by L. A. Witt
Matt remembered his own apprentice days all too well, and hated himself for wanting to grab the walk-ins before Lucas, but the dwindling digits in his bank account didn’t offer a lot of alternatives. Well, no time like the present to step up his marketing game.
As the week went on and Lucas settled into the shop, Matt did his level best to ignore his anxiety about, well, everything. Money. Competition. His car. His rent. That really hot client he’d probably scared away and was simultaneously afraid would come back any minute.
God, he really needed to get Jon out of his head. Every time the bell on the door jangled—why had Pete put up that fucking thing?—Matt cringed. He was absolutely certain, every single time, that it would be Jon. And then when it wasn’t, his heart would sink with this weird mix of relief and disappointment. As much as he desperately needed more clients, he hoped like hell Jon didn’t come back. It was too weird. Too awkward.
And yet, he hoped Jon would show up so he could give the whole flirting thing another try. After all, Pandora’s box was open. There was no going back and pretending the old mantra of “I’m not gay” still applied. But that didn’t mean he was ready to dive in headfirst and see what happened. He figured he could get his head around being bi at some point, but he wasn’t ready to start being bi. To start acting on it. Sleeping with a man. Maybe even dating one. After too many years of adamantly telling himself and the world that he wasn’t gay, he needed time to fit it into his brain that he wasn’t straight.
It had started out as an innocent kiss on a playground, and he’d been teased relentlessly after that for being . . . well, various colorful euphemisms for “into guys.” Kids were cruel, and once that label had landed on his forehead, there’d been no escaping it.
“I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not—well, now wait a minute . . .”
The threesome had happened, and before Matt had recovered his equilibrium from that, Jon had waltzed into the shop and let Matt know that, no, the threesome had not been a fluke, and yes, men were definitely attractive to him. Now he was gone. Role completed. Exit stage left. No problem. Matt was just hung up on him because he was nervous about moving forward with his newly renovated sexual identity.
After a solid week, he finally relaxed. Jon wasn’t coming back. Matt could focus on fixing the problems with his car and his bank account—at least he had that shiny new equipment, courtesy of Skin Deep, Inc.,—and deal with things like sex and love and men and women later.
Then, on the following Wednesday evening, the bell on the door jangled.
Matt looked up, thinking nothing of it.
And in walked Jon.
Chapter 7
They locked eyes as the door banged shut behind Jon, bells jangling emphatically. Heavy metal played on the stereo, and movement somewhere in the back suggested at least one other person was there, but it may as well have been dead silent. Well, aside from Jon’s thumping heart. He’d been worked up since he’d made the decision to come back to Skin Deep, Inc. Hell, he’d driven past the strip mall three times before he’d finally pulled in and parked.
It was only his third time in the shop, but the place seemed weirdly familiar. The buzzing of the needle. The smell of antiseptics. The designs on the wall that he could swear he’d practically memorized. The gorgeous tattoo artist sizing him up from behind the counter.
“Oh,” Matt said after a moment. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Wasn’t expecting to see you.” Matt gulped. “So, uh, how is the tattoo healing?”
“It’s pretty much healed.” Jon cautiously came closer to the counter, trying to look casual even though he was suddenly more nervous than he should’ve been. “Not itching anymore, thank God.”
“Yeah.” Matt laughed, though it sounded forced. “That’s the worst part. It’s all smooth sailing from here.” At least he hadn’t asked to see it. That might’ve been enough to send Jon right back out the door. Or make him nervous enough to spout off some snarky comment about buying him a drink first, and then Matt would’ve sent him right back out the door.
Jon was about to make another attempt at small talk, but footsteps made him pause, and a second later, a guy stepped out of the back. Jon immediately recognized him from the photo in the side room, where Matt and his boss were participating in a tattooing competition. And holy crap, he was hot. Obviously no stranger to the gym or the tattoo needle. Hadn’t Matt mentioned that the guy was hot? And Jon hadn’t known too many straight guys who described other men as hot, so that meant he was into men, right?
Matt must’ve noticed Jon looking the other guy up and down, because he said, “Oh, uh, this is my boss, Colin. Colin, this is Jon, the pilot I told you about.”
Colin chuckled as he extended his hand to Jon. “The lost bet. Shame about that game, eh?”
“Tell me about it.” Jon shook his hand. “But he did good work on the tattoo, so I can’t complain.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less.” Colin glanced at Matt. “That’s why I hired him.”
Matt gave a soft laugh, and blushed. Which did nothing to help Jon untie his tongue. He was admittedly a sucker for shy streaks. Especially shy streaks on guys who looked like badasses. At first glance, Matt was someone Jon wouldn’t want to cross. He wasn’t terribly broad, but he was at least six-two or six-three, and his height plus the tattoos on his arms and neck made him imposing.
That hint of pink across his cheeks when his boss complimented him? Fuck.
“Anyway,” Colin said to Matt. “I’m heading out shortly. I’ll let you know when I take off. You’re holding down the fort tonight.”
Matt just nodded, and Colin went into the back of the shop, leaving the two of them alone with their weird silence and a huge selection of tattoo designs that didn’t interest Jon in the slightest. Jon chewed the inside of his cheek, mentally scrabbling for a way to kick off the conversation. He wasn’t usually this awkward with men. In fact, he was pretty damn smooth most of the time. Matt threw him off his game. Which may have had something to do with them getting off on the wrong foot that first time. When Matt rejected his flirting and insisted he wasn’t gay, then turned around and admitted he . . . kind of was? Like he’d just come out? He’d given off plenty of signals that night, and Jon had misread all of them. Shit, no wonder he was second-guessing himself at every turn.
And apparently Jon wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable as hell—Jon could see that Matt was fidgeting like he was full of restless energy with no outlet. He probably wondered why in the world Jon was here, and since he was the professional and Jon was the client, he had no choice but to politely wait for Jon to make a move. Shit—now Jon felt guilty for putting him in that position.
“So, uh . . .” He coughed into his fist. “The tattoo’s healing great. I came because I was thinking I might get another one, actually.” Oh fuck. I didn’t just say that.
Matt blinked. “Really? You were serious about that?”
Apparently I did just say that.
“Yeah.” Jon shifted his gaze to the designs on the wall, mostly to avoid Matt’s scrutiny. “I’ve been in the Navy twelve years. Seems like it’s time for that lifer tattoo.”
“You do realize it’ll mean using the same equipment as before, right? Like, a needle?” Matt’s tone was light, but also held a note of real concern.
Jon gulped, but he nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it was painful as hell, but I got through it. So, I know I can handle it.” Sort of. The thought of facing the tattoo needle again made his stomach roil just like it did whenever he got a notice from medical that he needed to come in for a vaccine or a blood draw.
“Okay.” Matt put a portfolio on the counter. “So what did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a jet?”
“Right. Pilot. What do you fly?”
“The Super Hornet.”
“So something like . . .” Matt flipped through a few pages, then stopped on a spread of half a dozen tattoos of jets. They were f
reshly inked, too, with the lines still puffy and the untouched skin still an angry red. He tapped one of the photos. “Something like these?”
Jon craned his neck. They were definitely impressive. Not that he was surprised, since Matt obviously had some serious talent. Still, he couldn’t help but marvel at the level of detail and the accuracy. He and Nate both turned up their noses at a lot of art that tried to portray their bird—somehow, there was always something wrong, something that might not have been noticeable to the untrained eye, but which stuck out like a sore thumb to someone who lived and breathed the aircraft. Disproportionate wingspan. Wrong profile on the canopy. Carrying the wrong missiles in the wrong places.
But Matt had nailed it, even on the more stylized images where artists tended to take a lot more liberties with realism.
“These are amazing.” Jon glanced at Matt. “You really know your jets.”
Matt laughed. “Not really. I just use a lot of reference material to make sure I don’t fuck something up.” He paused. “Actually, I have a few more in the back. Come on.” He led Jon into the room where he’d done the original tattoo, and set the portfolio on the table where Jon had been lying for his tattoo. On the wall, there were a few more aircraft designs. Some bigger, some smaller, but still precise and accurate. “So, um, are any of these along the lines of what you’re thinking of?”
“Maybe. I’m . . .” Jon skimmed over the designs again. Was he actually considering this? Of course he’d come in here because he wanted to see Matt. And a tattoo was a good excuse to avoid coming across as creepy or something. So how much did he play up the charade?
Beside him, Matt shifted his weight. “Only thing with a design like this is it’s got to be pretty big. Otherwise the details run together, and you just end up with ugly blobs.”
Well if that wasn’t a reality check . . .
“When you say pretty big, how big do you mean?” Despite his proximity to this incredibly hot man, Jon was barely aware of the double entendres. He was a bit too horrified by the prospect of what a “big” tattoo actually meant.
Matt held his hands a few inches apart, creating a space roughly the size of a small plate. “At least this much. Bigger if you want a lot of detail.”
Jon could actually feel the color slipping out of his face. “Oh.”
“I mean, you could do a smaller piece if it was a line drawing or something.” Matt motioned toward another sheet of designs on the wall, indicating a group that were basic line drawings of cars, dolphins, a horse, and a pistol. Just enough to suggest the shape and a few very basic details. “I could do something like—”
“Hey, Matt?” Colin leaned in. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m heading to the gym now. Lock up before you take off, all right?”
Matt nodded. “Will do.”
“Great Thanks. Sorry again.” Colin slipped back out of the room. A second later, the shop’s front door closed, bells jangling for a moment before falling silent, and the hair on Jon’s neck stood on end. They were alone now. Completely alone.
Matt took a sketchbook out from under the massage table, turned it to a blank page, and set it on the table. “So, let’s talk styles. You want something photorealistic?” He gestured at one of the images on the portfolio. “Or more stylized?”
Jon barely even saw the images. He was too fixated on Matt’s long fingers. On the tattoos that started under his shirt, covered his arms all the way down, and continued onto his knuckles. Then he remembered Matt had asked him a question. “Um. I’m not really sure yet.”
“Okay, well, have you thought about where you want it?”
I’ve thought about where I want your hands on me. Does that count?
“Um . . .”
Matt studied him for a long moment. Then, lips quirked slightly, he furrowed his brow. “You sure you actually want another tattoo?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Jesus I sound like such a tool. “That’s, uh, why I’m here.”
Matt’s expression was unreadable. “Okay. Well.” He cleared his throat and turned away to gesture at some of the designs on the wall. “The size of the tattoo is going to be limited by where you want it, and it also depends on what style you want because that’ll determine how much detail. Something photorealistic, old school, completely custom . . .”
Jon tried to focus on the designs, but his gaze kept slipping back to Matt. Back to the curve of his neck, and the ink peeking up from his collar, and his broad shoulders under a tight T-shirt. He gulped. Matt’s back was to him, and somehow that made Jon braver.
“Can I be completely honest about something?”
Matt turned his head, but didn’t face him completely.
Jon stepped closer. He could almost touch him. Almost. “I didn’t actually come back for another tattoo.”
Slowly, Matt faced him. He looked about as nervous as Jon felt—forehead creased, posture stiff. “Then . . . ?”
“I mean, I do want another one, but not now. Maybe down the line. When I’ve forgotten how much it hurts.”
Matt didn’t laugh. He also didn’t look away. “So you’re . . . just . . . what? Thinking ahead?” He paused, and faced the flash on the wall again and cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s fine. It’s good. You should think about it before you commit.”
Jon exhaled. “Listen, I . . . the point is, tattoos have nothing to do with why I came back.”
Matt swallowed. “Oh.”
“I’m not gonna lie. I’m incredibly attracted to you.”
The shiver that ran up Matt’s spine was as palpable as it was visible, and goose bumps broke out along Jon’s back. Matt turned his head slightly, but didn’t face him. “Come again?”
“I . . .” Jon gulped. “I came back because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Chapter 8
Matt’s heart seemed to stop and speed up at the same time. “You’re, uh, really direct.”
“I know.” Jon came closer. “But I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
Matt closed his eyes. He wanted to turn around and face Jon—making him talk to his back seemed at best melodramatic, at worst rude—but he just couldn’t do it. Not while he was still trying to make sense of what Jon had just said.
He fixed his gaze on the flash right in front of him. Old school designs—the heart with a banner that read Mom, pinup girls in provocative poses, cartoonish skulls with playing cards or knives or whatever. Something to stare at besides the man who was sending his pulse into overdrive.
“If you want me to leave,” Jon said quietly, “I’ll understand.”
“No.” That was one thing Matt was sure of, at least. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .” He cleared his throat again. “Don’t leave.”
Silence again. Long, baited silence, punctuated by the thumping of Matt’s heart.
Jon didn’t move, but somehow seemed even closer. “So, what now?”
“You tell me,” Matt barely whispered. It wasn’t just that he was letting Jon call the shots—he really didn’t know what happened next. How did this work? Was it different with a man than a woman? Hell, was he imagining this whole thing? Standing there in front of Jon, spacing out and hallucinating his fantasy while Jon watched him and wondered what the fuck he was on?
This time, Jon did come a little closer, and before Matt could adjust to his nearness—God, he could feel his body heat—Jon put a hand on his waist. Matt imagined himself whirling around or jerking away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Neither of them moved at all. Electricity crackled under his skin, and there was definitely some blood rushing below his belt. After fantasizing about Jon for the past few nights, just the touch of his hand through his shirt was enough to weaken Matt’s knees.
He closed his eyes, trying to figure out how to stay standing, and also what to say, but he could only focus on one of those, so he settled on staying upright.
“I’m not getting a tattoo tonight.” God, his lips were almost touching Matt’s ear. “If you want me to leav
e, say so.”
Matt shivered again, the motion letting his shoulder blades just graze the front of Jon’s shirt. “No, I . . . I don’t want you to leave.”
Silence for a few long seconds.
“I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since the first time I saw you.” Jon’s lips brushed the side of Matt’s neck.
Matt gasped, his whole body going rigid. “Oh fuck.” Desperate for something to keep him upright, he pressed his hands against the wall, fingers splayed over a skull with a knife through it and a grinning mermaid.
“You’re fucking hot.” Jon’s breath warmed where his lips had brushed. His fingers twitched on Matt’s hip. “I want to follow your lead, though.”
My lead? My lead? Are you kidding? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Or what we’re doing. Shit. What am I supposed to do?
Jon’s breath tickled his skin again, and Matt was vaguely aware of their shirts brushing. Hands still on the wall, he inched back a little, and sighed as he pressed himself against Jon’s chest. The firmness and heat of Jon’s body made his cock even harder.
Heart pounding, he turned his head as far as he could. Jon leaned to the side slightly, and their eyes met.
And then Jon kissed him.
His lips were gentle, but sure—staying still for a moment while Matt got used to the idea, then lazily nudging his apart. Matt’s knees shook. He leaned back fully into Jon, sinking against him, and reached up to curve a hand behind his neck. He’d closed his eyes—when, he couldn’t remember—but there was no forgetting that he was kissing a man. Not with the broad, solid form behind him, and not with the occasional brush of stubble against his lip.
Matt’s neck wasn’t thrilled about the angle, so he broke away and finally turned around. He grabbed the back of Jon’s neck in both hands and pulled him back in, and without missing a beat, Jon shoved him back against the wall and held him there with his hips and his kiss.
Despite all his reservations about his sexuality, the fact was Matt had been dying to put his hands on this man. Now that they were kissing, holding on, feeling each other up, he was in heaven. He kneaded and stroked and groped—he couldn’t get enough.