by K. A. Tucker
All nerves temporarily forgotten, I automatically step forward to study its quality and design. “Where’d you get this?”
“San Diego.”
“When?” It looks to be a few years old, at least. And well done, which is good. He probably did his research on that artist, like he did with me. It tells me he’s no idiot.
“Awhile ago.”
I roll my eyes. Not the most talkative guy when it comes to personal questions, I guess. “What is this? A . . .” The helicopter covers the ball of his shoulder. Five men in black dangle from ropes below it. This has to be military, and I’m guessing it has meaning for him. “Were you in the army?”
Cool eyes peer down at me, but he doesn’t answer.
I take that as yes, he was, and no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t really matter to me, but it helps me understand him a little more. His quiet, somewhat rigid demeanor, his lack of reaction, his readiness to help me, willingness to go toe-to-toe with a biker. He’s a soldier—or was—minus the brush cut and “ma’am” at the end of every sentence. Or maybe that was just the Texan Marine I picked up one night in San Diego.
“So, about your design . . .”
He reaches into his back pocket and slips out the folded piece of paper, handing it to me again. I can’t help but frown with disdain. Instead of taking it, I grab the sheet I tore out from my sketchbook, waiting on a side table. “I was thinking something like this would look better on you.”
He stares at the sketch I pulled together while watching the waves come in off Ocean Beach this morning, after I’d emptied my soul and mind onto a shitty old brick wall in the Mission District. It’s a risky design and one he may not want on his body. I know that even as I mentally cross my fingers and hope that he’ll say yes, because I really don’t want to ruin his beautiful torso with something as generic and common as what he has suggested.
He stares at the sketch for so long that I start to fidget and backpedal. “You don’t have to go with this. I just thought—”
“It’s incredible.” He shifts his gaze to me, and a flicker of warmth burns in those cold irises of his. “When did you do this?”
I stifle the grin that wants to slip out. He thinks it’s incredible. “This morning. I had some time to kill.”
He looks at me like he knows something I don’t. “I want this one.”
I swallow, the intensity of his gaze and his presence seeming to suck all the air out of the room. “And the size. You want it . . .”
“I’m sure you have an opinion.” He watches me intently.
I rarely give a damn about anyone or what they do with their lives, but I always have an opinion when it comes to body art. And this one, especially, I want to be flawless. “I think we should start it here”—I reach up to tap his skin, my fingertip just a curl away from a solid pectoral muscle—“and end down here, with the bottom of the scythe cutting into your bone right here.” My other hand slides across the base of his waist, at that delicious spot where his abdominal muscles meet his pelvic bone, forming the one side of a V that disappears below his belt.
My hand is trembling.
My fucking hand—the hand of a tattoo artist about to leave a giant, permanent marking on this perfect canvas—is trembling. And he must be able to see it. If I were him, I’d throw my shirt on and head out that door and never look back.
His fingers, the skin hot and dry and ridged with history, seize mine, squeezing them under his thumb. My hand looks childish next to his.
I open my mouth, ready to fire off excuses for the shakiness—need for caffeine, though the remnants of a Starbucks Venti is sitting on a box next to us; too cold, though the AC is shut off and it’s suddenly stifling in here—when he says, “How about a little farther back, like here?” He shifts my hand an inch over.
“That will work, too.” He releases my hand, and I exhale with relief. “This is going to take seven hours in black, more if you want color. That would put us at”—I glance at my phone—“ten tonight. Are you sure you can handle it? It takes a lot out of people, and the rib cage is especially sensitive.”
“I can handle it. Can you handle it?”
I snort. “Yeah, I can handle it.”
“I figured you could.” He nods toward the front. “Then go and make that transfer so we can get started.”
Normally I’d bristle, having someone tell me what to do. But right now getting away from him and his bare chest and the masculinity that radiates from him sounds like a smart plan. So I bolt to the front of the shop, both elated that he’s going with my design and uncomfortable with how easily he’s been able to slide under my skin, with nothing more than a look.
The computer is the only thing I haven’t packed up, and that’s solely because I knew I’d need to make a transfer for Sebastian. After tonight, I’ll have to move it to the house, just in case these painters are stupid enough to take a coffee break and leave the place wide open and unattended. This isn’t the kind of area you can do that in without coming back to find yourself cleaned out.
Letting the scanner warm up, I study my design with a smile.
She’s lethal but sexy, quiet but strong.
I’d like to think that she’s a little bit like me.
TWELVE
SEBASTIAN
She’s doing her best to hide that she’s attracted to me. If I hadn’t just witnessed her hand shaking as it grazed my hip, and the slight flush of her cheeks when she realized it, I might not have believed it. She’s good at hiding her emotions.
Just like I am.
I smile. Aren’t the two of us a pair.
I peek around the corner to see her back to me, her left boot tapping to the beat of the music as she studies her sketch. Now I know what she was doing on the beach this morning. It’s impressive that she could work so quickly, after no sleep, and produce such an exquisite piece of artwork. As foreboding as the sketch is, I can see elements of her surroundings in it—the reaper’s cloak curling at the ends like crashing waves, the crows dipping and diving from above like the seagulls had.
That she would actually have the nerve to redesign my tattoo—with a female reaper, no less—surprised me.
Ivy has surprised me twice, actually. The first time was the uncanny resemblance to me that she sketched out on the wall with nothing more than two brief encounters. I should be concerned that my face—and therefore evidence of my presence in San Francisco—exists.
But I don’t have time to be surprised or concerned right now. I have only a few minutes to search this room. All the boxes are sealed with original package tape. I can’t very well tear into those before she gets back. That leaves me with the six rectangular ceiling tiles above me that I can search now. Hopping onto the leather table that I’ll be spending a long time on tonight from the sounds of it, I pop the first tile off its frame and ease it down. Using the flashlight on my phone, I stand tall enough to see into the space above and scan the interior. The walls are interior structures and not load-bearing, so there’s nothing to obstruct my view far beyond just this room, other than the darkness, and plenty of wires, cobwebs, rodent droppings.
No videotape.
I pivot around, searching as far as the light carries. There’s nothing.
“What are you doing?”
Fuck. I should have expected that. She’s a damn ninja, moving so quietly. I should have remembered that from the other day, at her house. “I heard something running through here,” I say, my voice calm and unconcerned about getting caught. The sound of an innocent man, just trying to be of help.
“So you figured you’d dismantle the ceiling and, what . . . catch it?” she mocks. Not so much as a suspicious inflection in her voice, at least.
“You said you were selling, didn’t you?” I finally look down, to find her small face peering up at me. “The last thing you want to be doing is trying to sell a place infested with rats.”
“Rats?” She pauses, her demeanor suddenly shifting. “D
id you see something up there?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s just . . .” She folds her arms over her chest, hugging herself tight, reminding me that she’s hiding a curvy little body under that loose T-shirt. “. . . They have those beady eyes and long tails . . .” She glares at the ceiling as if one’s going to suddenly drop down on her head.
The girl who will crawl through gaps in boards and spend an entire night spray painting by lantern, with every kind of junkie and vermin—including rats—within a hundred-yard radius of her, is now freaked out.
“What?” she snaps, scowling at me, and I realize that I’m staring at her. “I just really hate rats. That’s normal.”
Reaching down for the ceiling tile, I replace it in its frame and hop down to the floor, a slight sting shooting through my leg. The bullet wound hasn’t completely healed yet. “No rat. Maybe I was just hearing things.”
By the frown on her face, that doesn’t seem to appease her new concern.
“Do you want me to check the rest of the place?” I offer, selfishly. I can search for the videotape more efficiently if I’m supposed to be looking for something to begin with.
She hesitates, that stubborn, independent streak of hers keeping her from asking for more help. Finally, her disgust for rodents in the workplace must win out. “Maybe after I’m done with your design.”
I nod. That works. “How do you want me?”
She gives her head a subtle but noticeable shake, before clueing in. “Lying on your side, with your arm over your head, for the work. But I need to put your transfer on you first, so go stand over there.” She points to the other side of the table, where there’s more room and a full-length mirror propped up against the wall, and then busies herself with the music playlist on her phone, syncing it with the same little portable speaker she had out last night. When she ties her hair back into a ponytail, I notice the flush in her ears.
I smile to myself. That’s what she does. Ducks to hide her emotions when she can’t control them, when she’s most vulnerable. I’m sure that knowledge will come in handy later.
I shift over to take in my reflection as a slow, rhythmic song begins playing. “Are you trying to put me to sleep on your table?” The cushion on that bench looks soft enough, but I doubt it would be after that many hours. Then again, I’ve fallen asleep in much worse conditions than this.
“If you can sleep through a needle on your ribs, I’ll be impressed.”
“And what does impressing you get me?”
She exhales softly but doesn’t answer. I watch her reflection in the mirror as she turns and walks toward me, gloves on and spray bottle in hand. She slows to a pause, her pinched gaze on my back.
THIRTEEN
IVY
The scars are scattered across his back, from shoulder to kidney area. They make me flinch.
They make me think he isn’t just a soldier who survived boot camp and wore a uniform.
They make me think that he was hurt very badly.
They make me think that he’s seen a lot worse than I ever have.
I clear my throat, pushing those sad thoughts aside. “Okay, the end will reach down to where your belt sits. It’d be better if you pushed your jeans down a few inches.”
“Are you asking me to take off my pants, Ivy?”
There it is again. The words are flirtatious but his tone is entirely neutral. Almost sterile. But I can see his eyes in the mirror. They’re on me, sharp and perceptive and anticipating.
Waiting for my reaction.
“After seven hours under my needle, we’ll practically be married. You may as well unbuckle now,” I answer, gritting my teeth to keep from smiling like a fool who’s excited at the prospect of Sebastian flirting with me.
With one deft hand, he unfastens his belt and jeans. They slide a few inches to reveal the elastic band of Jockey boxer briefs. I doubt this guy owns even one overhyped name-brand item of clothing. He seems too practical.
A quick glance in the mirror shows me more of that line of dark hair running down from his navel and the prominent bulge below. It’s good to know that he didn’t lose any vital parts in whatever war he was a part of.
“Is that good?”
“It’ll do. Come here.”
I take his hand and settle it on my shoulder, so it’s out of the way when I mist his body with green soap. I expect him to flinch from the cool temperature like everyone does, but his face remains even. It’s like he doesn’t even notice. He simply watches me. Grabbing a paper towel, I quickly wipe off the excess, silently admiring the ridges carved into his stomach, which he’s clearly worked so hard on. I squeeze several globs of the gel needed for the transfer to adhere to his side and begin running my fingers over the full length of his side, gently smoothing and massaging it in, my breathing quickening with each dip and rise of his body, especially as I reach the sharp cut between his abdomen and hip. Wishing for the moment that I didn’t have to wear gloves. That I didn’t need the excuse of a tattoo machine to touch him like this.
I’ve turned into a hormonal fourteen-year-old. I hated being fourteen when I was fourteen. Now . . . it’s dangerous. I have no issues with acting on my desires. Like the desire to slide my hand into the front of his briefs right now.
Thank God no one can read minds around here.
“Okay, take a deep breath and let it go . . .” I watch his chest rise and fall. “Now relax and stand normally. And hold still.” The warning is unnecessary. Sebastian is a natural statue beside me as I position his design on his body and carefully peel away the paper, leaving my creation behind.
I smile. “So, what do you think?”
“Fierce. Stunning. Captivating.”
“You’re not even . . .” I sigh, feeling my cheeks flare under his scrutiny. He can’t see the design; he’s too busying staring at me, and he’s not even covert about it. I nod toward the full-length mirror on the wall opposite us. “Take a look for yourself.”
He turns away from me and strolls over to peer at his reflection again, making no effort to grip his jeans, letting them slide down more, until I can see the round humps of what I’m sure is a hard, perfect ass.
I have to clear my throat again to gain composure. “Move around a bit. You know, twist your body, lift your arm . . . make sure you like the way it looks from all angles.”
He does, leaning over and arching his arm, giving me a harsh view of those scars as they stretch under the halogen track lights. Abruptly, he turns and my eyes automatically drop to that V and the waistband and the bulge hiding beneath the thin navy-blue cotton before I can help myself.
“It’s good.” His voice pulls my gaze up to his face and the hidden smile.
He caught me. Thankfully he has the grace not to say anything.
He climbs onto the table and stretches out on his side. “Like this?”
“Almost. Can you slide over to the middle? I’m going to need room to sit up on the table.” Normally, I’d stand over or sit next to a client, but seven hours of leaning will wreck my back.
He adjusts without a word, giving me just enough room to perch one ass cheek and nudge myself up next to him.
I take a deep breath, peering at the half-naked man lying before me and the tattoo machine gripped in my hand. I’m a jumble of nerves right now. I’m afraid that the second I put this needle to Sebastian’s skin, I’m going to feel the same revulsion I felt last night working on Bobby. I’m certainly feeling an attraction to Sebastian that’s becoming hard to ignore, a desperate need for intimacy and diversion, even if it’s only temporary. But there’s something else amid the skittishness I feel, something steadier that’s pulling me to him. I think I just feel safer when he’s around.
This tattoo is a lot to take on, and clearly I’m not myself, the way I’m acting today, all needy. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this right now.
Sebastian suddenly rolls onto his back to stare up at me. “Are you sure you can handle seven hours of this?” he
asks, as if reading my mind.
It’s like he knew those words would flip that switch inside me. It’s one thing for me to doubt myself internally. It’s entirely different for someone else to voice that same sentiment.
I press the pedal and a buzzing sound pushes the music into the background. He rolls back without another word. His raised arm isn’t out of the way so I push against it, reveling in the shape and size of his triceps for a brief moment.
And then I begin to mark Sebastian.
Everyone reacts to that first stroke of the needle differently. Some people flinch, some grit their teeth, some close their eyes. Sometimes it’s not what I can see but instead what I can feel, as tension tightens their muscles, and deep breaths swell their chests.
With Sebastian, there is nothing. And in a sensitive spot like this, to have absolutely no reaction is just not normal.
“How is that?” I ask anyway.
“Fine.” And it is fine, based on the even timbre of his voice. I guess the thick layer of muscle is more protection than even I expected.
I begin on the outline of the reaper’s head, the side of my palm ever so gently resting against him as I work, his body heat warming my skin even through the latex.
This is where my clients usually begin talking. They’re excited, they’re nervous, it’s a bit awkward to have a stranger touching their flesh and they want to get comfortable . . . there are plenty of reasons for them to strike up a conversation. It always starts with small talk—the basics about the person, the all-too-common “What’s the weirdest tattoo request you’ve ever had?”
Depending on how detailed the piece is and where I’m doing it, at some point the conversation usually veers into personal territory. Their dysfunctional relationships, failed marriages, their lifelong battle with weight, the loss of a child that has inspired their ink work, spirits of deceased family members sending them signs from beyond the grave.
People divulge all kinds of things that I never asked to hear, that I’d rather not hear, and that they never planned on telling me. It makes me feel like a bartender at some seedy desert bar in nowhere-Nevada. But I keep quiet and go along with anything they want to talk about, because that’s part of the job. Ned’s Rule Number Two: These people are letting you permanently mark their bodies, so shut up and smile and let them cry about their pet gerbil that they accidentally stepped on when they were two years old if that’s what they want to talk about. While I avoid small talk outside the shop, I’ve become something of a connoisseur when a client is in my chair. I’ve had to.