I’d also spent all my spare time the last week or so in a tanning booth so knew I was looking pretty sexy: light tan, long curly blond hair, blues e...es. I wasn’t k1dding myself at being some pageant winner, but I had something going tonight.He walked over and my heart began to pound against my ribcage. He held out a hand, his voice rich and deep, “Dean, Dean Connor. I own this place. You having some problems? Anything I can do for you?”I blushed, looked down and then up, and bit my lower lip. I. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and. More

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