Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 12

 

The Centre de Congres in Aix was an imposing, beautiful white building whose façade was decorated with a wavy pattern of cutouts, giving it a light and airy look. The bad weather from the night before, which had caused so much delay in their flight, had cleared, and the whole world seemed to sparkle.

The moment Dustin stepped out of the luxurious car and confirmed a pickup time with the driver, he was overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Hundreds of excited people streamed in, most of them wearing minimal clothing to reveal their impressive array of body art, piercings and mods. They chattered on in a multiplicity of languages: not just French and English, but he could identify Italian, German, Spanish, and several dialects that were outside of his experience. They came in all sizes, shapes, and colors, and all looked happy to be there. He felt a sense of kinship with them all: these were his people, his crew, brought together to celebrate an ancient art form that revered and gloried in the beauty of the human body.

For several minutes he just stood aside, arms folded in a relaxed way, soaking in the scene. The happiness and sense of promise that the first morning of a week of adventure can bring. He’d been to several conventions stateside, but none as large or as prestigious as this. And, in recent years, since Arabella fell ill, there hadn’t been much money for that kind of thing.

He’d missed it.

“Merveilleux, non?” The voice came from directly behind him, soft, high pitched and feminine.

He spun around to see a small-framed, beautiful Asian woman with flowing black hair twisted idly into a long braid and tossed forward over one shoulder. Her makeup was elaborate, exaggerating her wide black eyes and full mouth. She looked to be a few years older than him, maybe late thirties, but her skin glowed and her energy was that of a woman in her twenties.

The red satin bustier, drawn together around her with leather strips, merry-widow style, laid bare a landscape of tattoos that were surely Japanese in style, an ornate pattern of cherry blossoms, trees, birds and waters. Each individual piece rolled into the other seamlessly, as colors followed lines. There was a definite flavor of Kabuki about the designs that he liked.

“Ça va, toi?” the woman asked, thick black brows furrowing. She tapped the side of her head in a very French gesture, as if asking if he was all right in the head, since he hadn’t answered.

Dustin realized he had been staring and felt immediately uncomfortable. Lord forbid this woman thought he was perving on her. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered. Hoping she would understand he meant no offence.

Her lips quirked. “Ah, you speak English. American?” Her accent was softly inflected; definitely eastern.

“Yes.” Then he added hastily, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to stare—”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, lips parting to reveal tiny white teeth and a large, endearing gap at the front. “Tattoos are meant to be stared at. I would be offended if you didn’t stare at my art.”

He smiled, relaxing a bit. Relieved that he wasn’t coming across as a pervert.

She offered her hand, which was tattooed all the way down to her fingertips. “Onyx.”

“Dustin,” he said, shaking. “Spencer.”

Her eyes widened, thick brows shooting upward into her bangs. “Noooo! You’re Spencer?”

He looked at her, perplexed. “What… you know me?”

“You’re that guy… You were featured on that body mod website, with your abstract designs. There was an interview with you last year.”

He was taken aback. He’d been interviewed a few times, and his work was featured on a few websites and in some magazines, but he’d never thought any of those stories were significant enough for someone to remember. He said so.

She laughed. “Are you kidding! Your use of color is so refreshing. And your line art… I shared the article on my Instagram.”

“You’re an artist too?”

“I’ve got my own place in Cannes. I come to this convention every year.” She nodded her head toward the entrance. “So, Dustin Spencer, are you going inside, or are we going to stay outside and admire the parking lot?”

They walked together into the hall, pausing to register and collect their credentials. Onyx chattered all the way, opening up the program and immediately pointing out all the exhibits she wanted to see. “Come along, Spencer,” she insisted. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

He fell in, realizing that he was enjoying her company, and with her chatter, he didn’t need to say much. There were way too many exhibits to see in a day, especially as Onyx insisted on engaging every booth holder in long and detailed conversations, asking questions, examining tools, inks, equipment. It was clear to Dustin that he would be returning tomorrow.

After sharing a quick lunch of sandwiches in the crowded dining hall, they went upstairs to listen to a few of the presentations. On the way back down, Onyx suddenly grabbed his arm. “Spencer! Do you see that?” she pointed at a massive banner that took up most of a far wall.

The banner announced a tattoo competition to take place on the last day of the convention, and the promised prize money looked nice indeed.

“Come, come!” she insisted, dragging him by the elbow down the stairs and across the thronging hall.

Allowing himself to be led, Dustin was amused by her easy familiarity and fearlessness. He’d enjoyed her company, and if he was honest, he’d admit he was also intrigued by the competition. Onyx immediately launched into an interrogation of the harried-looking official, in swift French. Then she turned to him, grinning. “Let’s do this!”

“What? No, I—” This wasn’t a part of his plan. He’d really come here to make sure Chantelle was okay; at the end of the week, he was heading back home.

“Come onn,” Onyx cajoled. “Allez!” She waved at the banner with her slender, heavily tattooed arms. “Do you see? Do you see the money? Think of this! Think of what it could do! For me! For you!”

Eying the prize again, Dustin had to admit it didn’t sound bad. The thought flashed through his mind that many of his financial troubles were over now, but then he reiterated that the money he’d received through his deal with Chantelle was not his: it was all for Arabella. So winning this competition might bring a nice little bump to his own personal finances.

Properly incentivized, he gave in. Onyx squealed, did a little happy dance, and snatched up the forms, making him turn around so she could use his back to press on as she wrote. He couldn’t help but smile at that: it was as if they were back in high school again. She was a barrel of pure energy, there was no doubt about that, and her sense of personal boundaries was close to nil.

Dustin was glad he’d found a friend.

The pair walked out to the parking lot, agreeing to call later to discuss ideas and brainstorm about finding a model. He could see Chantelle’s car and driver waiting for him in a cool spot, but made sure that Onyx left safely—roaring away on a motorcycle that was way too big for her—before he set off for home.

Well, not home exactly.

Finding a sticky note on his bedroom door inviting him down to dinner surprised him. He figured Chantelle would have wanted him to be all but invisible while he was there. But he showered quickly and went in search of her.

When he found Chantelle, she was already seated at a small table located on the balcony of the middle floor. The table was laid out for the evening meal, and that massive cat of hers curled on her lap as if she owned her mistress.

Chantelle was dressed casually in jeans and a white peasant blouse embroidered with wildflowers, and he was a little surprised. He figured that, apart from surprising her in her admittedly dowdy cotton nightgown this morning, it was the first time he’d seen her dressed in anything other than severe but stylish business wear. Just her clothing alone made her look more relaxed, more approachable.

“Hey,” he said, taking a seat.

Both Chantelle and Minerva turned their heads, taking him in with equally frank gazes. He noticed how close the two were in eye color.

“Hey,” she answered, dumping the cat off her lap so she could shift places and sit across from him. The cat was unperturbed, returning to the armchair that Chantelle had vacated and curling up in the warm spot. She decided it was a great time to completely ignore Dustin, and looked away.

“How was it?” Chantelle asked, gesturing to the first course, a tureen of what looked like artichoke or celery soup, for him to serve himself.

“Great.” He began to tell her about what he’d seen, the people and the atmosphere, and she listened, looking genuinely interested. He described his new friend, Onyx, in language as vivid as Onyx herself was, and told her all about the contest.

“Sounds like you met your tribe,” she said.

“Definitely.”

She cocked her head, looking him up and down. “How many tattoos do you have?” she asked.

He was a little taken aback by the question, not expecting her to be interested in him on a personal level. “About twenty. Got my first at age fifteen. Illegally, naturally.”

“Naturally.” She pondered, still allowing her eyes to travel down his arms. “Are those flowers?” She asked, pointing to the wreath of ivy that encircled his wrist.

He raised his hand and looked over at the design. “Those are ivies. My mom’s name was Ivy. It was the very first tattoo I ever got.”

“That’s very thoughtful.” She caught his gaze, and he was sure he could see a softening there.

He shrugged. “I never get a tattoo just for the hell of it. Not to show off, I mean. Each design in some way is connected to an element of my life that I deem important.” He pointed at a tribal band going down one arm. “This one I got in honor of my father, whose grandfather was a member of the Cree nation.” Then he pointed to the numbers on the inside of the other arm. “Those are my siblings’ birth dates. I was already an adult when they were born, and I probably love them more than most siblings love each other.”

“Wow! Will you get another? Or are you all filled up?”

“A tattoo lover can always find space for another,” he laughed. “I’m thinking of getting one before I leave. Maybe ask Onyx to do it for me.” Then, he asked, “Do you have any?”

She looked shocked by the idea. “Me? Tattoos? No!”

“Don’t knock it. It can be an exhilarating experience. Some people say it’s even sexual!”

“I’ll bet.”

Then his voice softened. He knew he was treading into risky territory. “Feeling okay? No dizziness? No—”

“I’m great,” she said briskly. “Doing fine.”

“I’m glad,” he replied choosing not to press for details. Then, he dared to ask, “Do you want to come to the convention tomorrow?”

Her mouth fell open. “Me? At a tattoo convention?”

“It’ll be fun. Think of it as a trip to an art museum. Only the canvases are bodies.”

“Okay….” She looked doubtful, but he chose not to press her, knowing how stubborn she could be. Better she make up her mind for herself.

She did. As Rosemarie appeared with the main course, Chantelle made her decision. “I’ll come with you.” Then added, “As long as I’m feeling okay.”

“Then, I hope you’ll be in tip top shape tomorrow,” he said sincerely, for more than one reason.