"Yeah?"
Her knees bump mine as she moves closer. It's not a sexual thing. She's examining me the way Ryan does. Picking apart my intentions. Looking for meaning.
"I hate to disappoint, but there's no secret to my psyche." I tap my head. "This is empty."
She shakes her head.
"It's not."
"Beer and boobs."
Fuck, she really does warm my heart. "If only I had the wit for that kind of poetry."
"Uh-huh." She takes a step backward. Turns on her heels. Moves to the office with shaky steps.
She's terrified, but she's putting up a good front.
I do the odds in my head—two to three. She's working up all the confidence she can, but she isn't there yet.
She isn't going through with it.
Which means…
Tomorrow is gonna be a hell of a lot more fun.
A few minutes later, she returns with the stencil. "Should I tape it to your leg?"
"Should you?"
"No. I should clean you up first."
"You wore your gloves to do a bunch of shit."
"Okay, I'll change my gloves."
"Tape the stencil first. Let's see it."
"Okay."
"Gloves off."
"Fine." She peels the gloves off and tosses them on the tray. Picks up the medical tape.
Slowly, she drops to her knees. Bends.
Her fingers brush my leg as she presses the stencil to my skin.
She pulls tape over the top.
Then the bottom.
Her fingers curl into my skin. "Is that how you want it?"
Fuck yeah. "You have to shave it first."
"There's no hair in this spot. Look."
She's right. Clever.
I chuckle. "All right. Wash up again then grab the gun."
She tears the stencil off, ripping out a handful of leg hairs.
"Fuck. Careful with that thing."
"Sorry." She pushes herself to her feet and sets the stencil on the tray. "I have to clean you up first."
"Do it."
She raises a brow. Taps her toes into the ground. Confusion flares in her eyes. She has no idea what to make of me. "Is this a dare?"
"No. It's an order." I am her boss. I'm responsible for teaching her. A quarter responsible, but that's still a fucking lot.
"Shouldn't I get some experience."
"How else are you gonna get it?"
"Grapefruits."
"You've never?"
"Never."
Fuck, maybe this is a dare. I should have her do a hundred bananas before I let her anywhere near skin. But I've come this far. I'm not backing down now. "I'm your teacher. If I don't trust you to do me, how can I ask anyone to trust you?"
Her eyes fix on mine.
"Yeah?"
"You're being reasonable."
No. I'm being stubborn. And impulsive. But I guess, for me, that's reasonable. "I'm always reasonable."
"Uh-huh." She moves to the sink. Washes up. Returns with fresh gloves and an I can do anything look on her face.
"Pick up the gun."
She does.
"You know how to turn it on?"
"Yeah."
"Do it."
She yelps as it buzzes against her hand.
"New pad of ink behind you."
"You sanitized the needle?"
"Yeah."
She turns it off. Swallows hard. "I have to clean you up."
I motion to the rubbing alcohol on the tray.
"Right." She stares at the plain package. Slowly, she brings her gaze to me.
She searches my eyes for an excuse to get out of this. "You, um, you won't be able to go in open water for three weeks."
"And?"
"Won't that get in the way of your swimming?"
"Yeah." Damn, that's creative. "I'll live."
"When did you last hit the pool?"
"Last week."
"The beach?"
"It's been a while."
"It's still September. Still nice. I can't take you away from the beach."
"You can."
She shakes her head. "You should say goodbye to it."
My smile spreads over my cheeks. She's right where I want her. "All right. We'll wait until I say goodbye to the beach."
"Good."
"If you come with me."
She bites her lip.
"Two choices. You tattoo a star on my ankle. Or you show up at my apartment in a bikini first thing tomorrow."
"I don't wear a bikini."
"You want to go commando under your wet suit, I won't stop you."
"No, I—" She clears her throat.
"You want to skinny dip? My parents are in town, but I'm sure I can get them out of the house."
"I'm not getting naked at your parents' house."
"You're the one opposed to bikinis."
"You have heard of one-pieces?"
"Like the anime?"
"No." Her laugh breaks up the tension in her jaw. "But you… you watch anime?"
"Sometimes."
"That… seems wrong."
"Why? What about me says I don't watch anime?"
"Everything. You look like the quarterback who sleeps with the cheerleader."
I motion to the tattoo on my forearm.
"All right. The bad boy who steals the cheerleader from the quarterback."
"That might have happened."
"I remember. He was devastated. Then you dumped her and she was devastated when he wouldn't take her back."
"Nobody wants to be second choice."
"What anime do you watch?"
"Chloe, do the ink or put the gun down. Two choices."
"I'm not wearing a bikini."
"You are getting in the water."
"You aren't—"
"Yeah, I am. And if you want to work here, you're gonna listen to me."
"But you—"
"Call me a dick face all you want. Tell me you hate my guts. Insult my sexual prowess. I don't care. We both know the truth about the latter."
She bites her lip.
"Your choice, Chloe. The board or the gun. What's it gonna be?"
Chapter Nine
Dean
At eight on the dot, Chloe knocks on my door.
It's easy to tell it's her. Her knocks are heavy. Like the door did her some wrong.
No. It's not the door. It's me.
I did her wrong.
Because I'm pushing her now? Because of high school? Because she straight up hates my guts?
I'm not sure.
But I do know one thing: Nobody can talk Chloe into something she doesn't want to do.
If she's here, it's because some part of her wants to be here.
I pull the door open with a smile. "Hey."
"Hey." She taps her black sandals together. It's bizarre, Chloe in her don't fuck with me black outfit and sandals.
"You have other shoes."
"I do."
"I wasn't sure."
"You wore Vans every day this week. Why is that less interesting than my combat boots?"
"The high hit eighty every day."
"It's thirty below zero in the shop. What is your electricity bill to keep the air-conditioning that high?"
I chuckle. "A lot."
"Our customers are taking off their clothes. Aren't they cold?"
"You ever go to a tattoo shop without AC?"
"Yeah."
"You ever go back?"
She shakes her head.
"Bet it smelled like old combat boots."
"Yeah, but not mine. My boots smell like flowers."
"Fifty bucks says otherwise."
"Sure. We'll check Monday." She offers her hand to shake. Deal?
I love a bet. Even one where I have absolutely no chance of winning. I take her hand. "Deal."
She shakes. Pulls her hand to her side. Slides it into the pocket of her skinny jeans. They're black. As is her tank top. And the halter straps under it.
There's something on her forearm. Something that wasn't there yesterday.
Meat is Murder in all black.
Fuck, that's commitment to getting her way. "That isn't—"
"Sharpie." She holds it up. "Why? Does it suit me?"
"Yeah."
"I feel like that's an insult."
It isn't. She has principles. I have my own, but they don't ask me to sacrifice anything. They don't put me at odds with the majority of the people I meet. They're nothing like hers.
She looks up at me with a curious stare. Looking for a deeper meaning.
There isn't one.
That's what everyone thinks.
I'm the fucking court jester.
The easily placated idiot.
I know my role. Most of the time, I savor it. Keeping shit light is easier. Safer. Infinitely more comfortable.
I pull the door open. "You want a drink?"
"It's a little early for that."
"Caffeine."
Her gaze moves over the blue couch, the bookshelf overflowing with DVDs and video games, the bare walls. "What do you have?"
"I keep coffee here for Ryan."
"For Ryan, huh?"
I can't help but laugh. "Ryan is one of the people who drinks it."
"Uh-huh."
"I have tea too."
Her eyes perk. Her tongue slides over her lips. She shakes it off. Shifts back to neutral. "You drink tea?"