was blond-and-moody along with scarred-and-sexy." Leslie winked at Aislinn, enjoying the brief moments of normalcy, of smiling. Rianne brought that in her wake, and Leslie was ever grateful for it. They stopped in front of Aislinn's locker, and Leslie added, "Our little dessert hoarder was just going to tell me when we're all going out dancing."

"No, not—" Aislinn started.

"Sooner or later, you're going to need to share the wealth, Ash. We're feeling deprived. Weakened." Rianne sighed and leaned heavily on Leslie. "I'm feeling faint with it."

And for a moment, Leslie saw a look of longing pass over Aislinn's face, but then Aislinn caught her watching.

Aislinn's face turned impassive. "Sometimes I wish I could … I just don't think it's a good idea."

Rianne opened her mouth to respond, but Leslie shook her head. "Give us a sec, Ri. I'll catch up."

After Rianne left, Leslie caught Aislinn's gaze. "I wish we weren't doing this. …" She gestured between them.

"What do you mean?" Aislinn grew so still and silent in the din of the hall, it was like the noise around them vanished for an instant.

"Lying." Leslie sighed. "I miss us being real friends, Ash. I'm not going to encroach on your scene, but it'd be nice to be straight-up again. I miss you."

"I'm not lying. I … can't lie." She stared beyond Leslie for a moment, scowling at someone.

Leslie didn't turn to see who it was. "You're not being honest, either. If you don't want me around …" She shrugged. "Whatever."

Aislinn grabbed her arms and held her close. Although she tried, Leslie actually couldn’t pull away.

A jerk passing in the hall called, "Dykes."

Leslie tensed, torn between the once-instantaneous urge to flip him off and the still-new fear of conflict.

The bell rang. Lockers slammed. Aislinn finally said, "I just don't want to see you get hurt. There's…people and things…and …"

"Sweetie, I doubt they're any worse than what—" She stopped herself, unable to say the sentences that would follow. Her heart thunked at the thought of saying those words aloud. She shook her arm. "Can you let go? I've still got to go to my locker."

Aislinn released her, and Leslie left before she had to figure out how to answer the inevitable questions that would follow her almost admission. Talking won't change it. But sometimes it was what she wanted most, to tell someone; often, though, she just wanted to not feel those horrid feelings, to escape herself, so there was no pain, no fear, no ugliness.

Chapter 2

After school Leslie headed out before Aislinn or Rianne had a chance to catch up with her. She'd spent her free period in the library reading more on the history of tattooing, the centuries-old traditions of marking the body. The reasons—ranging from adopting a totem animal's nature to marking life events to offering visual cues to identify criminals—fascinated her. More important, they resonated with her.

When she walked in the door of Pins and Needles, the cowbell clanged.

Rabbit glanced over his shoulder.

"Be right with you," he called. As the man beside him talked, Rabbit absently ran a hand over his white-and-blue-dyed hair.

Leslie lifted a hand in greeting and walked past him. This week he had left a tiny goatee directing attention to his labret piercing. It was that piercing under his lower lip that had caught her attention the first time Ani and Tish had brought her to the shop. Within a week, she'd had her own piercing—hidden under her blouse—and found herself spending time in the studio.

She felt safe there—away from Bishop O.C., away from the unpleasantness of her father's drunkenness, away from whatever letches Ren brought home to share his drug of the week. At Pins and Needles she could be safe, quiet, relaxed—all the things she couldn't be most other places.

"Yes, always use new needles," Rabbit repeated to the prospective customer.

As Leslie walked around the shop, she listened to the snatches of Rabbit's comments that wound into the silence between songs: "Autoclave…sterile as a hospital."

The man's gaze drifted lazily over the flash on the walls, but he wasn't there to buy. He was tense, ready to bolt. His eyes were too wide. His posture was nervous—arms folded, body closed in on itself. Despite the number of people who came through the shop, only a few would actually lay down money for art. He wasn't one of them.

"I have a couple questions," she called out to Rabbit.

With a grateful smile at her, Rabbit excused himself from the man, telling him, "If you want to look around …"

Leslie walked over to the far wall, where she flipped through the flash—images that could be bought by and put on as many people as liked them. Flowers and crosses, tribal patterns and geometric designs—many were beautiful, but no matter how long she stared at them, none seemed right. The small rooms branching off the main room had other styles that were less appealing: old-school pinup girls, skeletal figures, cartoon characters, slogans, and animals.

Rabbit came up behind her, but she didn't tense, didn't feel that urge to turn so she couldn't be cornered. It was Rabbit. Rabbit was safe.

He said, "Nothing new there, Les."