by Ranae Rose
The Mustang came to life when he finally turned the key in the ignition and drove for home. It was a dark, cold and crowded Thursday night in the Strip District, with people getting a head start on the weekend. As he passed clubs and 24 hour restaurants that’d cater to their inebriated patrons later that night, he thought of the woman with the braid and red lipstick.
Alcohol wasn’t a major temptation for him. Nightclubs weren’t, either. But a beautiful woman like her definitely was. It’d been so long – too damn long.
Damn, what he wouldn’t give to run his fingers through that braid, unravel it lock by ebony lock. Or to taste those red lips, not giving a damn when her bold lipstick stained his mouth, too.
The thought had him hard and uncomfortable in his jeans. He might never see her again, but he sure as hell wouldn’t forget her any time soon, either.
CHAPTER 2
“Try not to break any needles on all this muscle,” Ben said as Dylan prepared his equipment, arranging silver instruments on a tray inside a brightly-lit half booth with deep blue walls.
“That’s never an issue when I’m being tattooed, so you should be fine.” Dylan didn’t even look up.
Ben shifted in the client chair as Dylan pulled on gloves. “Don’t be so sure. Hate to break it to you, but in comparison to me, you’re looking more petite by the day.”
Okay, so Dylan wasn’t petite by any stretch of the imagination, but that didn’t diminish the fact that Ben had put on twenty pounds of solid muscle since moving to Pittsburgh from Jersey six months ago. He also had an inch of height on Dylan, putting him at an even six feet.
“Don’t get cocky; you’re still the little brother.”
“I’m your last client today, right?”
Dylan held the tattoo machine in one gloved hand. “Yeah.”
“You coming home after this, then?”
Dylan shook his head, and Ben knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.
“Going to the gym. After that, I’m swinging by Crystal’s.”
“Late night.”
“Worth it.”
Dylan cleaned Ben’s skin with alcohol and shaved a bare patch over one pec.
Ben glanced down at his chest, where ink would soon be permanently buried beneath the surface of his skin. He’d be skipping the gym tonight, since he didn’t want to sweat off the tattoo bandage he’d have to wear for a couple hours. He’d have a Friday night alone, with nothing to do – a rarity.
Even if he gave Dylan crap about it, he relied on his gym sessions. Some days, they were an outlet for energy that demanded release. Other days, they were the excuse he needed to drag his ass out of the apartment and be productive. Most of all, he liked the hard work, the sweat and the progress – having a strong body made him forget about the parts of his mind that were broken.
Sometimes.
The rapid hum of the tattoo machine started, and Ben looked up at the ceiling. The first prick was indistinguishable from the next. The needle pierced his skin so rapidly that all he felt was a continuous burn.
He didn’t mind the pain. This wouldn’t last long, anyway. Ben had gotten all his tattoos from Dylan and knew that a simple one like this would be over quickly.
Dylan worked bent over Ben, pausing periodically to wipe away the ink that bled from Ben’s raw skin. The cloth he used was stained black, and the ink reminded Ben of paint.
Still, painting was nothing like tattooing. The prep, the stripping and the priming… Changing a car’s color generally left considerably less room for artistic license than tattooing. And it wasn’t even permanent.
Ben liked having that safety net, liked knowing he could go back and fix things if needed. Dylan didn’t have that luxury; as soon as he pierced a client’s skin with a needle, his work was there forever.
Ben didn’t envy him, couldn’t imagine being so confident in his ability not to fuck up.
Maybe that was because he’d done a lot of fucking up lately. Dylan, on the other hand, was basically the older, better version of Ben.
Better at his work. Better at relationships. Better at life. Bipolar disorder was a demon Dylan had managed to put on a leash. For Ben…
At first, it’d seemed hopeless. His demon hadn’t given a fuck if the medication leash was around its neck or not. It’d put up a fight, threatening to drag him slowly and painfully into its little corner of hell.
Dylan had promised him that time would dull its bite, if Ben was careful about managing it. And things had gotten a lot better lately. He hoped it’d last but couldn’t be sure.
Sometimes he was optimistic. Other times, he resented that medicine was both a lifeline and a tether, keeping him relatively stable … at a price. It wasn’t easy knowing that he’d be dependent on pills for life.
Or – worse – that the pills might fail him.
He wanted to be a capable and stable person on his own terms. But it wasn’t in the cards – there was no curing the chemical imbalance in his brain, which left him with a lifetime of managing it as best he could. That stung, wearing away at his dignity. He was happiest when he didn’t think about it, but sometimes that was easier said than done.
A shadow passed over Ben as Dylan paused to blot away the ink beading on his skin. A split second later, his heart picked up pace as the needle drilled away above it.
“Someone else working up here?” he asked, his gaze lingering in the direction in which a woman had just passed by. She’d disappeared into the half booth across from Dylan’s. He’d recognized the long black braid swinging between her shoulders – he’d even gotten a glimpse of cherry red lips.
What were the fucking odds? Was she here to be tattooed too? The ink on her arms had been a blur as she’d hurried by, but there’d been a lot of it. He hadn’t been able to see that the night before, because her jacket had hidden it.
“Hannah Nakamura,” Dylan said. “Started here the other day.”
“That’s her?” Ben flicked his gaze toward the other booth.
“Yeah.”
For a second, Ben sat in stunned silence.
“I didn’t know Jed brought another artist on board.” From what he’d heard from Dylan, Jed was so picky that he’d been having a hard time finding the right artists to fill the new workspaces he’d built into the shop’s newly-expanded second floor. “She must be good.”
“She specializes in Japanese style tattoos. Had a pretty devoted following built up on the West Coast. She’s a real artist. No one else here considers those a specialty, so her work should be a big draw for people who’ve been looking for a local place to get top-notch Japanese style work.”
“What’s she doing here?”
Dylan remained steady and focused, though Ben sensed that if he hadn’t been tattooing, he would’ve shrugged. “Guess she wanted a change.”
“So she’s here for good, not as a guest artist.”
“Apparently.”
The wheels in Ben’s mind turned, and he could practically hear them grinding as the needle continued to dive in and out of his skin. After a couple minutes, Hannah exited her half booth.
She walked straight ahead without looking in Ben’s direction, but his gaze was glued to her. She was even prettier in the studio’s clear lighting than she’d been at the bar the night before. The bright lights flaunted the fact that she had no flaws.
He couldn’t help picturing her with cheese smeared on one cheek – a memory that softened the edges of her glaring perfection, making her seem more human.
Damn, she was pretty. He missed the sight of her as soon as she disappeared downstairs.
“You need help putting your eyes back in your head?” Dylan asked.
Ben blinked. “I met her last night.”
“You were here?”
“No. I was … out.” Ben’s mistake dawned on him as Dylan stopped tattooing and sat up straight, cleaning the ink from Ben’s chest one last time.
“Where?”
Shit.
“Just grabbing something to eat on my way home from the gym.”
“Yeah?”
“I ran into her at the restaurant. She sat beside me.”
“Beside you – at the same table?”
Ben shook his head. “Bar. Don’t freak out; I wasn’t drinking.”
Dylan’s sharp gaze softened a little.
“Only seat left,” he said. “I swung by Primanti Bros. for a cheesesteak.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Aren’t you going to tear me a new one for eating junk food outside of cheat day?”
“It’s your body,” Dylan said. “Just don’t come crying to me if your gains get buried beneath a layer of fat.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “I can’t eat like you, man – I’d starve.”
Dylan cleaned Ben’s new tattoo and applied a layer of gel. It was cool against his skin, a nice change after the burning heat that’d sparked an inflammatory reaction.
“You and Hannah hit it off or something?”
Ben shook his head. “No, some dick spilled his beer on her food and she left in a hurry.”
“Considering that she just moved across the country,” Dylan said, applying a bandage over Ben’s fresh tattoo, “I’d bet she’s single.”
The door to the second floor swung open before he could say anything, and footsteps sounded on the tile. Hannah led the way to her workspace, another woman following in her wake.
She disappeared into her half-booth, and the sound of women’s voices came from beyond the low wall. He could easily imagine her lips moving, soft, shapely and stained red. One glimpse of her was enough to inspire a thousand fantasies, but how realistic were they?
She hadn’t exactly been batting her eyes at him the night before, and they’d been sitting about a foot apart. Then again, the atmosphere had been far from romantic.
“You know the drill with aftercare,” Dylan said, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in a wastebasket. “Ask Zoe for an instruction sheet on your way out if you want.”
Ben waved a hand. “Don’t need one.”
“You decide what you’re gonna do tonight?”
Ben took a last look around the booth, with its blue walls, shining mirror and framed black and white close-up photos of tattoos on the back wall. Everything was neat and had its place, and the impressive photos were Dylan’s work. They didn’t need to be in color to show his skill. The entire workspace was a testament to everything he’d accomplished – the artist that he was.
What would it feel like to have everything so together? To have people who sought you out, admired you. To have to plan sleep into your schedule because you had so many things to do and so many people to spend time with.
Ben tried to imagine and drew a blank.
“Ben?”
He dragged his gaze back to his brother. “I don’t know. It’s Friday night and the guys at work usually go out, but I always tell ‘em I’ve gotta get to the gym. If I went along, I’d just end up being the designated driver. Not my idea of fun, and if any of them puked in my Mustang, I’d have to kill them.”
Dylan’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I hear you – being DD sucks. If your friends find out you don’t drink, they’ll want you to chauffer them around every weekend.”
Ben grimaced. He got along with his co-workers, but he wasn’t running a party bus. Being sober had a way of kicking your social life in the balls.
He hadn’t had a drink in six months, and considering that his last drinking experience had led to the second-lowest moment of his life, he wasn’t about to start again now. He wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with his medication, anyway.
“I might catch a movie or something.”
Dylan nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything good playing. I’d like to take Crystal out sometime soon, if she can get a sitter.”
“Right. See you later.” He exited the booth and swung by the fridge, where Dylan kept a stash of drinks. It was easy to tell which shelf held his stuff – shoved in the far right corner of the top one was a twelve-pack of bottled water. Ben grabbed one.
While twisting the cap off the bottle, he cast a last glance toward Hannah’s booth. The steady buzz of a tattoo machine drifted from beyond its walls, and it seemed obvious that she’d spend her Friday night tattooing.
Beyond the nearest window, the skyline was already dusky: dull purple descending on buildings, their lights glowing like jewels in defense. He tried to care that it was Friday night, tried to work up the will to go do something.
It didn’t come naturally.
He wished he could do the easy thing and head to the gym, like he usually did. He felt more at home among people who spent their Friday night sweating away in Lycra than he did at a bar or club.
Plus, it’d be nice to sweat the lust out of his system. Seeing Hannah had his blood rushing faster, the muscles in his groin drawing tighter. Since she was tattooing someone, talking to her was obviously out of the question. Fantasizing, however, wasn’t.
When she stood, presenting him with a sudden view of her face and shoulders, he couldn’t help staring. Couldn’t tear his eyes away, even when she exited her booth and made her way toward the kitchen.
She was only a few steps away when their eyes met.
Hers were like dark jewels in a heart-shaped face, damn near impossible to look away from.
She froze, and the sight of her red lips parting as she stared sent a thrill of satisfaction rolling through him. She looked more gorgeous than anyone had a right to in jeans and a dark purple t-shirt. The full sleeves on her arms were ornate and absolutely stunning. The design on her left was cherry blossoms, and a tiger wove down her right.
Beyond the ink and her clothing, her figure was irresistible: a petite frame with just enough curves to have him gaping like an idiot. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a braid that exposed her slender neck. The soft-looking skin there called to him, making his pulse jump in the same place, just above his collarbone.
A few fine wisps of hair hung loose at the base of her braid, and the hint of dishevelment made him think of wild, tangled locks mussed by the friction of hot, hard sex.
“Well,” she eventually said, “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”
“What are the odds?” He tried not to think of his hands in her hair or on her luscious body.
Her dark eyes locked with his, and in the clear lighting, her face was faintly pink.
“Listen, about last night… I saw you pay my bill. I’m so sorry. I tried to track you down, but I was too late. Let me get my purse and—”
Ben shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I made an ass out of myself. The least you can do is let me pay you back.”
“You weren’t the ass; that was the guy sitting to your right.” He couldn’t blame her for having been agitated or leaving in a hurry. And he hadn’t minded paying her bill. It hadn’t been much, anyway.
She turned on her heel and marched back to her booth, returning as quickly as she’d gone. Digging in a small leather purse, she pulled out her wallet. “How much was it?”
“I meant it when I said not to worry about it.”
She ignored him, pulling out a twenty. “This should be enough.”
“It’s more than enough; keep it.”
She grabbed his hand, causing instant heat to shoot up his arm and into his chest, where it manifested in an ache just above his solar plexus. He was too stunned by her touch to resist when she pressed the bill against his palm.
“Consider the extra my way of apologizing for putting you in such an unfair position.” She looked him in the eye, radiating a surprising amount of command for someone who had to tip back her head to do so. He pegged her at 5’4”, or somewhere near it.
He also pegged her as being extremely stubborn. Her ruby lips were set in a firm line, and her gaze was unwavering. He almost forgot about how she’d looked with cheese smeared on her cheek.
; Almost.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll keep the change if you let me buy you another sandwich sometime.”
Her lips parted, and for a few seconds, she didn’t say anything. He dared to hope that she’d say yes, that it’d be that easy.
“I appreciate the offer, but no thanks. I’m not interested in dating right now.”
Fuck.
“So just to be clear,” he said after a moment, “you consider a man buying you a cheesesteak a date?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
She’d have to be an idiot – which she obviously wasn’t – not to sense that he wanted her. But he had a feeling that being gifted a cheesesteak didn’t exactly qualify as date material as far as some women were concerned.
The fact that she thought it qualified made her even more appealing.
“I’m not making fun of you,” he clarified.
“Sure,” she said, and stepped past him, reaching for the fridge.
“Do you know whether those waters are for everyone or belong to someone specific?” she asked, eyeing the bottle in his hand.
“They’re my brother’s.”
“Your brother’s?”
“Dylan’s,” he clarified. “I doubt he’d mind if you had one.”
“I’ll ask to be sure.” She stood up straight and closed the fridge, empty-handed. “Now that I think about it, you two do look alike.”
There was no telling whether she considered that a good or bad thing.
Her face was still pink, though. “Thank you again for saving my ass last night. If Dylan’s your brother, I guess I’ll probably see you around again sometime…?”
“Ben.”
“I’m Hannah.”
“Dylan told me.”
She nodded. “See you later, Ben. Thanks again for yesterday.”
She turned, and he couldn’t help admiring the way her jeans clung to her ass – perfect. Her braid swayed above, framed by those rebellious little locks of loose hair.
He felt strangely empty, excited and still turned-on as she walked away. She’d shot him down, but she didn’t seem to hate him, despite the way she’d looked at him when he’d brought up cheesesteaks.