The next hour is full of minor flinches and loud hisses. When I set the tattoo gun down, he sucks in a lungful of air. I spray a paper towel and wipe it across the fresh ink as I explain tattoo care to him. He nods at all the right times and smiles feverishly when I hand him a mirror and he stares at the tattoo for the first time.
When he rises from the chair, he wobbles in place. “Be sure to grab a bite to eat when you leave here.” I point to who I still assume is Nina. “Please don’t let him drive until he eats.” She nods and they head over to Penny to pay, leaving me a gracious tip.
The day trickles by much the same as usual.
My next appointment wants an old photo of her grandparents tattooed on her bicep with dates and the single word “forever” underneath. The memorialization is sweet, really. I press the pedal and the gun vibrates to life in my hand.
As I engrave her grandparents into her skin, the woman shares their story. How they met in a hospital during the Vietnam War and her grandmother nursed him back to life. How her grandfather could no longer fight on the front lines because he was too severely wounded to stand with his comrades. How pissed her grandfather was and how quickly he got over it because he saw a “pretty nurse lady” every day.
The way she conveys the love story of her grandparents, there was no doubt she heard their story firsthand hundreds of times.
Far too often, I dream of a love like theirs. One I hug close to my heart and brag to others about. Maybe one day, I mentally profess.
Halfway through, the woman closes her eyes with a smile on her face and remains silent for the rest of the session. While she zones out, so do I.
Every time a person sits in my chair or stretches out across my table, I mentally prepare for all or nothing. Clientele come in mixed bags. From nervous to somber to never-ending bursts of energy. Some talk your ear off for days. Others never speak a word. Then you get the ones who do a mix of both. Those who talk because they are nervous or shy, then quiet down once the initial buzz wears off.
I love it. Love my job. Love all the wonderful—and crazy—stories I hear. It’s kind of like reading a new book every couple of hours. Living in someone else’s shoes for a snippet of time.
When I finish up my second appointment, I clean and prep my station for the next—who Penny said is already here. After I wipe everything down, I pick up the clipboard with his paperwork and scan it.
Great. One of those. Lucky me (insert sarcasm anytime you would like).
My next client—male—wants the word “heaven” inked into his skin. No big deal, right? Sure, if he was getting it in any other location. I roll my eyes and lay out the narrow massage table in my booth. Because my next client is getting “heaven” tattooed an inch or two above the base of his penis.
Dumbass. Arrogant dumbass.
Penny waltzes over and sniggers as I lay paper gowns on the table. “Hope he’s hung, otherwise a lot of people will be disappointed when they don’t reach heaven as indicated.”
I slap her arm and laugh. “Shut. Up.” I shake my head. “How am I supposed to concentrate and act professional when you say shit like that?”
Penny shrugs, pops her pink bubblegum, and skips back to the reception area. Halfway across the store and I still hear her giggles.
Walking over to the waiting area, I retrieve Mr. Heaven and bring him to my booth. Without shame, I admit he is hot. Inches taller than me. Tan skin like he just left Clearwater Beach minutes ago. Bulky muscles showcasing his arms and legs.
But as I have learned, not all those qualities add up to “heaven” in the bedroom. I cough into my elbow to cover the laugh bubbling up my throat.
Get it together, Autumn.
“Any particular font you were looking for?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Maybe old English. Something masculine.”
I show him a few variations and he chooses one. Once I have the transfer paper ready, he shoves his sweatpants down until he exposes his hairless skin and I glimpse the base of his penis.
Ugh, this is going to be a long—ha ha—and awkward session.
Mr. Heaven raises his arms and tucks his hands under his head. He has the audacity to smirk at me. Cocky bastard. Can’t wait to wipe the smirk from his face when the gun bites his skin.
An hour and a half and an H-E-A-V later, Mr. Heaven isn’t as suave as he thought he was. Ha! Take that! A sick pleasure floats in my veins each time he jerks or flinches or hisses. Hope it is worth it, buddy.
As I am midway through the second E, the bell over the door jingles. When I lift the gun away from Mr. Heaven’s skin and wipe the excess ink away, I glance up and spot Penny chatting with the guy who walked in.
I stop breathing. Stop thinking. Stop everything.
“You good?” Mr. Heaven asks.
Snap out of it Autumn. “Yeah, sorry.” Mr. Heaven glances to the man up front. “Thought it was a friend of mine,” I say to cover up my flounder.
“No worries,” he says as I finish working on the end of his tattoo.
Every now and again, I peer up and see the man is still here. Currently, he sits on one of the couches as he flips through the artist’s albums. He studies the photos with obvious interest. From my vantage point, I sporadically—and, fingers crossed, inconspicuously—survey him.
He hunches over an album as he flips the pages. His milk chocolate hair sticks out in different directions on top of his head—the underside buzzed short. When he swaps albums, I spot some of the ink between the bottom of his shirt sleeve and his elbow. Sacred geometry. Interesting.
I focus on Mr. Heaven as I finish the last of the N. As soon as I set the gun down and glance over at Penny, album-flipping guy waves at her and walks out the door. All I got was his backside.
But what a glorious backside it was.
Mr. Heaven rises from the table and hobbles over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror and inspects his fresh ink. He smiles like the cocky bastard he is. Penny cashes him out and he tips me well.
“At least Mr. Heaven was good for something,” I say with a giggle as Penny heads my way.
“Yeah. But, girl, I’d climb that stairway to heaven.” As if on cue, “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin plays through the shop’s speakers.
We both fall into a fit of laughter as I play slap her arm. “Shut up. You’re sick.” She shrugs without care. “Who was the guy?” I point to the door as if it explains who I am referencing.
When Penny deciphers who I am talking about, she smiles. “Your final on Wednesday. Hottie, huh?”
“Only saw the top of his head and a few inches of his bicep,” I fib and pray she doesn’t notice. Now is not the time for me to go into my starry-eyed moment. Fact is, I noticed so much more. But if Penny hears that, she will give me shit until Wednesday.
“Well, he’ll be the cherry on your hot fudge sundae.” Penny fans herself. “Let me just say it was hard not staring the entire time he was here.”
Tell me about it.
“Stop,” I tease. Couldn’t place it, but something felt oddly familiar about him. “What’s his name?”
Penny studies me a moment as I go through my usual sanitizing procedure. Spray. Wipe. Repeat. “Jonas. Why?”
I shake my head. “No reason. Just looked familiar. But I don’t know a Jonas.” I shrug and continue as if unfazed.
“You will,” she teases and walks off.
I will. But something tells me I already do.
My last client is quick and easy. A young woman. I tattoo the kanji symbol for fierce on the back of her neck. The entire time I have the gun in my hand, my mind wanders to the tall, chocolate-haired man. His stature and sullen demeanor. Somehow, someway, I know him. Just can’t place from where.
In my line of work, I see thousands of faces a year. Is there a possibility I inked his skin before? Maybe. But I would remember him. His broad shoulders and creamy brown locks. His long legs and strong hands. His stare-worthy ass as he strode out the door.
Jonas.
Don’t remember a Jonas. And I would definitely remember him.
When I finish cleaning up my booth for the night, I walk over to Penny. “See you at home. Drive safe.”
“You, too. Love you.”
“Love ya, chicky.”
I unlock my ’57 Bel Air, slip inside, and spark the engine to life. Scanning my music, I tap on a rock playlist and sing along as I roll out of the parking lot. The entire drive home, I sing the songs I have heard hundreds of times, but don’t hear now. Because my mind is stuck. Stuck on the future. On Wednesday, and a mysterious man named Jonas.
Consider me screwed.
Two
Jonas
I pick up Spartan’s leash and he yaps, running excitedly in circles around the living room. “Come here, nut. Have to put your leash on if you want to see Grandma and Grandpa.”
Spartan drops his front legs to the floor—his hindquarters still up as his tail swats the air. I step closer to him and he pivots sideways. We do this a few times, mixed in with more barking. The same game happens every Wednesday when we head to my parents’ house for dinner. I grab the leash and my goofy as hell, three-year-old fur-child loses his shit.
At least he brings a smile to my face.
“You want to see Grandma?”
Woof, woof, woof.
“Well, we have to put on your leash.” I flick the clasp a few times and he jumps. “Get over here, dude.”
Woof, woof, woof.
I rest my hands on my hips and give Spartan the look that says we are not going anywhere until you put on your leash. And just like that, he wags his tail, steps forward, and stands tall at my side.
Once I lock his leash in place, we head out the front door and hop in my Wrangler Sahara. When we are both in the cab, I connect his collar to a safety harness in the car. Last thing I need is my little man jumping out of a moving car because he spots a cat. His crazy ass would, too.
Windows down, I drive down the street and head toward my parents’ house. Spartan hangs his head out the window with his mouth open as he squints at the oncoming wind. The temperature in our part of Florida is still warm—a toasty eighty-two degrees at four thirty—but you can feel a shift in the air. Not just the cooler days as we transition to Florida’s version of winter.
Something else lingers in the air. A new beginning, maybe. Whatever it is, it terrifies and invigorates me.
I stick my arm out the window and shift it up and down in a wave motion. Glancing over at Spartan, I soak up a little of his boisterous energy. Smile at his silliness as he tries to bite the wind. Every time I peek over at him, I am grateful he is in my life. If not for this crazy as hell husky, I would be drowning in alcohol or in a hole somewhere. He keeps me going.
Thirty minutes later, we park along the street at my parents’ house in St. Petersburg. I jump out and Spartan barks at me as if I forgot him. Opening his door, I loop the leash around my wrist before unclipping his car harness. Once I do, he flies out of the car and yanks me toward the house. I barely get the car door closed.
“Who’s excited to see Grandma?” I announce as Spartan drags me inside.
“Where’s my good boy?” Mom calls back. “Where’s my Sparty?”
I drop Spartan’s leash and he scrambles across the floor in her direction. Mom has her arms open as she squats down and waits to hug Spartan. He bolts into her arms and it is a hugging and licking contest between the two of them. Spartan’s the only one doing the licking, obviously.
Wandering into the kitchen, I step up behind my older sister, Jasmine, and peek over her shoulder. She is so focused on stirring the hamburger meat on the stove, she doesn’t hear me come in. Perfect. Slowly, I bring my hands to her sides before going all in and tickling the hell out of her.
“Ah!” she screams, dropping the spatula. “Stop, stop, stop.” I tickle her harder. “Jonas! Please…” She laughs so hard she snorts. “Please.”
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” My nephew, Lex, comes barreling around the corner. “I save you from Unkie Jonas.” Lex is armed with his favorite stuffed animal and ready to whack me with it.
I drop my hands and step back. “Whoa, buddy.” Scooping him off the floor, I twirl him in a circle. “I stopped. Please don’t get me.”
Lex stares over at Jasmine with the most serious expression I have ever seen on his face. “Okay, Mommy?” Such a protector at two years old.
She ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. “I am now. Thanks for saving me from Uncle Jonas.”
He nods with enthusiasm and I set him back on the tile. “Hey, buddy. Why don’t you go play with Grandma and Spartan. I’ll help Mommy in the kitchen.” Without so much as another glance in my direction, he bolts from the kitchen and calls across the house for Spartan.
“We’re making tacos tonight, if you want to dice onions and tomatoes and slice up some lettuce,” Jasmine says.
I hug her from behind and kiss the top of her head. “On it.” Grabbing the produce from the fridge, I step up to the counter beside the stove and get to work. “Anton here?” I ask.
Anton, my big sister’s husband, doesn’t always make it to Wednesday night dinners. Depending on his work schedule, sometimes he doesn’t beat the Tampa traffic when he leaves work. If he runs too late on Wednesdays, he heads home and Jasmine brings him leftovers. Nine times out of ten, though, he makes it. For the most part, investment banking has a set schedule. Only time his schedule changes is when the firm gets a new client.
“Yeah, he’s out back with Dad.”
Garlic, peppers, and smoked paprika float in the air and my mouth waters. “Hey, we having grilled onions and peppers?”
“If you cut ‘em, I’ll cook ‘em.”
My sister and I work in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. When we were growing up, oftentimes we cooked dinner for everyone. Dad sometimes got stuck at the shop late, while Mom was wrapping up her latest words of wisdom for the local newspaper’s advice column. And sometimes our baby sister, Jillian, got hungry earlier than everyone else. Mom taught us early on how to fend for ourselves and help around the house. We didn’t always have to, but we loved giving her a break from the kitchen after a really long day.
I chop up large chunks of onion and bell pepper for Jasmine. She rotates between all the burners on the stove, stirring the taco meat, a pot of beans, another with corn, and now the onions and peppers. On the fifth burner—whoever came up with that idea is brilliant—is Tex-Mex rice. Once I finish with the veggies, I shred a big bowl of cheddar cheese and lug out the other toppings. Just before everything is ready, I lay the taco shells on a tray and toast them in the oven for a minute.
A moment later, I wander to the sliding glass doors that lead to the back patio and pool and poke my head out. “Dinner’s ready.”
Dad and Anton pop their heads up simultaneously as Dad rubs his hands together. “Perfect timing. I’m famished.”
Everyone piles up their plates—Anton helps Lex with his—and we all sit down at the table built for six, but extends out for ten. We all wait to start eating until Jasmine has Lex situated in his booster chair. We have never been a religious family, but Mom always likes to say a few words of gratitude before we eat.
“I’m so glad everyone could be here tonight.” Spartan barks in the living room and we all laugh. “You, too,” Mom says. “Seriously, though. I’m grateful to have all three of my kids here, plus Anton and my baby boy, Lex. You all are the highlight of my week.”
Smiles and awes spread throughout the room. Moments like these are my favorite. Of course, we banter. What family doesn’t? But these moments are the ones I hold close when I have a bad day. Like watching my nephew make a hot mess of his tacos and hearing my Mom laugh when my dad leans in and whispers in her ear. Truly the best.
“So, what’s new with you, oh quiet brother of mine?” Jillian teases.
Jillian was a surprise baby. But she is the best little sister anyone could ever ask for. She keeps me levelheaded with her joke
s and nagging. Where Jasmine is two years older than me, Jillian is seven years younger. For a mature young woman, sometimes she still acts like a teenager. She gives me clarity when I am stressed and makes me laugh when I am down.
“Nothing exciting,” I answer. “Same stuff, new day. What about you? How’s the wild world of fashion?”
She rolls her eyes. “Nice avoidance tactic, big bro. The store is great. Just got a glimpse at the spring line. We’re putting in out just before Christmas.”
I cock my head and stare at her. “It’s not even winter, technically. Why so early?”
“You have so much to learn, dear brother. It’s kind of like when car dealers put the next year’s model out months before the year begins. Sales tactic.” Jillian taps the side of her head as if her brain holds all the secrets.
Jillian is smart. Not like Mensa-smart, but pretty damn close. Her IQ is stellar. She graduated Salutatorian of her class in high school and graduated two years early—with honors—from college where she studied business and marketing.
At least she went to college. My path has been carved in stone since I picked up a wrench in Dad’s garage. You don’t need college to be a mechanic, but I did attend a trade/vocational school. I wanted the merits under my belt. Plus, school taught me more of the computerized auto information Dad occasionally searched for online. This way, we both brought something to the table.
And one day, when Dad finally decides it is time to retire his coveralls, I will take over Thompson’s Garage and Body Specialists. Dad put a lot of time and energy and grease into our shop. I want him to be proud when I take over.
“I will never understand fashion,” I tell her.
“True. And you’re still avoiding my question,” she repeats and I hang my head. The table goes silent and Jillian leans in closer. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just tell me to shut up.”
I laugh and she backs away. “You’re fine. Just been a rough week. But I’ll be okay. And if not, you can tease me more.” Off in the living room, Spartan barks. “You, too, buddy,” I shout.
Fine Line (Inked Duet #1) Page 2