Chapter 5
Allie
Though usually soothing, the small space of my tattooing room feels confining as I prepare for Justin’s appointment. I’m so nervous it’s hard to stay focused, but luckily I could fill ink caps in my sleep. I’ve done it for years. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since…well, Trevor. And in many ways, the insane attraction I have for Justin reminds me of how it was with Trevor in the beginning. I still find Trevor attractive, but it’s tainted now by all the heartbreak he put me through. Trevor has made me wary of all men. The pain he caused is enough to last a lifetime. I’d rather let my idle lady parts dry up to dust than deal with another rampage on my heart.
My apprehension about Justin might be for nothing. After meeting him three times, I’m quite sure that he’s a relentless flirt. His intense gaze, which always throws me off, is most likely part of his calculated bad boy act. But I’m very, very tempted to use his act to my advantage. He could be the perfect buffer to help me deal with Trevor’s return. Justin seems shallow enough to agree to play the part. When it comes to Trevor, my emotions are so warped I don’t trust myself.
Todd strolls into the room and lifts the thermal paper with Justin’s design on it from the tray stand. His lip curls. “More tribal shit?”
“Todd,” I say in a warning tone. He is forever complaining about people who come in and pick “cool” or “cute” ink. Tribal designs and fairies top his whine list. I don’t care what people pick. I’m always honored they let me permanently mark their skin. But Todd is the textbook image of a tattoo artist. Attitude. Shaved head. Two arm sleeves. Ear gauges. Pierced everything, which is why Todd is the shop’s piercer.
“Hey, I quit saying shit in front of customers.”
“Quit saying sh—stuff, period.”
“Oh.” He leans back and points a finger at me. “I almost got you.”
I give him a low-lidded stare, then nod toward the stencil. “Take a better look, beep face. That one is custom. The guy is a singer.”
“Beep face?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I say, “Figure it out. Fill in the blank.” I point at the design. “Just take a look.”
He peers closely at the stencil. “This thing would rock without the lame tribal shit.”
Irritated, I point to the door. “Go find something to do. Clean the bathroom if you can’t figure out anything else.”
He wrinkles his nose until the end of the septum ring practically points at me. “I’ll find something.”
Once he’s gone, I set up the tattoo chair so Justin will face away from me, leaning over the arm chair, which makes it easy for me to pull up my stool and work on his lower back. I’m rechecking everything on my tray when Mandy brings him into the room. He’s dressed casually swanky again—dark jeans, a white button-up shirt with a gray tank underneath, and black boots. With the wave of blond hair tousled over his forehead and the slightest hint of a five-o’clock shadow, he is picture perfect just like last time. The small room, with its plain white walls and bright light—I like to work within a clear canvas—was finally feeling calm and, somehow, quiet even with the thrashing music blaring from the overhead speakers. But Justin’s entrance brings a crackling energy that ruins the tranquility.
Ugh. The sooner this is over the better.
“His paperwork and payment are finished,” Mandy says to me, then smiles at Justin. Her eyes travel the length of him. “See you in a couple of hours.”
He grins at her, reaffirming my sense that his flirting is habitual.
I hand him the final sketch I’d made two nights ago. “Make sure this is exactly what you want.”
He studies it for several seconds. He shakes his head slightly. “You are unbelievably talented. It’s perfect, Allie.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly shy as a blush warms my cheeks. What am I, twelve? I stuff down my embarrassment and put on a professional face. “Um, if you take off your shirt, we can make sure I’m putting it exactly where you want.”
“Trying to undress me?” he asks with a grin.
I shoot him a level, emotionless glare. I’m not Mandy. I’m not into playing flirtatious games. Not sure if I’d even remember how. If I ever knew how.
His response to my look is to slowly—it’s too slow to me—unbutton his shirt, then reach for the bottom of his tank and lift it off in a sensual motion. Shirt gone, his eyes connect with mine—and I’m once again telling myself his gaze is just part of his flirty nature. But it’s still very hot. And regrettably I’m not immune.
Ignoring the reawakening of my stupid hormones, I gesture to the long mirrors in the corner. “Show me again where you want the tattoo.”
He stalks over to the corner, glances over his shoulder, and runs a finger along his spine. The movement is as sexy as the last time he did it. “I’m thinking here. Or do you think lower would be better?”
His muscular chest is facing me. His defined back is in the mirrors. Um…Damn. Though a flush travels over my skin, I force myself to consider his question and not devour him with my eyes, but the picture he makes is stunning. Something I’d like to re-create with harsh brush strokes in black-and-white. I clear my throat. “I think a few inches lower would spatially work better.”
Still glancing over his shoulder, he cocks his head in thought, then runs a finger lower. Near the band of his boxers. “Here?”
“Ah-huh,” I say, getting more flushed, which is ridiculous. I never get like this anymore. He needs to get away from the mirrors. Now. I lift the thermal paper. “You can check the transfer once I apply it.”
He turns to me. “No need. I trust your judgment.”
Wanting to get this over as soon as possible, I motion to the chair. “All right, then let’s get started.”
Like a graceful panther, he folds himself onto the chair and leans over the armrest, pressing his flat stomach against it.
The stretched muscles and the skin of his back stare at me. Shoulders sleek with strength rest below the line of his dark blond hair. As I step closer, that same dark, sexy fragrance I remember from before makes me pause. Gah. This stuff is ridiculous. It has to be called something like Drive the Ladies Wild. The way it gets my hormones going, it should be illegal.
“Comfortable?” I ask, sinking on my stool and reaching for a pair of disposable gloves.
“As comfortable as I’m going to get.”
I can hear the smirk in his words. “Anytime you need a break to stretch tell me. The ink will take better if you’re relaxed.” I start prepping his skin to shave.
“This is always the weird part,” he says after the first swipe of the razor. “Never thought I had a hairy back.”
“You don’t,” I say, and unfortunately my tone is slightly wistful. Stupid hormones escaping again, but he has a gorgeous, ripped back that has me wishing like an idiot I weren’t wearing gloves. “Has to be done. Even the smallest hairs can cause problems.”
Finished shaving the area, I push my nervous fingers to his back and press on the transfer. Done, I ask him to check the placement in the mirror again. He doesn’t get up. “You’re the artist.”
At this point, I’m not going to argue. Reaching for the tattoo machine, I force myself to relax. Get yourself together, Al. Forget about the gorgeous male and flawless skin inches away from you and do your job. “I’m sure you’re aware it hurts the most at first, but I want to warn you.”
He laughs. “Well, let’s get the first part over so the endorphins can kick in.”
“No more laughing,” I warn, pressing a vinyl-clad hand on his back.
“Gotcha, Boss.”
With a slight shake of my head, I push the needle to his skin along the bottom of the outline. He doesn’t even flinch. The first half hour is quiet, and he’s still as I concentrate and enjoy filling in the outline until he says nonchalantly, “This is a great song.”
Used to tuning out the music, I pause and listen. I can’t place the loud banging melody.
With the needle paused and me quiet, he asks, “It okay to talk?”
I’m not usually a chatterbox, but I’m all about the client. If they want to gab, then I’ll listen. The talkers are better than the cadavers who don’t say one word during the entire process. “Sure. Sometimes I’m focusing, so I don’t always reply right away. Or I may ask you to repeat something.” I press the needle back to his skin.
“Understandable.” He lets out a soft breath, I’m guessing from the pain. “How long have you been inking?”
I wipe at a dot of blood. “For almost six years. Obviously, I wasn’t licensed the first couple.” Through years of tattooing, I’ve learned people like to talk about themselves. It has become habitual for me to steer the conversation toward them, since I’m a private person. “How long have you been singing?”
“Two years.”
“Would I know anything you sing?”
“Yeah, I think so. We do a variety of covers from the Stones to Chemical Romance, but we have some originals too.”
“What’s the band?”
“Luminescent Juliet.”
Deliberating over the name, I fill in a corner. “Huh. You guys play at the Creed a lot, right?”
“You’ve been?”
I shake my head before realizing he can’t see me. “No. I don’t get out much. Too busy.”
“You should come to a show sometime.”
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to commit. As wound up as he gets me here half naked, seeing him onstage could put me over the edge. My hormones might turn me into a raging groupie. The thought of me jumping onstage and dry humping his leg almost causes a snicker to burst from me.
“My singing’s not too bad, but our guitarist and songwriter is really good. Even though he’s a dick, he’s like you. Extremely talented.”
I’m not even going to comment on the talent thing. “Not too bad, huh?”
“Well, you’d think I was an egotistical prick if I said I was great.”
The needle pauses over his skin and a laugh escapes me.
“You have an incredibly sexy laugh,” he says in a soft tone.
My mouth draws into an O. Nobody has ever told me that. “Um…thanks?”
It’s quiet except for the loud music in the background until he asks, “So I’m guessing you started tattooing when you were in high school?”
Still startled by his opinion of my laugh, I blurt, “Yeah, I’m lucky I never got in trouble. You’d think at least one parent would have had a fit. Maybe the ink stayed hidden before their parents could catch up to me.”
“How did a teenage girl get into inking?”
“Major art geek with an older boyfriend who tattooed. Once I started, I became addicted to creating art on skin.”
“Okay, I get the boyfriend connection, but I can’t imagine you as a geek.”
I shake my head. “Like I said, major.” He’s quiet for a moment and the buzz of the machine echoes with the music. Wanting to get off the topic of me, I ask, “So exactly how many art museums around the world have you been to?”
“Too many to count.”
The zing of excitement that sizzles through me at the thought of his interest in art is almost as electrifying as the attraction he produces when he pulls off his shirt. “Huh, you must really be into art.”
He shrugs. “I was stuck in a European city for a month every summer growing up, but art is…great.”
Great? The word kills my excitement at his interest in art. My love of art goes beyond the staleness of cliché. No art lover says “great.” But I keep the conversation going by asking him about different museums. While it’s evident he’s been to many of the greatest ones in the world, it’s also clear he’s nearly clueless about what he saw at any of them. He looked. He liked. He moved on. But I’m glad I’ve found a topic to pass the time and keep the conversation from getting too personal. And I’m glad his art obliviousness is a turnoff, because if he were into art as much as I am, I’d find him irresistible. Besides, talking to him about museums is comfortable because it prevents me from obsessing about the muscle and skin under my gloves.
Finally done, I lean back and eyeball the outline. Even I have to admit that it looks awesome. After letting him look in the mirror to check it out, and grinning at his grin, I clean the tattoo then apply cooling ointment and a bandage. Peeling off my gloves, I explain how to care for the tattoo, hiding the internal struggle I’m having over whether to follow through with my planned invitation. I take a deep breath and decide to go for it. His ignorance of art and his totally superficial, flirty personality have persuaded me I can handle the havoc he inflicts on my hormones.
“Speaking of art…I…ah…well, you seemed so cool with what I pulled when my ex showed up, I was hoping you’d go to an art show with me. I’m sure he’ll be there.” Justin watches me as he unhurriedly pulls his tank top back on. I bite on my lip ring like I always do when I’m nervous. “We can go as friends, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
A slight smile stretches across his face, and a gleam shining in his green eyes almost has me backing out.
“I would love to skip the entire thing,” I continue. I can’t seem to stop explaining. “It’s just, my friend is extremely excited about having her own exhibition I feel like I have to go, but I—I don’t want to go alone.”
“When is it?”
“Next Tuesday night at seven.”
He reaches for his sunglasses lying on the counter. “Tit for tat?”
Confused, I tilt my head in question.
“You come to my show; I’ll go look at art while your ex hovers.”
Ah, bribery. I consider his offer. Going to a show isn’t a date and I could leave right after. Though I’m not sure why he wants me to go so bad. Maybe he’s trying to get around my refusal to date customers. Not that I’m going to change my mind. “I can’t make it tomorrow, but your next one?”
He nods. “It’s a deal. I’ll pick you up?”
Though I’m relieved he agreed to go, picking me up sounds way too date-ish. “Thanks, but I’ll be coming from work. We could meet there.”
“Or I could pick you up here.”
His tone is persistent, and it’s kind of unfair to make him barter to be my fake date. “Okay, seven forty-five?”
He nods and holds out two slim cards for me to take. My expression is confused as I reach out.
“Two tickets for tomorrow night,” Justin explains.
“Oh yeah, I forgot. Great. I’m sure Todd or Mandy would love to go and bring a friend. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He reaches for his coat. “See you Tuesday, love,” he adds with a grin before strolling out the door.
His dark, earthy scent lingers in the air. I link my hands behind my head and stretch back, groaning. “What the fuck am I doing?”
“I heard that!” Shay yells from the hallway.
The girl has bionic ears or something. I let out a sigh and dig in my pocket for a five. At this rate, I’m going to be paying for pizza and sub night for the rest of the year.