Rick nods.
"One, two—" There's no three. The needle is already on Rick's skin.
Rick bites his tongue as he stares straight ahead. He's clamming up. Nervous.
This isn't a particularly painful spot, but a needle jamming your skin several times a second is always painful.
Especially if you hate needles.
"Chloe." Dean taps my toe with his. "Your turn."
"Oh." I have to distract the client. It's weird, but it makes sense in a Dean kind of way. "How'd you get into doing ink?"
"Damn, my ego." He looks to Rick. "Can you believe she isn't asking about my cock?"
He laughs.
"Who'd want to know something about my feelings?" Dean feigns confusion. "But fair enough, sunshine." He traces the outline over Rick's skin. "Ryan got his first tattoo at sixteen. Our parents freaked. Grounded him for a month. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Talked him into taking me to the studio."
I can see that.
"The artist stared at me and said, 'what are you, twelve? Wait until you're eighteen, kid.' He wouldn't do it. Later, I found out, Ryan had arranged that. But I didn't forget it. As soon as I turned eighteen, I went back there. To the same guy. He remembered me. Did my first piece for free."
"What was it?" I ask.
He taps his side. "Our beautiful state."
The ink he showed me that night.
I fight my blush, but it doesn't work. My cheeks are on fire.
Rick looks between us. Arches a brow, angling for a story. He's eager for dirt. He's practically oblivious to the needle on his arm.
Dean is good at this.
"How'd you get from there to doing ink?" Rick asks.
"Ryan started apprenticing around then. Once he was a full-time artist, I guilt tripped him into getting me a gig at his studio."
"No wonder he's hesitant to teach anyone," I say.
Dean laughs. "Fucked that up for everyone. Sorry." He winks.
I don't know how to take it, so I focus on the work. The outline takes shape. A woman sitting on an anchor, her back arched, her lips parted, her chest in the air.
Classic.
He finishes the black. "Red."
I grab the pad, open it, place it on the tray.
Dean stops the gun. Switches needles. He's careful. Focused. Intent.
That other Dean. The one I don't understand.
Then he's back to the troublemaker. "My turn."
"Yeah," I say.
He turns on the gun. Draws the first line of red—the sailor girl's lips. "Chloe, what color panties are you wearing?"
Rick's cheeks flush. He barely notices the needle.
But that doesn't soothe my temper.
My eyes narrow. My fingers curl into fists.
"Black, I bet," Dean says.
Calm down, Chloe. He's helping the client. Look how calm he is. He's practically floating.
So what, if he's right about your panties?
That's an easy guess.
It doesn't mean he's thinking about your panties.
It doesn't mean he wants you out of them.
For forty-five minutes, I swallow my anger. I play along with Dean's game. Answer his question. Ask my own. Watch the tattoo take form.
Dean takes me through the after-care.
Has me check out Rick and walk him to the door.
Bright light floods the shop as I pull it open. It swings shut. Blocking the beautiful afternoon.
Keeping out the heat.
Breaking the dam holding back my frustration.
I march to the counter. Wrap my hands around Dean's wrists. Lean in close enough to glare. "What the fuck was that?"
"You're smarter than that question, sunshine."
"What color panties are you wearing?"
He smirks. "Are you pissed 'cause I was right?"
I fold my arms.
He reaches into his back pocket. Pulls a stack of twenties from his leather wallet. "I'll put a hundred bucks on it."
"On what?"
"You're wearing black panties."
"That's an easy guess."
"Is that a yes?"
"Fuck off."
He smiles as he slides his wallet into his jeans.
I reach for the first hint of upper hand I can find. "Ryan would kill you for asking that." It's the wrong thing to say. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
He shoots me a really, that's your line look. "You need Ryan to fight your battles for you?"
"No." I don't need Ryan. I don't need Dean. I don't need anyone. It's not like there's anyone I can trust. It's Dad and Gia. That's it. "I need you to mind your own business."
"You want the client freaking out?"
"No, but—"
"Figuring out how to keep someone calm is part of the job."
"I know what getting a tattoo is like. Most people don't—"
"Yeah, but Rick does. And our twelve o'clock does too."
"You must offend people with this frat boy routine?"
"Aww, you think I'm smart enough to be in college."
"No."
"Could have gone to UCLA."
"Because you were offered a swimming scholarship."
"Even so."
"That waives the regular application requirements."
He stares back into my eyes. "You don't like the way I handle my clients, you can leave."
"You're supposed to be helping me."
"You telling me you didn't learn anything?"
I bite my lip.
"You can handle your clients however you want. Do shit by the numbers. Talk about weather. Talk about celebrity gossip. Talk about the Dodgers. Fuck, be like Ryan and sit there in silence. Everybody finds what works for them."
"And perverted bro works for you?"
He presses his hand to his heart. "You know me too well, sunshine."
UGH. He's so…
He's right but he…
I…
I stare back at him. Try to find a calm, even response. Fail. "DON'T TALK ABOUT MY FUCKING UNDERWEAR."
"Sure thing, Chloe." He smiles serenely. "I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Bullshit."
He holds up four fingers. "Scouts honor."
Total bullshit. He lives to annoy me. How did he live before I started working here? That's the real question.
It's just…
He's so…
UGH.
I take a deep breath. Cultivate all the calm I can manage. "Don't ask about my panties, or my sex life, or my taste in men."
"Of course."
"Good." I bite my lip. There's no way he's just agreeing. He must be up to something.
"You distract our client, I'll keep our conversation PG." He offers his hand. "Deal?"
There's some catch here. I know there is.
I shake his hand anyway.
This is just like high school. We're competing again. And, this time, I'm not losing to Dean Maddox.
Chapter Seven
Chloe
Zack, our noon appointment, introduces himself with a nervous smile.
He's a bundle of anxiety.
We're doing a cover-up. As in, someone already fucked-up his first tattoo. As in, he has every reason to be cagey about ink penetrating his skin forever.
Dean watches me like I'm a monkey in the zoo.
Like I'm just oh so adorable and out of my element.
"It's going to look awesome." I cut out the temporary tattoo and apply it.
"Yeah." Zack's voice gets hollow as he stares at the tattoo gun. His eyes go wide. His jaw cricks. "How long is it gonna take?"
"About an hour." Dean stretches his arms over his head. "You good to sit?"
"Sure." Zack continues staring at the needle.
"Chloe is my apprentice," Dean says. "She's just gonna watch."
"Right." Zack nods.
"That's kind of her thing—" Dean catches himself getting dirty. Clears his throat. "You eve
"Yeah." My hand goes to my hip reflexively. "My first tattoo was terrible. A lopsided star. I went to a really shady place. I was lucky I didn't get hepatitis."
Horror creeps over Zack's expression.
Shit. That isn't helping.
I back up. "We're really careful here. Sanitized needle. New pad of ink every time." I tap the ink on the shelf. "It's um…" I reach for a comforting response and find nothing. Dean makes this look so easy. But it's just… not. "We really are careful."
Zack stays horrified.
I bite my tongue.
Dean shakes his head. Pathetic.
No.
I won't prove him right.
"It's my favorite tattoo now. The cover-up." I roll my jeans over my hips to show off the ink. It's no longer a lopsided five-point star. It's a shooting star, trailing across my skin.
Zack's expression softens. "Nice." He turns to Dean. Throws him one of those guy looks are you two a thing?
"You haven't shown me the new version," Dean says.
This is artist to artist.
It's not him checking out my bod.
Not that I want him checking out my bod.
I…
Ugh.
I turn to Dean.
"Fuck. That is nice. Who did it?" he asks.
I relay the artist's name.
Dean nods knowingly. "Now put your clothes back on. We wouldn't want Zack distracted."
I fight a glare.
He smiles smugly.
Whatever. This isn't making it about sex. Nudity isn't always sexual. If anyone knows that, I do.
I shift my attention to Zack. "What do you think?" I motion to his temporary tattoo. "Is it perfect?"
"Yeah." He stares at his reflection. "It is."
Dean picks up the gun and turns it on. It buzzes against his hand. It hums that low, steady roar.
There's something relaxing about it. To me.
To Zack…
Every last ounce of calm fades from his expression. His face goes white. Really white.
I need to distract him. Now.
But…
How?
I've never been gregarious. Or chatty. I can hold my own in a conversation okay, but creating one from scratch?
Not as much.
I look for clues. He's in a plain blue t-shirt. Normal jeans and sneakers.
His other arm is covered in ink. A skull and crossbones. A dagger. A Nirvana logo.
Ah.
"Can I ask you for some advice, Zack?" I sit next to Dean. Stare into Zack's dark eyes like I find him endlessly fascinating.
"Yeah. Sure," he grunts.
"I want to get into grunge, but all I know are the five songs they play on KROQ." Total bullshit. But what's a white lie to bring someone comfort?
He chuckles. "Yeah, they play a lot of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Nirvana is my favorite, but I still get sick of it."
Dean turns the gun on.
"Seriously. It's that or Like a Stone," I say.
"Or Even Flow." He laughs. "You'll never hear the best stuff on the radio. The singles have too many edges smoothed off."
"What would you recommend?"
He launches into a list of bands. Most, I know. A few are new. Zack is really into this stuff.
And he's really distracted.
He grimaces every time Dean changes needles or moves to a new line. But I manage to bring him back to music every time.
I keep him distracted for the entire cover-up.
When we're finished, he hugs me goodbye and leaves his card. Not in a do my next tattoo kind of way.
In a call me so we can make beautiful music together kind of way.
Dean shakes his head. "Not gonna stoop to sex?" He turns, tilts his hip into the air, rolls his jeans over his skin. "Low blow, sunshine."
My gaze refuses to budge from the tan skin on display. God, he has nice hips. I've never thought about a guy's hips before, but Dean's are so…
"My eyes are up here."
"I was showing him an example."
"You got any other examples? Here maybe." He points to my chest.
"Fuck off."
"Sure." He reaches for his zipper. "But only if you promise to watch."
"Is there some timer in your head that keeps you from being serious for too long?"
"I'm dead serious, sunshine."
I roll my eyes.
"Now you're hurting my feelings."
"I'm not."
His lips curl into a smile. "No. You're not." He rolls his jeans back up his hips. "We both know the truth."
"I don't want to watch you fuck yourself."
He smiles yeah, you do. "You had to resort to sex."
"I won't next time."
"Suit yourself. But there's no shame in taking an easy path."
"I…"
"It's hard enough doing this job. Why make it harder?"
The bell rings as a guy about Dean's height steps inside. He has dark wavy hair, dark eyes, and an easy smile.
He's dressed like Dean—jeans, t-shirt, sneakers.
Effortlessly casual.
Effortlessly hot.
He surveys the scene and shakes his head. "You must be Chloe."
"Yeah." I offer my hand.
"Walker." He moves forward. Shakes. Leans in to stage whisper. "If Dean's giving you too much shit, let me know. I'll kick his ass."
"Didn't work too well for you last time," Dean says.
"I let you win."
"If I thought that was true, I'd kick your ass for it."
Walker chuckles. He turns to me. "You can shadow me tomorrow, Chloe. I'm doing some cool shit." He moves into his suite. "Or you can stick with Dean. He's a good artist, if you can get past his personality."
"I'm not sure I can."
"I'm not sure I blame you."
Dean mimes being stabbed in the gut. He jumps over the counter—actually jumps—then stumbles forward. He lurches over. Grabs his chest. Stares at the imaginary blood on his hands.
"It's so… cold." He stumbles forward. Collapses on the ground.
He commits to his persona.
Even when it's stupid and annoying and rude.
And kind of funny.
Okay. Kind of really funny.
Our third tattoo is easier. The client is a woman. A tall, curvy, gorgeous woman.
Getting a tattoo just above her ass.
Dean charms her. Teases her. Makes her feel special.
I try to focus on the ink—a blossoming lotus, adorned with spirals and swirls.
It's great work—rich colors, sharp lines, soft shading—but my thoughts refuse to settle.
Jealousy builds in my gut.
My stomach twists. My heart sinks. My shoulders tense.
Finally, we finish. She giggles as he cleans her up. Hugs both of us. Gushes thank yous.
She's so nice and sweet and genuine.
And I want to punch her in the face because his hands are on her body.
They should be on mine.
They should be under my clothes. Between my legs. Inside me.
Fuck.
It's like high school. Dean owns my thoughts.
When I spend my late lunch break on a picnic bench by the beach, eating my homemade almond butter and jelly sandwich, he owns my thoughts.
When I grab a cup of Earl Grey at the nearest cafe, he owns my thoughts.
When I return to Inked Hearts and finish up administrative work, he owns my thoughts.
The day crawls on forever.
Until he finally releases me. And I leave. And he stays in the forefront of my brain.
I drive to the dojo. Change in the car. Step into the gym with every intention of clearing my head.
No Dean.
No Inked Hearts.
No men staring at my chest.
Teasing me about my panties.
Reminding me of everything I can't have.
Thirty minutes until the next all level class. I warm up. Stretch. Let my mind wander past the padded floors and the bamboo screens lining the walls.
Back in high school, it took three days to realize Dean wasn't going to call. That his only interest was what was between my legs.
It killed me.
I was always cute enough, thin enough, petite enough. But I was the weird artsy girl who wore combat boots to prom. Without a date.
Back then, I had a hard time revealing myself to people. I guess that hasn't changed much.
I always pored myself into my art. And I always felt like Dean saw something in it.
Like he knew some part of me no one else did.
He knew exactly what buttons to press to get a reaction.
Before she died, Mom used to say that hate is the other side of love. They're both passions that consume you. That encourage you to throw away every bit of reason.
That keep you up at night.
But Dean…
I don't know.
Slowly, regulars file in. The woman who looks like a poetry teacher. The teenage geek who can handle himself against any jock. The newly divorced woman, finding herself after losing everything she thought she had.
The instructor joins us. Takes us through calisthenics. Strength. Technique.
Sparring exercises.
They steal my focus. Keep my thoughts from drifting to how much Dean annoys me. To how impossible it will be to survive another two years of working with him. Or living with Dad—I love him to pieces, but he drives me bonkers.
Staying at home is all I can afford.
Twenty-four and I'm restarting my life.
It's better than the alternative, but it's still frustrating.
After an hour of sparring, class ends.
It's late enough the drive home is quiet.
I park my sedan next to Dad's, flip on the kitchen light, head to the fridge to figure out dinner.
We've never been well-off—I only managed to attend our fancy high school with a scholarship—but we do okay. The little house in the valley is ours. It's decked with Ikea furniture (all black or white, but somehow it works) and adorned with family photos.
Dad works hard. I do what I can to make his life easier—grab groceries, cook dinner, clean up.
Tonight, there's no need. He's sitting on the couch with a box of delivery pizza and a beer.
He waves a hello. "How was it, Chloe?"
"Tough." I take a seat on the couch. Grab a slice of cheese, one that isn't touching any pepperonis, and take a big bite. "How was work?"
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