Hating You, Loving You

by Crystal Kaswell

  "Ours?"

  "You're my shadow now. This is a water color tattoo. New technique."

  "A female client?"

  He chuckles. "Yeah. She's bringing her boyfriend to hold her hand."

  "Oh." It's common. Women usually bring moral support. Men tend to come alone.

  His bright eyes find mine.

  I stare up at him. "So, we're…"

  "I was drunk and stupid. Don't worry about it."

  "Oh. Right." I study his expression, but it doesn't give me a clue to his intentions.

  The suite is tiny. Especially with the client's boyfriend on the other stool.

  I'm a foot from Dean. Less.

  He's in the middle of the tattoo, but my body doesn't care. It begs me to touch him. To stop him. To do whatever it takes to get my clothes off and his hands on me.

  I press my palms into my quads. Focus on the soft fabric of my black jeans. On the way my nails curl into the denim.

  When I'm calm enough to concentrate, I bring my gaze to his right hand. I focus on the way his fingers curl around the tattoo gun. On the way his forearm flexes and relaxes as he works.

  The tattoo takes an hour. I barely make it through the check out.

  As soon as I can, I rush to the bathroom. But washing my hands in cold water isn't enough. Splashing my cheeks, forehead, and neck isn't enough.

  I'm burning up.

  I'm not sure how I survive our second tattoo. The appointments are back-to-back. No time for lectures on technique. Or teasing. Or staring at him like I'm desperate to get him naked.

  This is a geometric design. It's cool, modern, trendy.

  Dean is his usual funny, charming self. He turns the flirting off—he always does when a woman brings her boyfriend.

  He doesn't ask about my panties or my night or when I last touched myself. He doesn't suggest a game of ten fingers or truth or truth or tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.

  It's weird. But then it isn't. Not really. We had two appointments like this last week.

  He's incredibly good at reading the mood in the suite. At tuning himself to what the client needs. And this girl needs quiet reassurance and distraction from her boyfriend.

  Finally, we finish.

  I gush over the work. Bring them to the counter so Emma can check them out—she's Leighton's more permanent replacement. Since Dean "can't have his apprentice running around doing errands."

  Apparently, she's Brendon's younger sister. I can see the resemblance. They're both tall with intense brown eyes and dark hair.

  "Nice." She smiles at the client as she hands over the receipt. "I want one just like that."

  The client beams. Signs on the dotted line. "You should. I'm so in love." She turns to her boyfriend. Slides her arms around his neck. "Are you in love?"

  "Yeah." He stares back into her eyes all goo-goo ga-ga.

  She rises to her tiptoes to kiss him.

  He wraps his arms around her. Kisses back. With tongue.

  Emma shoots me an ew gross look.

  I nod.

  Dean chuckles. "Ink is an aphrodisiac."

  "Since when?" Emma raises a brow. "That sounds like a load of bull."

  He nods to the clients. Shut the fuck up. "How would you know, Em?"

  "You don't have any?" I ask.

  She nods. "When you grow up with a tattoo artist brother, the whole thing kinda loses its appeal." She looks to Dean. "I guess it's different when your brother is all old and weird. Like he's basically your dad."

  "He does have a daddy vibe." My cheeks flush. Did I just say that? I'm not even sure what that means.

  Emma's nose scrunches in distaste. "I did not hear that." She looks to the receipt. Points to the forty percent tip with a thumbs-up. "You guys are all done."

  They keep making out.

  Dean turns to Emma. "You got this?"

  "Is it really part of my job description?" she asks.

  "Get used to it. Happens with pretty much every couple. It's the ink. Or maybe it's me." He tugs his t-shirt up his stomach, showing off his taught abs. "I'm irresistible."

  "God, I thought Dean was annoying in small doses. But large ones…" She wipes her forehead like she's wiping off the sweat of a heavy work out. "How do you deal?"

  "I don't," I say.

  "He's the worst, isn't he?" she teases.

  "He's incorrigible," I say.

  "Fuck, sunshine. You know you have to dumb it down for me." He motions for me to follow him.

  I do.

  He grabs my backpack from behind the counter and leads me to the back room. "You finish Han Solo?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  He pushes his shirt up his sleeve. "Do me."

  "Right here?" I pretend to undo my jeans. "Sure. You have a condom?"

  His smile lights up his dark eyes. "I'm already corrupting you."

  "Maybe I'm already corrupted."

  He shakes his head.

  I nod.

  "Show me the goods."

  "Oh. Right." We're not flirting. We're pretending like Saturday night never happened. Maybe. I can never tell where I stand with him. "You're holding my backpack."

  He hands it over.

  I set it on the desk. Dig out my sketchbook. Find the page with my latest Han. It's a little different. He's wearing only his vest and pants, no shirt, and he's kneeling on his blaster as it shoots a laser bullet.

  It's all incredibly phallic.

  "Nice." He taps his skin. "Make it happen."

  He's in the way of the printer, but I don't ask him to move. My front brushes his as I pass him.

  My nipples perk. My sex clenches. My veins buzz with nervous energy.

  I'm shaking.

  I steady my hands enough to set the mock-up on the printer. Scan. Print.

  He keeps his body behind mine as I snip the edges from the design.

  Stays close as I clean him up, peel the plastic from the paper, press it to his skin, wet it.

  I'm right there. Inches from him. Touching him.

  But it's not enough.

  I want more than his shoulder.

  I want him naked in front of me.

  I want to be naked in front of him.

  My blush spreads over my cheeks and chest. It's bizarre. I haven't wanted to be naked in front of someone since before my diagnosis.

  My body has been my enemy.

  Then a stranger.

  But now, God, I want to kiss and make nice.

  To get to know every inch and cranny.

  Of me. Of him. Of us together—

  "That's plenty of time," he says.

  "Right." I peel the paper from his skin.

  Perfect. The design transfers.

  He looks down at me. "How is it?"

  I study the tattoo like it isn't a silly joke. Like it's exactly what Dean wants. It does fit his cheeky attitude. And it fits his shoulder too. The lines fall over his skin just so. "It's good."

  "Only good?"

  "Really good."

  He takes my hand and leads me back into the main room. Past Walker and Ryan—why are they in the lobby this early? All the way to his suite.

  He studies the design in the mirror. "Fuck. That is good." He turns to me. "Good job."

  The compliment does nothing to ease the flush in my cheeks. "Thanks." I stare up into his eyes. He's being genuine. It's weird. But I'm starting to get used to it. "But?"

  "No buts."

  "Do you want any changes? It is your tattoo."

  "Yeah." He looks back to the mirror. Studies the reflection. "More details on the gun."

  "I can't go too small. The ink spreads over time. In a few years it will be blurry."

  He smiles knowingly.

  "That was a trick question."

  "Maybe." He shrugs. "Add a few. Big ones."

  "Sure. I'll have it for you next week."

  "Good." He looks around the room. Ryan and Walker are still in the lobby. But now Brendon is with them and the amorous couple is gone. "Let's do

this."

  "Do what?"

  He's already in the lobby. "Hey." He claps his hands over his head. "Announcement. Chloe is gonna be my full-time apprentice."

  Emma shoots me a curious look. Like she's trying to decide how I feel about that.

  "That was your announcement?" Brendon asks. "Not sure anyone needed to get here early for that."

  "All right. Don't care. I'm in heaven. Chloe working under me." Dean winks. "What more could I want?"

  Walker rises from the bench with a chuckle. "In your dreams."

  "I'll make those nightmares." Ryan's threat is playful. He's even smiling. He looks to me. "You okay with this?"

  I nod.

  "You sure?" Walker asks. "Dean is—"

  "Annoying?" I offer.

  Emma laughs. "It's good she sees your true self."

  "Em, baby. How could you say that? You and I, we're like this—" He presses his first two fingers together. "You get me."

  "How horrifying." She shakes her head. "I do not." She looks to me. "Why Dean and not one of the other guys?"

  "Well, the thing is, the other guys at the shop are smoking hot. But Dean… his personality ruins the whole thing," I deadpan.

  "Fuck. Ow." Dean mimes being stabbed in the gut.

  I shrug.

  Walker laughs. "She is unfazed. I love it."

  Ryan and Brendon share a knowing look.

  Brendon shrugs what are you gonna do?

  Ryan's brow furrows. He's working something out, but I'm not sure what it is.

  "Is your ego okay?" Walker asks.

  Dean makes a show of shaking his head. He leans forward. Wraps his arm around his stomach like his guts are falling out. "I don't know if I'm gonna make it this time." He stumbles forward. Then backward.

  "You two fight a lot," Emma says. "I was only here one day and I saw it. You sure you want to deal with him?"

  "I have to," I say. "His hideous nature makes it so much easier to concentrate."

  "I can't… the shame." Dean reaches for an invisible weapon. Holds it in front of his stomach.

  He drops to his knees and falls on the sword.

  Then he falls flat on his face.

  Rolls over. Lets out a death rattle.

  His limbs go limp. Really limp. Like he's actually dead.

  Walker shakes his head. "Was that it?"

  Dean continues to play possum.

  Walker looks to Ryan and Brendon. "I'm gonna get coffee. You want to come?"

  Ryan nods.

  Walker looks back to Dean. "Gym at five?"

  Dean continues playing dead.

  "I'll take that as a yes." Walker shakes his head ridiculous.

  He and Ryan make their way out the door.

  "He commits." Brendon steps over Dean on his way back to the suite. "I'll give him that much."

  "He does," I say.

  "Good luck." He moves into his suite. "Let me know if you need any help."

  "Thanks." It's just me and Dean now.

  Well, and Emma.

  She studies me knowingly. Nods to Dean. Mouths you like him.

  I bite my lip.

  Her eyes go wide. She mouths you do!

  Is it really that obvious?

  She laughs. "He's dead. Let's check his pockets. You do it, Chloe. See if there's anything good."

  "Sure." I play his game. Drop to my knees next to him. My fingers brush the waist of his jeans. Over his hip bone. Lower.

  Fuck, my hands are close to where they need to be.

  I drag my fingers a little lower. Brush the top of his pocket. Slide my fingers into it.

  He's so warm and hard.

  And—

  Fuck.

  His fingers curl around my wrist. "If you get any closer I'm gonna be hard."

  "Oh." My cheeks flame. "Sorry."

  "Don't be." He sits up. Looks to Emma. She's watching us with wide eyes. "You angling for a threesome, Em?"

  "Ew," she says. "What's in the wallet for that kind of defensiveness?"

  "If I wanted you to know, I wouldn't be defensive," he says.

  "Or maybe you have a thing for Chloe getting you on the ground. Did you have a Xena Warrior Princess fantasy growing up?" she asks.

  He looks to me. "What do you say? You go as Xena for Halloween. I'll go as Hercules."

  "I'm good."

  He shrugs. "I tried." He looks to Em. "How about you?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Got your eye on someone else?" he asks.

  "Maybe." She clears her throat. Nods to Brendon, currently sketching in his suite, between clients.

  "You need some help? I can make it happen. Take you to his hang out spot. Make him jealous." Dean releases my wrist. In one swift motion, he jumps to his feet.

  He's not flirting with her. He's genuinely offering help.

  It's weird. But sweet too.

  "No. I'm good." She turns to the computer. "You have an hour until your next appointment."

  "I know," he says.

  I rise to my feet. "I should get lunch."

  "No." He motions come here. "I have something for you to do."

  "Oh."

  "I need your hands on my banana."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dean

  Chloe's shoulders drop from her ears as I pull a banana from my backpack. "This is fruit."

  "What were you expecting?"

  Her gaze goes right to my crotch. Her cheeks flush, but her eyes stay put.

  After a long moment of staring, she shakes it off. "Whatever could I have been expecting? It's not as if you phrased that sentence to give me the wrong idea."

  "Wrong idea? You sure you're thinking about me?"

  "Pretty sure." Her dark eyes fill with fire. She folds her arms. Taps her combat boot against the ground.

  "Come on." I motion for her to follow me. "No food in the main room. We have to do this in the office."

  "Oh. Sure." She follows me into the office.

  Brendon and Emma are the only people here. There's no need to close the door. If anything, it's a bad idea. It's an invitation. For her and for my body.

  Being in this tiny space with her is hard enough with the door open.

  I'm not doing anything that will ruin shit.

  I'm not touching her. Period.

  But caution isn't my strong suit.

  I close the door. Motion to the chair. "Sit."

  She does.

  I place the banana on the table. Reach into the desk drawer. This is what she's been waiting for. This is everything she wants.

  I set the tattoo gun in front of her.

  Her eyes go wide. "You mean—"

  "Yeah."

  "Now?"

  I nod.

  She picks up the gun. Wraps her fingers around it with reverence. She's in some trance. One that doesn't involve me.

  A gasp falls off her lips as she turns the thing on.

  It buzzes against her hand.

  She stares. Mesmerized.

  Chloe is hard to impress. This is a rare look for her. But it's fucking intoxicating. I want more of it. I want all of it. I want to fill her with wonder and joy.

  How the fuck do people deal with this? It's a head trip.

  I focus on the shit I do understand. "Pick up the banana."

  She does.

  "Try the first one freehand."

  She nods.

  "What are you gonna do?"

  "A star."

  "Practicing for me?"

  "Uh-huh." She nods, but the words aren't making it to her brain.

  Her gaze fixes on the banana. She sets it on the table. Brings the gun to its flesh.

  She gasps as the needle hits the peel.

  "It's not quite like skin. But it's similar," I say.

  She nods. Stares intently as she drags the needle up to a point, then down from it.

  It takes her a minute to draw all five points.

  She turns the gun off.

  Sets it on the table.

  Looks up at me with all the wonder in the world. "I really did that."

  "How was it?"

  "Awesome." She stares at the banana. Just stops herself from tracing the ink.

  It's a good first attempt. The lines are messy, the symmetry is lacking, but the shape is there.

  "Do five more," I say.

  "On this banana?"

  I nod.

  Her eyes meet mine. "Are you going to stand there?"

  "I dunno. Am I your teacher?"

  "Oh. I just mean…" She nods to the chair on the other side of the desk. "You could sit."

  "Sure." I grab the chair. Roll it next to her. Sit. But it's no good. She's too close. I can smell her floral shampoo. And the lavender scent of her soap. And beneath that, something all Chloe.

  Her dark eyes fill with focus as she picks up the gun. She still gasps when she turns it on, but it's softer. Like she's getting used to it.

  She draws another freehand star. It's better, but it's still not there.

  I don't give her a chance to reflect. "Keep going."

  She does.

  It takes ten minutes, but she finally manages to do one star with straight lines.

  The steady hum of the tattoo gun ceases as she sets it down. The air-conditioning whirs, drowning out the sound of her soft, steady breath.

  Her fingers curl around the banana. "How did I do?"

  "It's a good start."

  "But?"

  "You tell me."

  She looks to the first star. "It's almost as ugly as mine was."

  "Yours was—"

  "Horrible. But I did love it. At the time."

  "Why?"

  "Why was it horrible?"

  "Why did you love it?"

  "It was my first real rebellion. My parents were confused by the combat boots and the dark eyeliner, but they didn't really care. I got perfect grades. I did volunteer work. Made varsity swim team. I did everything I was supposed to do."

  "I get that."

  "When did you ever follow the rules?"

  "Believe it or not, my parents adore me."

  "Probably true. Everything falls into your lap."

  That isn't true. But I don't bother correcting her. Chloe has some idea of me. I can't blame her for it. I'm the one who made sure she saw me a certain way.

  "These are kinda lopsided."

  "A stencil will fix a lot of that."

  She nods.

  "But so will holding the gun right."

  "Oh."

  "Like this." I pick up the gun with a soft grip. Model the proper technique.

  She stares back at me like I'm crazy.

  -->