“You can’t just do something on a whim. It’s permanent.”
“So make it not so permanent. Can’t you do that? Give me a temporary tattoo or something?”
I glance toward Farrell, who’s bouncing his head up and down, letting me know we have the equipment. “Yeah,” I answer her. “We can do an airbrushed tattoo. Do you have any idea what you want?”
“Can I…think for a minute?”
“Sure. I’ll ready the station.”
She nods, and I head back to our locker room area, going to a chest and pulling out my preferred items. I head to the empty training room, the one I haven’t had to use for a couple years now, and begin setting up the airbrush machine in there. I check the pressure and grab a few different cases of colors just in case she’s wanting something vibrant.
Once I’m sure everything is set, I head back out to the front counter and find Haley bent over a blue photo album. Farrell’s there too, pointing at images, talking to her about the client or the work. She’s enamored, and not once does a look of distaste cross her features. In fact, she looks awed, intrigued. No matter what smartass comment flies from Farrell’s mouth, she doesn’t look away from the artwork in front of her.
As I draw closer, it dawns on me which album she’s checking out.
Mine.
When they hear me approach, the tall, lanky tattoo artist quirks a single brow, amusement coating his features. Briefly narrowing my eyes at him, I turn to Haley, whose eyes shine with…
Wait. Is that…?
No. No way.
“I’m gonna go check on Romeo right quick,” Farrell suddenly says. He makes eye contact as he walks past me, giving me another smug grin. I like Farrell—he’s a good guy—but I have never wanted to punch him so many times in a single day before.
That’s my artwork. Those are my drawings. He has his own goddamn book to show potential clients. Why did he bring mine out? If I wanted Haley to see my book, I would have shown her. In fact, it’s a rule of the shop to not touch my portfolio.
I know, I know. But this is a tattoo shop. Everyone has portfolios to show to clients and they’re all usually available to anyone. Yeah? Not mine. I work here about once a month for roughly six hours. That’s it. So my portfolio isn’t on display. It’s reserved for those precious six hours and if someone comes in specifically asking for me to be their artist. That’s it. I don’t spread what I do around, and I certainly don’t like anyone else showing off my book, especially to people who make me so fucking nervous I shake—like right now.
Farrell showing Haley my book practically opens the door to the tendrils of anxiety floating around me. I can feel the uncertainty digging in, the worry gripping my chest like the hands of Death himself. I grow cold and sweaty all at once. Everything is too much and not enough. Just as the edges of my vision start to blur, a sure sign my breathing isn’t right, I snap my gaze to the floor. I focus solely on the air entering and leaving my lungs, gulping in a big breath and counting backward from ten.
I’ve always likened my anxiety to that of a short pier leading out into the ocean. There’s a boat wrapped closely around a wooden dock slamming against the planks relentlessly from the force of the waves. That rope is the only thing stopping my boat from freedom. So, I untie it, and each loop around the timber pole is another easy breath I take. One loop, one breath. One loop, one breath. I do this until my boat is free, until I breathe without any hesitations. And then my fears drift away.
When I finally lift my head, Haley’s back to staring at the photographs on the page in front of her. I take tentative steps toward her, the sudden desire to know which image has her so enraptured hitting me hard.
“This is my favorite. I love how you can look at this man’s arms and see this tragic, beautiful tree. One arm dedicated to the tree at its peak, alive and beautiful, the other full of sorrow and decay. The lack of color doesn’t sway you from its beauty—it adds to it. The way the two meet at the middle over this black hole. Only then can you see an ounce of color as you look into the heart—literally—of the tattoo. And it matches, each arm half alive and half dead.” She looks toward me, her eyes boring into mine with a fierce stare. “It’s haunting.”
I’ve never heard someone tell me something is haunting before and feel nothing but at peace. Her words are dipped in admiration, and I don’t stop the action as my eyes close momentarily against her words. Fuck. That feels good.
“Your talent astounds me.”
“Stop it,” I say, my eyes back on hers.
“Why?” She frowns. “I mean it.”
“I’m certain you do, Haley, but I’m doing everything I can to not reach out and kiss the ever-loving shit out of you, and last I checked, we weren’t going to cross that carefully laid line.”
Her mouth drops open and she quickly breaks eye contact. My hands twitch at my sides. I want so badly to reach out and pull her to me, to tilt her head up so her perfect lips can meet mine. I want to kiss her, devour the sweet words she spoke.
I was worried beyond belief about bringing her here because this shop is me at my core. Although I don’t dress my skin in the creations I make, each one of them is etched into my soul. They all contain a little piece of me. Knowing that, I led Haley here. Hell, I fucking drove her here. I wanted her to see this side of me, see this passion I have. If she had hated it, I’d have been devastated. There’d be no going back from that sort of pain, the kind that sears you right through the gut, then drags the blade slowly to your heart as you stare it in the eyes, writhing in agony until you take your final gasps of air.
I didn’t expect this reaction though. Admiration, appreciation, approval. I had hoped, but didn’t assume it.
So, yeah, that makes me want to kiss her. Badly.
“I’d really like you to do me.”
Any thoughts forming in my head zing directly to my other head. I rush to bring up as many images as I can think of that will convince my dick to stay down.
When I get the courage to meet her eyes, her face is flaming bright red. A smidge of laughter rumbles through me, and I’m quietly thankful for the distraction as I try my hardest to hide what her words are doing to my body.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” she chants, shaking her head back and forth violently. “I didn’t—”
Her words are cut off by Farrell’s loud laughter, and I watch as her back snaps straight, eyes go wide. She’s so cute when she’s mortified.
I hear Farrell slap his knees from his hideaway in the hallway. He’s shaking from head to toe with laughter once he steps into the main room. “That was…” Pausing to laugh again, he swipes at the tears running down his cheeks. “Good God that was perfect timing and the worst phrasing ever.”
“I didn’t mean that!” she urges. “I meant tattoo. I’d love for you to tattoo me, Gaige. Not…” Her words die, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want it to be because she does want me to do her.
“Sure ya didn’t, Teach.” Farrell reaches the counter, his laughter still giving him the shakes, just as a couple walks through the front doors.
Shaking my head at Haley, an amused grin playing at my lips, I motion for her to follow me. She hesitates for a brief moment before quickly catching up with my long strides.
“I didn’t,” she presses, her words soft and quiet.
“I believe you.” I don’t. “Come on in here and hop up into the chair.”
She follows me into the room and climbs into the seat. Her eyes search every square inch of the room. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, she doesn’t find it, and she seems pleased. Carefully, she pulls her shirt over her head, her hair falling in waves, sitting perfectly on the tops of her breasts. A wave of relief rolls over me when I see she’s wearing a camisole again.
I sit on the stool and scoot a little closer to her. Her scent hits me instantly. I’ve grown accustomed to it in the time we’ve spent together, but for some reason right now it seems so much…more. The normal swe
et vanilla is tinged with a hint of orange, like a Creamsicle.
I love Creamsicles.
“So,” I say loud enough to snag her attention and to divert my own. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh crap.” Her head falls into her hands. “I forgot to think.”
“Guess that album was—”
“Beautiful,” she interrupts. “It was stunning, really. I can’t… Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.
“Tell ya what,” I say. “Flip around. I’ll answer any question you have if you let me decide your airbrushing fate today. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She flips around instantly and I reach for my airbrush gun. A small shiver passes through her as I lay my hand on her back. I wish I could be cocky in this moment, excited over the fact that my touch sent literal shivers down her spine, but I’m almost certain it’s due to the cold touch of the gloves covering my hands.
I’m charged with a bolt of desire when I grab the strap of her camisole to move it aside. The impulse to reach out and touch her is strong and I have to work on controlling my breaths so she doesn’t know she’s affecting me so much.
“You’re one of the few people who know what I do,” I confess.
“Which is what exactly? It’s clear you’re an artist, but do you just design the tattoos?”
“No, I do it all. I’m a full-fledged tattoo artist. When people sport my work, it’s not just my lines mixed together, but it’s my hand that creates them and etches them onto their skin permanently.”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “Why do you even work at Jacked Up? I mean, your talent is remarkable. Why not do this full time?”
I carefully finish out the letter I’m drawing before I answer. I can tell she’s antsy for my explanation, but I’m not sure how to tell her I’m a total fuck-up who abandoned his siblings when they needed him the most and the only way his grouchy old aunt will let him around them is by forcing him to hold a “normal” job. That makes me sounds like a jerk and like I don’t appreciate working for my best friend when I do. I love my job at Jacked Up. I love cars. Hell, I love them almost as much as I love inking people. But, nothing compares to creating something from scratch like I do with the designs I make. It’s a feeling I want to have for all of my days, not just seventy-two measly hours a year.
“Gaige?” she prompts.
“I can’t,” I simply say.
She barely moves her head to look over her shoulder, meeting my eyes. “You promised you’d answer my questions, not brush them off.”
“Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “I am…required to have a real job.”
“Required?”
“Yes. It’s…an agreement of sorts I have with someone.”
“And creating gorgeous, breathtaking artwork doesn’t count as a real job?”
“To her, no. Not one bit.”
“How?”
“Let’s put it this way: if I came out and said I wanted to be a tattoo artist full time, she’d tell me I was a heathen and bound for jail.”
“What!” Haley doesn’t even phrase it as a question; it’s a cry of outrage. I’m right there with her.
“Yep. If I bought a motorcycle, I’d be a thug and destined to murder someone one day. She’s an exceptionally tough woman to sway.”
Haley snorts. “I’d say. I’m kind of sad for her.”
“Sad?”
“She’s missing out on a lot of awesome life and people thinking that way.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Haley stretches her neck once I let up on the airbrushing. My attention is automatically drawn to the movement. I have a sudden need to press my lips against the soft skin there.
“I think you should pursue it anyway.”
“I wish I could.”
“Your talent is far too inspiring to not be given the attention it deserves,” she says like I never spoke. “I mean, really, Gaige. You could be in magazines. You could be winning awards.” Nice, but not a necessity. “You could be changing lives. You are changing lives. Your art…” Her voice quivers, full of emotion. “It’s evoking. The way you grasp the simplest concept and bring it to life is…powerful. If I can see that from a photograph, I can’t imagine how seeing the real deal will make me feel.”
I have to squeeze the airbrush gun I’m holding in order to not drop it. I’ve always hoped you could see the story behind the tattoos I create, and Haley just proved me right. I know I have talent, and that’s not me being a conceited asshole, but I don’t know if what I do means as much to other people as it does to me and the person’s body I scarred it into. Having someone who’s never even seen my work in real life say something like that? Fuck. It’s…moving. It gives me a kick of assurance I wasn’t even aware I needed.
“Tucker.”
“Huh? Tucker?” she questions my sudden outburst. “Wait, your roommate slash bestie slash coworker Tucker?”
“Do you remember the tree you liked?”
“Loved,” she corrects. “The tree I loved, the one I created an entire story for in my head. The one that’s going to be stuck with me for a long time. Yes, I remember.”
“It belongs to Tucker.”
She gasps, and I’m barely ready, pulling back just in time as she jerks upright and twists her neck back to look at me. “Are you shitting me?”
I grin sheepishly. “No, Hales, I’m not shitting you.”
“So they know?”
“They…?”
“Your friends. Hudson and Tucker. They know the talent you have and you still work at that shop? Why haven’t they kicked your ass to the curb and forced you to do this full time?”
“They’ve tried, but I’ve been resistant. Trust me, it’s a sore subject with us sometimes.”
She suddenly smiles one of those private, personal smiles everyone does when you picture something in your head you don’t want to share aloud.
“What’d you picture?”
“I can just imagine you guys all sitting around like a bunch of hens gossiping and then getting into these silly little arguments over nothing and everything. I bet you’re a fantastic trio to be around.”
A pang of sadness reverberates in my chest as I realize she’s never been around us together before. Hell, I don’t think she’s even met Tucker before. I want to drag her from the chair and plant her on a stool at Clyde’s so she can meet my friends, but then our “secret friendship” wouldn’t be so secret anymore. Right now, with the way things are with her and Rae, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to spring the fact that I’ve known her sister and slept with her for six months onto the gang.
Guilt crashes into me as I realize I’ve been hiding the truth from Rae, someone I consider a good friend, just like her sister did all those years.
I hope like hell she can forgive me.
I force a lopsided smirk, trying not to think about it now. “We are. Now turn back around so I can finish up.”
She huffs but follows my orders.
Another few swishes and five minutes of silence later, I’m done. Haley’s nearly drifted off to sleep, which is no surprise with the emotionally taxing day she’s had. I clean up my area a little and remove my latex gloves before I gently lay a hand on her lower back.
She jumps at my touch and her green eyes flutter open. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “That was a little too relaxing.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ve had clients do that while I’m using a real needle.”
She looks at me incredulously. “How the hell is that even possible?”
“No idea.” I shrug. “I bet that shit hurts like hell.”
She nods, twisting herself back around in the chair. “Okay, let’s see.”
On unsteady legs, I rise from the stool and motion for her to follow, grabbing the handheld mirror from the hook on the wall. I walk her over to the floor-length mirror and take a deep breath.
“Nervous?” I ask
as I stare into her eyes in our reflection; I sure as fuck am. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she thinks it’s the dumbest tattoo she’s ever seen? I mean, that’s probably not possible since I’ve seen a lot of shitty ink, but there is a chance. It’s minute, but it’s there.
“No,” she says, turning around to stare at the real me. “It’s going to be gorgeous. I have a feeling.”
I hand her the smaller mirror and hold my breath as she lifts it to where she can see her reflection in the larger one. Haley gasps and I know I’ve fucked it up. She hates it. Great.
“Look, it’s not permanent,” I push out. “You’ll only need to cover it up for a few days and it’ll wash off. You don’t even have to tell anyone it’s there.”
She lowers the mirror enough to meet my eyes. I’m startled to find her brows drawn together in annoyance. “Are you smoking crack?”
“Um…no?”
“Then what the hell is wrong with you?”
I huff. “Long list.”
“Yeah? Well ‘lacking talent’ isn’t on there.”
“Huh?”
She lifts the handheld again, looking into the mirror behind her. “Look,” she instructs. I stare into the giant mirror behind her and can see her eyes focused solely on the airbrushed artwork covering a good portion of her shoulder blade. “This is pure talent, Gaige. I have no need to worry about removing it. In fact, I want to keep it forever. Can you replicate it?”
“Wha…?” The word doesn’t fully leave my mouth, caught up on a ledge of unspoken commentary. I’m speechless. Replicate it? She wants this on her body? Permanently? How…how is that even possible? This is nothing, something I came up with on a whim, and she wants it on her body?
“Can you?” she insists.
I massage the back of my neck, trying to knead away the stiffness gathering there. “Yeah, but…are you sure?”
“Yes, dammit. Please.”
“It’s just a silly tree.”
She gasps again, this time in horror. “Just a silly tree? Gaige, this is the perfect tree. Look again. Please.”
So I do. I study the mirror, impressed at my shadow work. I’ve detailed a tree branch to look as if it’s crawling over the top of her shoulder. Little arms divide off into a tangled, bunched up mess with the word breathe carefully crafted in the center. The scene is full of hope wrapped inside sadness. I have no idea why I drew it, but it…came to me. Quickly, easily, and flawlessly, the design flowed out of me. It was weird. I was chanting the word breathe inside my head, attempting to calm myself down because I was sitting so close to Haley, who was only in a camisole and bra, so close to her skin, her sweet orange-vanilla scent. It was all too much and I had to remind to myself to take breaths or else my hand would get too unsteady to work. Before I knew it, the tattoo took on a life of its own.
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