A medicinal smell fills the room as I uncap the rubbing alcohol and wet a swab.
My left hand goes to his forearm. Holds him in place while the right cleans his shoulder.
There. I grab a paper towel from the corner. Pat dry.
"Take the temp tattoo and take off the plastic."
I do.
"Press it against my skin and hold it in place. Then wet it with the cotton ball."
"Sure." I press the temporary tattoo to his skin. Soak the cotton ball than dab it against the paper, inch by inch.
I can feel him, under the paper.
His warmth.
His hardness.
His pulse.
It's overwhelming.
Then he looks down at me and my body goes into overdrive. What's in those bright blue eyes of his? Is he assessing me? Figuring out how to teach me? How to torture me?
My head is uncertain.
My body is apathetic. It only cares that he's looking at me. That he's close. That he's here.
I force my gaze to the paper. "Is that long enough?"
"Thirty seconds."
That's an eternity. My eyes move around the room. Black desk. Black printer. Silver wire racks. Boxes of ink pads. Of K-cups. Of water bottles.
First aid kit.
Rubbing alcohol.
A&D.
Aftercare lotion.
Plastic gloves.
Plastic wrap.
Autoclave sterilizer.
His breath is even. Steady.
Mine is… not.
The air conditioner whirs.
My heart thuds.
There. That must be it. "You ready?"
"Yeah."
I drop the cotton ball in the paper cup.
Slowly, I peel the adhesive from his tanned, toned skin.
My breath leaves my body.
It's perfect.
It's amazing.
It's everything.
That's my work, my drawing, on his skin.
My work is on someone's body.
It's temporary, but still.
It's my work on someone's body.
On Dean's tall, sculpted body.
The back of his hand brushes the inside of my wrist. "You okay, sunshine?"
"Yeah." My fingers go to his skin reflexively.
"You gonna ask permission for that?"
"Sorry."
"I get it. I'm irresistible."
My cheeks flare. "No, I—"
"You can touch me all you want, sunshine. But you need to break that habit."
"Oh."
"You can't touch fresh ink. Not with bare hands. Not like that."
"Of course." I know the drill. I have a dozen tattoos. I… I'm better than letting my libido take over.
But, God, it's been so long since my body responded to anyone.
It hates me. This is more evidence. If it liked me, it would respond to someone else.
To anyone else.
"Come with me." He pushes past me. "Bring your stuff."
I grab my stuff and follow him into the lobby.
It's still empty. Just us. The store doesn't open for an hour. Walker is due in after lunch. Brendon too. Leighton showed me the schedule yesterday. (She also gushed about how hot they were. But not as hot as Ryan, of course).
Dean walks straight to his suite. All the way to the mirror.
He studies his reflection. He studies the ink. "What do you see?"
My work on someone's skin.
The rest of the world is a blur.
My thoughts are a blur.
My brain is screaming like a fourteen-year-old fangirl.
This is the coolest thing in the history of the world.
He makes eye contact through the mirror. "Chloe?"
"Yeah?"
"You want to do ink 'cause it's cool?"
"No."
"To piss off your family?"
"No."
"To prove you're a rebel?"
I fold my arms. "What the fuck?"
"If you love ink, you look at tattoos all the time."
"Of course."
"So, tell me what you think about my new ink." He pats his shoulder. "No holds barred."
Okay…
"I know it's tough concentrating. The bulging muscles are distracting. I tried to find a skinny model for this demo, but I was the only person available." His voice lifts back to that teasing tone. I'm Dean Maddox and I take nothing seriously.
"It suits you."
He stares at the reflection of the ink. "Yeah. But is it good?"
I tell the raging fangirl inside me to calm. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Yes, it's amazing that my work is on someone's skin.
But is it the best it can be?
I study the reflection, but it's too far away. The details elude me.
I move into Dean's suite.
Past his chair. And the stool next to it. All the way to the mirror.
My fingers brush his upper arm.
The design looked perfect on paper, but there's something off about it on his shoulder. The top is too small. The bottom is too big. It curves around his arm at an awkward angle.
The lines aren't sharp enough.
The beige and brown blend into his tan skin.
"It needs work," I say.
"How?"
I drop his arm.
He turns. Stares into my eyes, hanging on every word as I explain what isn't perfect. When I'm finished, he shakes his head. "You're too hard on yourself."
"My sister says the same thing."
"Gia, right?"
"Yeah."
"She into you doing tattoos?"
"She thinks it's cool." I take a step backward. "I designed this for her."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"And here I thought you had a thing for scoundrels."
"Cute."
"I try."
I bite back an insult. He tries to annoy me. To stay "hilarious." To press all of my buttons.
But why?
Dean's okay when he isn't being the most obnoxious person in the universe.
Where can I find more of that guy and less of this one?
"Redo it." He nods to my sketchbook. "Make it work better."
"You're the client."
"Yeah?"
"Shouldn't I be listening to your input?"
His smile spreads over his cheeks. "You'll do whatever I ask?"
"It's your tattoo."
"What if I want it to say Chloe Grace Lee has a fantastic ass?"
"That's a little obvious, don't you think? Might as well have it say 'water is wet.'"
His eyes brighten. "How about Chloe Grace Lee is madly in love with me?"
"If you want my name on your body that badly, just ask."
He smirks. "You're right. It's my ink. But some people have bad ideas. Want shit that won't work. It's your job to give them good ink. You have to steer them in the right direction."
"But—"
"You don't know shit yet, yeah. This is lesson one. You have ink."
I nod.
"Right here." His fingers curl around my wrist. He traces the word inked on it. Hope.
I cringe, anticipating his insult.
But he stays serious. "You pick this font?"
"Yeah."
"It's thin. Delicate. Perfect for a small part of your body. The tattoo is long. Not overly so—it's a short word. But long enough it stretches over your skin."
I nod.
"This was the right place for it." He pulls a marker from his back pocket. "But here?" He scribbles the word hope in the middle of my forearm in cursive. "Doesn't look as good."
It doesn't.
"It's too small for that body part. It's swallowed up by all the skin. But this." He measures the tattoo on his shoulder with his fingers then brings it to my forearm. His fingertips tap my skin at my elbow crick and my inner wrist. "Fuck, you're tiny."
"Five one."
"This is too big for your ar
"Where else?"
"Curve of the hip. Lower back." His fingers brush my lower back. Press the cotton fabric of my tank top into my skin.
It's soft. Tender. Like the night he…
I swallow hard.
"I have an appointment at ten. I want you sitting by my side the whole time." He motions to the counter. "Set up. Do the work Ryan assigned you. If you finish early, fix this."
"Do you want it somewhere else or on your shoulder?"
"I need this on my shoulder. I'll die if I don't get it on my shoulder."
"Die, really?"
"Yeah."
"Aren't you supposed to motivate me to do my best work?"
"Yeah?" His eyes light up with epiphany. "Be careful, sunshine. If you bite, I bite back."
"You started it."
"Even so." He sits back in his chair. Spreads his legs in that blow me position.
I flip him off.
He chuckles.
I want to slap him.
And kiss him.
It's weird.
But it doesn't matter.
Dean is my boss. I'm keeping this professional. End of story.
Chapter Six
Chloe
"Rick, Chloe. Chloe, Rick." Dean's voice is casual. Effortless. Like he's shooting the breeze at his favorite bar.
Rick, a tall guy with dark hair and a nervous smile, offers his hand.
I shake. "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah." His eyes trace a line down my body then fix on my chest.
My cheeks flame. It's been two years. I've spent them—no, I've spent my entire life living in tank tops.
I should be used to this.
But I'm not.
"Any way I can get her to do it instead of you?" Rick teases.
"It's her second day," Dean says.
"Even so." His gaze shifts to Dean.
Dean looks to me. "What do you think, sunshine?" He hands me the tattoo gun. "Want to do this freehand?"
Want to? Hell yes. I want to do ink now. But I'm not even close to ready for it. This isn't putting pen to paper. If I mess up, that's it. My mistake is on someone's body forever. "Not a good idea."
"Sorry." Dean shrugs. "I tried." He motions to his client. Sit down.
Rick follows orders.
"Get me the temp tattoo, Chloe." Dean leans in to whisper something in his client's ear. He shoots me a serene smile. "Please."
Is that sarcastic or earnest?
I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
This is a request from my boss. Not sass from my enemy.
I work with Dean.
I take orders from Dean.
Learning to do ink is worth dealing with a million obnoxious Deans.
There's a perfectly good temporary tattoo in the printer—Dean checked it a hundred times. Even so, I scan his drawing, hit print, wait for the machine to spit out the adhesive paper.
There. I snip it as small as I can and return to the main room.
The shop is still empty. There's no conversation, laughter, or grunting to drown them out.
I move close enough to eavesdrop.
"Come on. Be honest. You tapped that?" Rick asks.
Dean laughs. "Is she a PlayStation controller?"
"You know what I mean?"
"Is it the 90s? Is my hair rad?" He shakes his head, sending his long bangs flying in every direction. "Are my jeans fly?"
"Your hair is trapped in 2004. A little eyeliner and you'll be rocking the emo look," he says.
Dean chuckles. "You're brave, Rick. Braver than I am. But you know what they say—"
"Chicks dig guys with eyeliner?"
"Exactly." He laughs.
I'm not exactly opposed to the idea. Grey would suit Dean. Dark enough to line those baby blues but not dark enough to overpower them.
Shit.
This is…
It's just because I hit puberty when the emo look was popular.
It has nothing to do with that one time Dean dressed as some musician for Halloween. It has nothing to do with how badly I want to tug at his bangs and tear off his skinny jeans.
Besides, he's way too buff to look emo anyway.
This—
"Did you fuck her?" Rick asks.
"You gotta butter me up if you want juicy details like that."
"Girl like that. In those boots? Bet she's a tiny package of kink."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. Damn. How the fuck do you get all the hot chicks?" His cheeks flush as he catches me staring.
Dean laughs.
I blush. I get that I'm in a male environment. That tattoos are masculine and a lot of guys think they're in some let's talk about babes and brews and sports place.
But tiny package of kink? Really?
I suck a breath through my teeth. A lot of artists turned me down for an apprenticeship because women just can't do tattoos. I'm already at a disadvantage here.
It sucks, but I have to play nice if I want to level the playing field.
Dean's eyes catch mine. He motions come here. "Be honest, Chloe. You like this tattoo?"
It's a bicep piece, a classic sailor girl pinup. Vertical. Dark lines. Bright colors. Big, clear details. "It's good."
"Just good? Fuck, which of us should take offense to that?" Dean asks.
"It's great." It's bold, eye-catching, classic and original at once. "It suits you."
Rick looks to Dean and raises a brow.
"She told me the same thing about mine." He pushes his shirt up his sleeve to show off his Han Solo temporary tattoo.
"She was right about you." He looks to me. "I'm sure she's right about me."
"You know Chloe isn't just a masterful artist," Dean says.
"No?" Rick says.
"She does aikido," Dean says.
Confusion streaks Rick's expression.
"Martial arts." Dean jumps out of his chair. Sinks into his heels. Karate chops the air. "She kicked Ryan's ass."
My shoulders tense. I anticipate their stupid commentary. Of course, the Asian girl does karate. Oh, you're only half Asian? Does that make you an egg or a Twinkie? What do you mean karate is Japanese not Korean?
But the commentary doesn't come.
Dean threw a lot of bullshit at me over the years, but he never brought up my heritage.
Concern flares in his eyes. He notices my discomfort. Stares at me, asking me something.
I'm not sure what it is, but I trust him not to go there. I wave him on.
He turns back to Rick and launches into a story. "Ryan had no idea what he was in for."
I play my part. Shrug as if I had no problem defeating Ryan. Even though the truth is I've never bested Ryan.
Dean continues. "He was all pissy about his ex. You know the way he was before Leighton. And he was out for blood. Saw Chloe. Saw that dark hair and thought of all the ways he wanted to hurt Penny. He went dirty. Did shady bar fight shit. But he was too slow. Chloe was bobbing and weaving. She wrapped her arm around his neck and threw him over her shoulder."
Rick hangs on every preposterous word.
Dean lights up like a pinball machine as he acts out our fight. He mimes my hold on an invisible Ryan. Throws the invisible Ryan over his shoulder.
Rick's eyes go wide. He looks to me with respect. "Badass."
"Thanks." I fight my blush.
"Dean, you think you could take her?" Rick asks.
"If I had a death wish, maybe." Dean shakes his head no way.
"But she's…" He looks to me. "You're so small."
"And agile. As soon as you see her, she's gone." He slaps his hands together. Lets one whiz past the other. "If you want to go, be my guest. But I'm gonna insist on charging first. In case you don't make it back."
Rick's jaw drops.
He's really buying this.
It's weird. He's looking at me with all this respect.
Ten minutes ago, I was nothing but a piece of meat.
Now I'm worthy of more than his boner.
Dean made me feel mixed-up, but he never made me feel like that. Not until I was staring at my cell, wondering what I'd done wrong, wondering why I wasn't worthy of his attention.
Dean winks at me. Turns back to Rick. "Stay still." He's quick about applying the temporary tattoo and peeling it off.
It's hard to explain how perfect it is. The lines fall over his muscles like they were made for them.
No. They were.
This is an art I don't understand. That I barely begin to understand. And Dean really is the perfect person to teach me.
He turns Rick to the mirror. "Still in love?"
Rick's eyes go wide. "Fuck yeah." He looks to me. "Would you clean it off?"
Dean nods. "Do the honors."
It's quick, a few swipes of rubbing alcohol, then a few of a paper towel.
Rick looks at me with goo-goo eyes. "You sure she can't do the ink?"
"Damn. This is why no one hires hot women." Dean shakes his head with mock indignation.
"Is it?" God, he's stupid.
"Yeah." Dean nods. "They steal all your attention."
"Wasn't gonna stare at your chest." Rick blushes. "I mean—"
"It's fine," Dean answers for me.
Who the fuck does he—
"Go wash up, Cloe." He taps the gun with his gloved hand. Nods to Rick's easy, breeze smile.
He's calmer than he was when he came in.
Because of Dean's stupidity.
Because he's too busy thinking about my boobs to consider the giant needle awaiting him.
I get his point. Really, I do.
But those are my boobs he's using as bait.
He could at least ask permission.
I wash and dry twice, return to the suite, pull on plastic gloves.
Dean already has the stencil taped to Rick's arm.
But Rick is lacking the cool of a moment ago. He's staring at the tattoo gun, his eyes wide, his jaw tight.
Dean motions to the stool next to him. It's teal, like every other chair in the room.
I sit. Watch Dean turn the gun on. Look to Rick.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah." Rick fails to sell his sentiment.
"Let's play a game." Dean turns the gun on. "Truth or truth."
"What?" Rick asks.
"It's easy. You pick truth or truth. You in?" The gun buzzes against his hand. "Don't forget, I can still write I have mommy issues on your arm."
"I'm in." Rick lets out a nervous laugh.
"You first, Chloe." Dean turns back to Rick. Brings the gun to his skin. "On three."
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