Surviving Ice

by K. A. Tucker

I’m beginning to see why Amber says I think like a guy.

  Fair enough, but I don’t want to lie like one just to get laid.

  “I don’t have a maternal bone in my body, and I have yet to meet a man who can hold my interest for more than a night.” He’s dissecting me with his gaze. I roll my eyes. “Why are you asking?”

  “I’m trying to figure you out.”

  “Why?”

  His mouth twitches. “Because I find you fascinating.”

  “Fascinating, like an exotic animal at the zoo fascinating?”

  “No. Not like that at all.” His gaze dips a little, to my baggy shirt that leaves everything to the imagination. Working in a place like this, it’s smarter to keep at least somewhat covered up. I want business because of my talent, not my boobs. Plus, it creeps me out to have guys like Bobby ogling me.

  But a guy like Sebastian . . .

  This back room has suddenly grown hot. I thought that talking would make these hours manageable. I’m not so sure now. “Get back on your side,” I demand.

  His eyes linger on me for another moment before reassuming his position with a smile, allowing me to finish tracing the outline of my design on his body while reading too much into his words. “You’re obviously capable of obligating yourself when you want to.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I pause to run my gloved fingertip over the man that hangs on his shoulder blade. “Don’t all you guys live for God and country and family?” I haven’t pushed with questions about his time serving overseas, though I’m dying to. I could easily slap a quid pro quo on him for his earlier interrogation about my choice to become a tattoo artist. I’ll bide my time, though, and slip in casual questions and comments to help me figure him out.

  He doesn’t answer. I take it as a sign that that topic is still not okay.

  “How old are you?” Something I’d know if I had him fill out his paperwork.

  “Twenty-eight. Why?”

  “Just trying to figure you out,” I say, throwing his words back at him.

  I see no ring, no tanned outline of a ring that’s been taken off. Does he have kids? Does he want kids? Has my not wanting kids already turned him off?

  And why the fuck am I even thinking about any of this? Ned’s death has obviously screwed with me more than I realized, making me think about my future more than I ever have before. I’m basically a homeowner, and I didn’t ask for that. I could be running this shop, and I didn’t ask for that either. And now I have to make decisions, and I’m afraid that they’ll be the wrong ones. That little voice in the back of my head is warning me that if I walk away from Black Rabbit, I will have regrets.

  “I’m not a soldier anymore,” Sebastian says, cutting into my thoughts. “Now I’m a lot like you.”

  Like me? I frown. “In what way?”

  “I don’t want to bring children into this world. I’ve seen too much violence to be able to sleep at night.” There’s tension beneath my fingertips, something I haven’t felt from him until now. But it slips away just as easily, as if he’s aware of it and can choose to control it. “And I have yet to find a woman who holds my interest for more than a few hours.”

  Most women would balk at hearing that.

  I smile. “Until now, of course.”

  He doesn’t answer. But he’s smiling, too.

  HOUR FOUR

  “What do your parents think of your chosen profession?”

  “They think I’m going to be broke and homeless in my forties, that I can’t possibly have a lifelong career doing this. So I guess that means they don’t approve.”

  “And what about the tattoos and the shaved head and streaks of blue?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I thought I was fierce, stunning, captivating,” I tease, though inside there’s a hint of panic. What if he was just leading me on before?

  “You are all those things. You’re also not my daughter.”

  Thank God for that. “Fair point,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What made you come back to San Francisco?”

  “I got tired of floating, and going back to Oregon just wasn’t for me.” My arm is settled against his stomach, and the feel of my bare skin against his is intoxicating. And, seriously . . . I think it’d be impossible for any guy to be turned on right now, but it looks like he could be, or else he must just have an impressive—

  “Are you almost done with the outline?”

  “Just about,” I say, too breathless, flushing as if I just got caught. “Why? You need a break already?” That Sebastian hasn’t asked to stretch or take a moment to pee up until now may be a new record for my clients.

  “Keep going.”

  SIXTEEN

  SEBASTIAN

  HOUR FIVE

  She’s switched positions to fill in the bottom part of the design, her ass cheek perched on the table and her thigh pressed against my back as she faces my lower half. It’s the perfect angle for her to size up my junk, and she thinks I don’t know she’s doing it.

  The mirror across from me, which gives me a good angle of her face, doesn’t lie.

  “How’re you doing?” she murmurs.

  “I’m good.”

  “Seriously, you’re the most unaffected person I’ve ever worked on.”

  “I have a high pain threshold.” “Unaffected” is probably not the right word for what I feel, with her draped over my body. Luckily I don’t enjoy pain, so getting a hard-on right now is just about impossible.

  “Are you sure you’re not just a cyborg?” she jokes. I love her humor, and the way she delivers it—deadpan.

  “Are you saying I don’t have feelings? That hurts.” This pain is laughable compared to the bullet in my thigh.

  “Or maybe you’re just playing tough and trying to impress me, Army Boy.”

  “Navy Boy, if you want to get specific. Those army guys are wimps.” It’s the first shred of real information I’ve offered her about my past life and I shouldn’t have done it. This room, this chair, spending hours motionless, completely at her mercy . . . I haven’t spent this much time with one person in years. It’s messing with my head.

  “Did you serve overseas?” she asks quietly, as if she knows she’s treading in unwelcome territory.

  “Two tours in Afghanistan.”

  She slides off the table. “Roll back this way. It’s easier for me to fill this with you lying on your back.” Her hand guides me and then slides onto my hip, pushing the elastic band of my briefs down and holding it there. The needle digs into my sensitive flesh. “Did you have to kill anyone?” she asks, and the question sounds so jarring, even though I knew it was coming.

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Too many.” I close my eyes, like I still have to sometimes when I let myself really consider that question. It’s easier now that I’m out, when Bentley hands me a specific target and gives me an order. I know it’s a verdict that isn’t being reached lightly because Bentley doesn’t treat casualties carelessly. Back when I was a SEAL and trudging through enemy territory with my team, guns trained, and adrenaline propelling my limbs forward, I never knew exactly where the danger would come from, and in what form. We were forced to make split-second decisions or risk death all the time. Self-preservation is a powerful and sometimes blinding need.

  It was so easy to make a mistake.

  “Why did you choose the reaper?”

  The harbinger of death.

  “Why do you think I chose it?”

  SEVENTEEN

  IVY

  I’d like to think that all people put great weight into the designs they mark their bodies with. That they choose something symbolic, that represents their passions, their personality, their struggles. I think Sebastian reached deep within himself when deciding on this design. Given the brief glimpse into his past that he just allowed me, I’m beginning to wonder exactly how dark it is in there.

  The second the question left my lips, th
e tension in his body rippled beneath my fingertips. I hit a nerve. That’s never my goal, and it’s why I’ve always stuck to small talk and ambiguous yes and no answers when conversation gets too personal.

  I pause for a second to wipe the ink away. There’s no way to answer his question without making it sound like I think he’s fucked-up.

  “I’m starving. I’m gonna order pizza. You want some?”

  “I could eat.” As if on cue, his stomach growls obnoxiously in my ear, making me smile. “And you need a rest, too.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “That’s because you’re stubborn.”

  I smile. “I’ll have it delivered to our back door in fifteen minutes. I know the guy working tonight.” If I’m going to tolerate Fez, I can at least get something out of the deal. “What do you want on it?”

  “Don’t care. Just no tomatoes of any kind.”

  “No tomatoes of any kind?” I frown, pulling away from my work to look over my shoulder at his face. “You do know what pizza is, right?”

  He lifts his head to look at me.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m joking,” he confirms with a playful smirk.

  I climb off the table and, peeling off one glove, hit Fez’s number in my contacts list. Just like that, we’ve veered back into more comfortable territory. We’re also back to flirting.

  The moment I open the back door and see Fez’s face, I regret ordering pizza from Pasquale’s.

  “Yo, yo, yo! Here’s da za!” He holds up a medium-size pizza that can usually feed me for three days, but I’m guessing Sebastian has a much bigger appetite than I do.

  I hand him a twenty. “Thanks, Fez. Keep the change.”

  I’m hoping he takes the hint.

  Fez never takes the hint. “So . . . you chillin’ tonight?”

  “Doing a friend’s ink. We’re just taking a quick break to eat before we get back into it. We have another few hours or so to go.”

  “Damn! You savage! A’right. Well, ima hang in here, then.” He attempts to step in but I block him.

  “Sorry. This isn’t the kind of night for hanging out.” I can only imagine what Sebastian would think of Fez.

  He snorts, like I made a joke, but when I don’t move, he finally clues in. “Serio?”

  I heave a sigh of exasperation. “Fez! You’re thirty-five! Stop trying to talk like a fifteen-year-old half-wit. You don’t sound cool. You sound like an idiot!”

  He frowns. “You be trippin’, gurl.”

  “Fuck. I give up,” I mutter, shaking my head at him. There’s just no point having this conversation.

  “Is that dinner?” Sebastian asks, suddenly behind me. I didn’t hear him coming. He’s as stealthy as I am.

  “Yeah. Here.” I shove the box into his hands.

  Fez’s left brow pops as he eyes the shirtless, pants-undone Sebastian. “Oh. I see how you playin’.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fez, I’m serious. This is a friend, and I’m very clearly working on his tattoo. I’ve gotta get back to filling him in. Thank you for delivering.” I wait for him to step off the threshold before I shut the door.

  “What was his problem?” Sebastian asks.

  “You, likely . . .” I mutter, plucking the box from Sebastian’s hands because he’s not moving fast enough and I truly am starving. I toss it on the desk and rip off a slice, watching the cheese threads stretch and dangle and snap until it’s free.

  “Please tell me you’ve never fucked him.”

  “Even suggesting that is an insult.” I savor my first bite. Fez’s parents really do make the best pizza in Outer Mission.

  “Thank God,” he mutters, stepping into my personal space to collect his own slice. “What’s that for?” He nods toward the thirteen-inch monitor.

  “Nothing, now. The feed from the video camera out front used to be wired into this and a VHS player for surveillance. But the two guys that came in busted the camera and then took the player. So, it’s useless now.”

  “A VHS player . . . I don’t think I’ve seen one of those since grade school.”

  “I know, right? Ned was stuck in the eighties as far as technology goes. He hated anything to do with computers. He was probably the most New-Age-tech-illiterate person I’ve ever met. That computer out front? He had no Internet connection until I set it up. It still has Microsoft Office 2000.” I shake my head and laugh. “He just got a smartphone three months ago, because I made him. And he had no idea how to use it. Those assholes stole that, too.”

  Sebastian frowns but says nothing. He hits the Power button and the same gray static that I saw that night fills the screen now. I turn away, the sight of it pulling me back to that night.

  Why is it even still in here?

  In fact . . .

  I throw my pizza down on the cardboard box and, giving my hands a half-ass attempt at a clean with a napkin, rope my arms around the monitor and begin dragging it off the desk.

  “Here, let me—”

  “I’ve got it,” I snap. It’s not heavy, but it’s awkward.

  Sebastian says nothing more, simply leaning down to yank the plug out of the wall. He trails behind me as I make my way toward the back door, reaching over my head to push it open because he knows I can’t, but I won’t ask him for help.

  “Don’t let it close or we’ll be locked out,” I warn him as I head toward the Dumpster.

  I hate this Dumpster. It’s not made with small people in mind, and I have to climb onto cinder blocks just to be able to flip the lid open. But before I can do that, Sebastian is there, still shirtless, with his pants unbuttoned and his rib cage a mess of smeared ink and raw skin, holding the lid open.

  Waiting soundlessly for me to hoist the monitor over my head and into the bin with a loud crash.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, and even though I don’t want to be happy that Sebastian was here to help and that I needed him . . . I am, and I did.

  He trails me back into Black Rabbit, kicking up the doorstop to shut and lock the door behind him.

  The last spot of unmarked flesh is filled. I take my time with a cloth, gently wiping the ink away. Even after seven hours, my hand on the verge of cramping, I’m thoroughly enjoying the process of cleaning Sebastian’s body.

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, as I spread ointment over the entire piece. Not until I’ve done all that I can, do I lean back to admire my work. It was beautiful in the sketchbook. On the Sebastian canvas, though . . .

  He’s watching my face.

  “You’re done.”

  He rolls off the table and stands in front of that full-length mirror again, to evaluate my work. This is the only time where my nerves override my outward confidence. When my work is finished and there’s no going back, and my client will either without doubt love or painfully regret his decision, regret putting all his trust in me. “What do you think?”

  He simply stands there, staring at it, and I can’t see his face. So I grit my teeth and wait.

  Finally he turns and comes back, stepping well within my personal space. He seems to be getting comfortable there. “I think you’re even better than you say you are.”

  I feel the smile of relief stretch across my lips. “Better than badass?”

  He smirks. “Better than badass.” His voice drops an octave, to a softer, almost concerned timbre. He reaches for my hand, taking it in his. “How’s your hand? Sore?”

  It’s such an affectionate, tender gesture, and on the heels of such an intense experience with him. It’s too much, suddenly. I panic and pull away. “Sore. But I’ll survive.” Grabbing the plastic wrap, I command, “Arms up.”

  He obeys, folding and resting both hands on his head casually, and watching me through that penetrating gaze as I wrap the plastic around his entire torso. “Keep this on for the night. I’ll give you an aftercare kit that should cover you for a day or two, but you’ll need to hit CVS to stock up.” I go through the aftercare steps with him. I could rec
ite them in my sleep.

  “And your shoulder? It must be sore.” Again, he takes the initiative, reaching out to massage the ball of my right shoulder, a boundary he wouldn’t have crossed before my work on him. This happens more often than not to me, when I make a connection with clients. Their tattoo is done, they’re relieved and enthralled and grateful to me. I call it the “post-ink high.” Sometimes I experience it, too.

  Right now is one of those times, and his touch feels good—too good. Enough that I’d gladly stretch out on this table and let him tend to my entire body.

  I shake off the thoughts. “Are you even listening to me? This is a major open wound on your body right now. If you don’t follow this, step-by-step, you will get a serious infection, and you don’t want this infected, trust me.” I like to use strong phrases, like “open wound” and “you will,” especially when I’m talking to men, who seem to have a hard time following instructions. I’ve only ever had one of my clients end up with an infection—a guy with questionable hygiene habits to begin with. He showed up at the shop where I was working a week later, wondering if the pus draining from his arm was normal.

  Sebastian smirks and recites back to me everything I just said, word for word.

  “Okay, Rain Man. So you were listening,” I mumble, though I’m impressed. “You’re good to go.”

  He fastens his pants and buckles his belt, and disappointment stirs in me. Not that I expected something to happen, right here right now, after I’ve etched half his torso with ink. I’m just not exactly ready to say good-bye to him yet.

  He reaches over to grab his T-shirt. “What do I owe you?” he asks, sliding a clipped wad of money from his back pocket. He begins flipping out hundreds.

  “Seven hours at two hundred per hour.” I’m not going to charge him double, even if he is willing—and prepared, based on the money I’m seeing—to pay it.

  He holds out the cash, watching me chew my lip as I stare at it. Suddenly I feel guilty for taking it. Working on him was the most fun I’ve had in a while. But business is business and he’s just another customer passing through. For all I know, he was flirting with me for a discount. Plus, I need the money. Still, I stall over his hand. “Thanks. And thanks for your help yesterday. I couldn’t have—”