"Busy." He looks to the Seinfeld rerun on TV. "Have you seen this one?"
I've seen them all a million times—he watches sitcom reruns nonstop—but I still shake my head. "I don't think so. I'll watch it with you."
His smile is bright. This, the two of us eating and watching TV together, brings him joy.
It feels good, seeing him happy.
But, honestly, I don't understand it. How can he be happy after losing so much?
How did he drag himself out of that misery?
How does anyone?
I finish the show and the pizza. Hug him good night. Shower. Climb into my pajamas.
I pore myself into my sketchbook, but it doesn't grab my thoughts.
They drift back to the beginning. The horror that streaked across my mind as I felt a lump.
Just like Mom.
It happened so fast. Exam. MRI. Needle biopsy. Scary words like malignant and gene mutation and preventative double mastectomy.
I knew the drill. I'd watched modern medicine fail my mother.
I was sure my fate was the same.
It was terrifying. I thought I had my life figured out—I was about to graduate UCLA. I was ready to start doing martial arts competitions. I was madly in love with my boyfriend.
But I misjudged him the way I misjudged Dean. To Alex, I was a fun way to fill time. We were never going to be serious. He left at the first sign of trouble.
My friends at college, the ones who drank with me, laughed with me, organized documentary screenings and bake sales with me…
They left too.
Gia and Dad are the only people who stuck around. And, yeah, maybe that wore on me.
Maybe it convinced me that people abandon you the second shit gets hard.
That men always fall back on their promises.
That no one wants the girl with a clock on her head.
But I…
Well, I guess I'm not over it.
I'm not filled with the survivor pride.
I'm not dancing over how lucky I am to be alive.
I'm alive, and I'm glad, but it sucks being alone.
Losing so much.
Mom was unlucky. The gene mutation that killed her wasn't easy to test then. She caught it late. She suffered.
But I knew early. Well, early enough for treatment. The doctors assured me I'd be fine so long as I lopped off my breasts then injected poison into my veins for a few months.
It was an easy choice.
I look the same. Better even. My boobs are bigger. Perkier. Nicer.
I wear clothes better.
I get more attention from guys.
But these fake tits don't feel like mine. They feel like they belong to someone else. To some woman who laughs at cancer. Who scampers around the beach in bikinis. Who drinks mimosas with brunch.
Not to me.
I'm the weird, artsy girl without a curve to her name.
I'm all skin and bone (and a little muscle).
I'm not a centerfold.
But these…
It was weird, coming out of recovery and suddenly turning heads.
I tried to revel in it. I tried to use it to my advantage. To date guys who used to be out of my league. To get free drinks and entrance to clubs (not that I liked them).
But it never felt right.
None of the guys felt right.
None set me on fire.
Or tempted me to tear my clothes off.
There's no reason why I can't feel desire. I still have my nipples. My hormones are normal. I'm not depressed. At least, not anymore.
But I can't find that deep need in my core.
That if I don't have it now, I'll die.
If I don't come now, I'll die.
But Dean…
He wakes up the part of me that's been dormant.
Because I had him before?
Because I want him now?
I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
Maybe I should listen to my body for once.
But my mind and heart are diametrically opposed to the cocky playboy.
Chapter Eight
Dean
Friday night, I stop Ryan on his way out the door. "Chloe was a good call."
"No shit." He stares at me in that Ryan kind of way. Assessing my intentions. Picking me apart. "What the hell are you up to?"
"Me?" I feign offense. "What could I possibly be up to?"
"Something."
"You worked with her yesterday."
"Yeah."
"And?" I ask.
"She didn't mention wanting to kill you." His gaze shifts to Chloe. She's sitting behind the counter, working on a sketch. "Is that 'cause you're doing your job or cause she's not the type to narc?"
I shrug.
Ryan shakes his head. "You really think your bullshit fools me?"
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes, yeah. But not most times." He laughs. Steps backward as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "You're staring at her."
"At her tits."
"No. At her." He smiles. "You like her or something?"
"I haven't liked a woman since high school."
"She went to our high school."
"Wasn't her."
"Don't believe you."
"It wasn't."
"Uh-huh." His smile widens. "Damn, Dean. Leighton is gonna flip—"
"I don't—"
"I don't believe you. But it doesn't matter. You can't. You're her boss. It's out of the question."
"Of course."
"Of course." He shakes his head. "Like you aren't picturing her naked."
"I can picture a woman naked then not fuck her." Or recall a past fuck. But Ryan doesn't need to know that.
"You put money on that?"
"You're picking up my bad habits."
He holds out his palm. Copies my pay up gesture. "A hundred bucks says you're gonna try to fuck her."
"Excuse you?"
"Yeah?"
"Try?"
He nods. "Not every woman finds you charming."
"She wants to fuck me."
"Hate fuck you maybe."
"That's still a fuck."
"Fair enough." He pulls out his wallet. Takes out a fistful of twenties. "What do you say? We settle this Dean style."
"You're freaking me out."
"You chicken?"
"No." Seriously, what the hell is Ryan doing acting like me? He's the stable, responsible one. "A hundred bucks says I keep it in my pants."
"Bet you've never said those words in that order."
"Sure, how much?"
He shakes his head, that same you're ridiculous. Turns to her. "Good night, Chloe."
"Good night," she calls back.
He waves goodbye then makes his way out the door.
Leaving the two of us alone.
Chloe stirs as I get closer.
For a split second, her dark eyes meet mine. They flare with something—some mix of frustration and anticipation.
It fades from her expression as she stares at her paper.
Her fingers curl into her pencil. She focuses intently on a curve. Outlines a flowering rose.
"Can I see?" I ask.
"You're asking?"
"I have manners."
"You sure about that?"
"No. Maybe you should test me."
"Okay." She looks up at me. Pushes her lips to one side. Taps her chin. "Should you ask your subordinates about their underwear?"
"Shit. I know I've heard this one before."
She fights a smile.
"Yeah. Right? Show them you're taking an interest in their personal life."
"No."
"Fuck. Really?"
"Really."
"But what if your subordinate is wearing tights jeans that are driving you out of your mind?"
Her tongue slides over her lips. "Are you saying she was asking for it?"
"No. I'm worried someone is gonna ask me about my und
A laugh rises in her throat. She holds her hand over her mouth. Tries and fails to stifle it.
Her dark eyes light up.
Her expression softens.
She brushes a lock behind her ears. "You don't have a boss."
"Damn. There goes that." I lean closer. Raise a brow. "What if my subordinate asks?"
"I'm not sure this falls under manners."
"No?"
"More sexual harassment."
"That's bad, right?"
Her laugh is light. Soft. "Yeah, it's bad."
Fuck, her laugh still hits me everywhere. I want to do whatever it takes to make it happen again.
I should stay the fuck away.
Keep her at a distance.
Do whatever it takes to avoid her getting under my skin.
But I can't.
There's something intoxicating about being around Chloe.
I need more of it.
I need all of it.
And, right now, I don't give a fuck what that means.
I need to be around her. Period.
I move closer. Look to the paper. "You haven't shown me the mock-up."
"You want to tease me or you want to look at the mock-up?"
Both. I motion give it to me.
She hands the sketchbook over.
A rose unfurls over a Latin quote. Its thorns wrap around the words. Guarding them or destroying them?
Hard to say.
"You design this for anyone in particular?" I hand it back.
"That's all I get?" She presses her lips together. Shifts her weight from one foot to another. Nerves flare in her dark eyes. But still she stares up at me, unblinking.
"What do you want?"
"To know if it's good."
"Do you think it's good?"
She stares at the art. Traces its lines with her fingertip. "It's a good start."
"It's great."
Surprise streaks her expression. Her lips curl into a soft o. Her chest falls with her heavy exhale.
"You're a fantastic artist. Best at the shop."
"Really?"
"Yeah. But that's only a fraction of what you need."
"Oh." Her brow knits in frustration. She blinks and it softens. Fades into the fiery determination I expect from her.
There's no middle ground with Chloe. She's all fire and ice. She's passionate. Opinionated. Sure.
I wish I gave that much of a shit.
My eyes meet hers. "Where would you put that design?"
She studies the drawing. Thinks it over. Slowly, she holds out her arm. Draws a line from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. "Or a hip." She nods to my right hip. "You're ink free. Or you were, last time I saw that."
"It's been—"
"You pulled it out the other day. To prove how I had to stoop to sex."
So I did.
"Which was a dick move. And it wasn't even true. That was tattoo haver to tattoo haver."
"You're a hot chick. He's a straight guy."
"Nudity doesn't have to be sexual."
"Maybe for doctors. But the average guy—"
"You?"
"What do you think, sunshine?"
"Remember when we ended up in the same figure drawing class? The one at SMC?" She calls the local community college by its initials.
"Yeah." When I fell in love with ink, I got serious about drawing fast. Took every art class I could. My mom was delighted. She dragged us to museums every weekend. But that… That was fucked in all sorts of ways.
"Was that sexual?"
"When they were hot."
"If I thought you meant that, I'd slap you."
"You wouldn't."
"Yeah, I would." She stands. "If you can ask about my panties, I can slap you."
"Is that a deal?"
"No." She folds her arms. "I'm not violent."
"You do Aikido."
Her brow furrows. Her eyes flare. "Martial arts is about non-violence." She takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. "You know that."
"Do I?"
"Yes. You do."
"Don't know a lot."
"You know more than you let on." Her eyes go to the paper. "Aren't you getting out of here?"
"You don't have keys yet."
"Oh. I'll pack up my stuff."
"No. I have something else for you."
"Can't it wait?"
I shake my head.
She slides her sketchbook into her backpack. Sets both on the counter.
She rocks back on her heels as she looks up at me. "Seriously, Dean. I can't handle any bullshit today. If it's—"
"It's not." I motion to the sink. "Wash up. Then meet me in my suite."
"Okay…" Her combat boots pound the hardwood as she stomps to the sink.
She scrubs her hands. Slides on gloves. Looks to me with that what the hell are you up to expression?
It fades into I don't care. Whatever it is, I'm meeting this challenge.
It fills some place that's usually empty.
I want to help her.
I want to teach her.
I want to show her things. I want to show her everything.
She takes a seat on the stool. Taps her heels together. "Yes?" Her voice is determined. Sure. I can do this.
She needs the confidence.
This is going to push her as far as she can take.
Further, maybe.
I lean back in the chair. Adopt an easy smile. "Do me."
"What?"
"You've never inked anyone before."
"Of course not."
My hand brushes hers as I lean down. I roll my jeans up my ankle. Turn my leg to show off the bare skin. "So do me."
Her eyes go wide. Not fear or frustration, but genuine shock.
She bites her lip. Stammers something that isn't a word.
I was as gung ho as anyone ever has been, but I was still terrified the first time I put a tattoo gun to skin.
To my skin.
I still have the shitty, uneven lyrics on my other ankle. They're ugly as fuck, but I wouldn't dream of doing a cover-up. It's a battle scar. No way am I hiding that.
And this, offering my skin to Chloe, that's another battle scar.
Fuck, never thought I'd be offering my body to a woman like this. To be honest, most of my fucks aren't exactly offering. I don't give anything of myself. I don't expect anything in return.
Expectations lead to disappointment.
To hurt.
To betrayal.
Who the fuck needs that?
Shit. I'm getting distracted. It's Chloe. She does something to me. She tears at the string holding my thoughts together.
A week ago, I was sure everything in my life was just right.
Now…
I stare into her dark eyes. "You want to be an artist?"
"Of course."
"You have to start somewhere."
Her gaze focuses on my ankle. My calf. My knee. My crotch. Her cheeks flush as she drags her gaze to my eyes. "But I don't—"
"Don't what?"
Her lips press together. "What if I mess it up?"
"Can you think of better revenge?"
"True." She fails to sell the confidence in her voice.
She slides off her stool. Leans into her heels to crouch on the ground.
Her gloved fingers brush my skin.
It's not like when she touched me before. It's clinical. She isn't looking at me like the guy she wants to fuck—she can deny it all she wants, but she does. That's clear as day.
She's looking at me the way she needs to. Like skin stretched over bone.
Like a canvas.
Then she isn't.
Her touch gets softer as she drags her fingertips up my leg. To the hem of my jeans. "Can you even do a tattoo with all this hair?" Her voice steadies. It's not quite confident, but it's closer.
"No." I chuckle. It's a good question. But, fuck, it makes it even more clear how little she knows. "That didn't come up?"
"I guess it did."
"What happened?"
"Walker shaved some guys arm." Her nose scrunches as she looks up at me. "Do I have to shave your ankle?"
"Yeah."
She sticks her tongue out gross.
"You do realize you have to touch people to give them ink?"
"Of course."
"Guys a lot less attractive than I am."
"Not possible. You're hideous."
"That so?"
"Yeah."
"You need to look at me again?"
Her laugh breaks up the tension in her jaw. "You're conventionally attractive, sure. But your personality ruins the whole thing."
"You'll have awful customers. It's part of the job."
"Thank so much, master tattoo artist. I had no idea I'd have annoying customers in a customer facing job."
"You're gonna pretend you know customer service?"
"I sold Doc Martens for years."
I can't help but laugh.
She flips me off.
"Just…"
"It suits me, yeah. I got an amazing discount."
"Didn't it bother you?"
"What?"
"Selling all that leather?"
"Sometimes. But we had a great vegan line. I got to talk people into that. And leather is a renewable resource, unlike plastic. So, it's not cut and dry." She bites her lip. Stares at the ground. "You really remembered that?"
"You wore a Meat is Murder shirt to class once a week."
She laughs. "I was sort of—"
"Confrontational?"
"Yeah."
"You give it up?"
"No." She drops to her knees. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
"How long has that been?"
"Sixteen years. Not that I'm counting."
"But no Meat is Murder shirt all week."
"That's where you're wrong." She taps her tank top. "It's on here in all black. I could never give up my all black aesthetic. Even for my morals." Her lips curl into a soft smile. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it. With how hard you stare."
I can't help but smile. I don't stare, exactly, but I do look. I can't help myself. Chloe is my kryptonite. She always has been.
"You can't get out of this," I say.
"Seems like I'm getting there."
I shake my head. She's charming me, yeah, but she's not getting any closer to getting out of this.
Chloe is doing this ink tonight.
She drops the teasing to look up at me. "What do you want?"
"A shooting star."
"That's complicated."
It is. Way too complicated for her first tattoo. It's good she has some idea of her limits.
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