Ink My Heart lj-2

by Jean Haus

  Trevor takes a long drink of red wine. “Then it’s good?”

  She nods. “More than good. It’s actually up there with amazing.”

  Twisting bleached hair over her shoulder, Trevor’s date slides closer to him and wraps an arm around his waist. Her cool gaze settles on us. “Hello, Allie.”

  “Jazz,” Allie says frostily.

  “Good to see you without your claws out,” she says, and Allie’s eyes turn to slits. Ignoring the murderous glare across from her, Jazz glances at me. “You going to introduce him?”

  Allie’s hand glides slowly from my shoulder to wrap around the back of my neck. “This is Justin. Justin,” she nods toward the woman dressed in two feet of fabric, “this is Jazz.” Her fingers curl into the hair along my neck. “And of course, you’ve already met Trevor.”

  “You enjoying the exhibit?” Jazz asks me, ignoring Allie’s rudeness.

  Before I can answer, Allie presses to my side and winds her other arm across my waist. “He’s enjoying being with me.”

  Trevor’s expression tightens while Jazz gives me a flat smirk.

  I glance down at the girl wrapped around me. “It is hard to notice the art next to Allie.”

  Trevor’s about to say something that I’m betting will match his scowl when Hannah enters—more like crash-lands in—our little group. The conversation turns to art then the past, and it’s obvious these four people went to school together. Hannah talks the most. Jazz watches Trevor. Trevor watches Allie. Allie’s hands keep roaming over me.

  Though her wandering hands are a turn-on, the whole thing pisses me off more with each passing second. Yes, I know this is a fake date. Yes, my intentions toward Allie aren’t exactly noble. I simply want to get her in bed and move on to the next conquest. But after witnessing her obvious obsession with him, and noticing that he is a complete asshole, I can’t help feeling used. I don’t like the idea that she’s hitting on me to make him jealous—it occurs to me I might even be her way of getting him back. This thought gets me truly pissed. Normally, I don’t mind girls using me for my body but that’s something entirely different. This is emotional warfare and I don’t do emotions. And I don’t get used unless I’m down with it. I’m not down with this.

  Unable to take the situation a second longer, I murmur an “excuse us” and drag her into the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. She follows quietly but looks stunned when I push her body to the wall but don’t shove mine against hers. Rather put my palms on each side of her head.

  Her gray eyes grow wide. “Justin…”

  A pant of anger escapes me. “You keep running those pretty hands all over me and I might take you up on your offer.”

  She blinks at me in shock until something catches her attention over my shoulder and her body visibly stiffens.

  My temples pound with outrage. Aware that her prick of an ex is not only behind us but also extracting a response from her, I give in to my anger. My body crushes hers into the wall. With a swift bend of my head, I catch her lips and stop her gasp, loving the touch of her lip ring pressing against my mouth. Under me, she is as unyielding and still as the sculptures we viewed. Indignation has me not caring. My hips grind against hers as my tongue strokes into her mouth. Though this is about showing her she can’t fuck with me, I can’t help notice the taste of her mouth on my tongue is as sweet as the wine she drank.

  I’m about to pull back and get some control when her lips and body soften. The ire of my kiss spirals into something else as she responds. Her fingers grip my shoulders. Her tongue slides with mine. Her response wipes out my anger. I forget about her ex and that we’re in public, and deepen the kiss.

  Cupping the sides of her face, I push into her and she moans ever so slightly into me. Ah hell. My outrage fizzles at her response. I want her now. I tear my mouth from hers and reach for her hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  With heavily lidded eyes, she nods.

  Lust pounding in my brain, I haul her past an open-mouthed Trevor, through the crush of bodies, grab our coats at the entrance, and cross the street before the gloss of lust dissipates from her gaze.

  Still dazed—I’m hoping it’s my kiss not the wine—she lets me help her into the passenger seat. Rounding the front of the car, I think of where we could go. My dorm room? Shit, I should have used my ridiculous allowance to get an apartment instead of being such a lazy ass. Her place? Does she have roommates? Does she live alone?

  I slide into the driver’s seat and ask, “Where to?”

  Allie remains facing forward. Her bottom lip quivers. Her clasped hands tremble in her lap. She draws in a deep breath, then suddenly bursts into tears.

  Her soft sobs echo in the car.

  Ah shit. Her tears kill my lust. I have no idea how to deal with a crying woman.

  “I’m such a fool. I’m so—s-sorry,” she sputters.

  “Hey,” I say. I’m desperately trying to think of a way to calm her down when the face of her dickhead ex pops up outside her window.

  “Oh no, please go,” she wails.

  He raps a knuckle on the glass.

  What’s with this fucking circus? I just want to have sex with that voice, those legs, that lip ring. All this other shit is getting ridiculous. I start the car. He pounds on the window. I’m out of the car in seconds, leaning across the roof. “Get your hands off the glass.”

  “I want to talk to Al,” he sneers.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you. So step away from the car and move on.”

  “Not till I talk with Al.”

  I’d like to pound this prick into the cement, but fighting with her ex while Allie cries in the car might put an even bigger damper on my chances than her tears. “Get it through your head. She doesn’t want to talk,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Trevor!” Jazz wails from the other side of the street. “What the hell are you doing?”

  His face twists in a scowl. “Tell Al I’ll call her later.” He whips around and stalks across the street.

  Who is this asshole? I drop into the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks for getting rid of him,” Allie whispers, wiping the wetness on her cheeks with shaky fingers.

  With a sigh, I reach over, brushing my elbow on her thigh, and she flinches. Getting irritated again, I open the glove box and dig out some old napkins. “Here,” I say, dropping them in her lap.

  “Thanks.” She reaches for the crumpled paper as I pull onto the street.

  I drive. She wipes at her tears, then lets out a deep sigh. “I thought I could handle it. Obviously I was in la-la land. I didn’t mean to use you that way. I really did think we could go out and have fun.” The napkins are fisted in her lap. “Then I saw them together, freaked out, drank too much wine, and acted like an ass.”

  Turning a corner, I shrug but I’m still annoyed. I try to remember I agreed to a fake date but can’t help snapping, “Your relationship must have been pretty serious. Two years and you’re still affected by this asshole dumping you?”

  She turns toward the side window. “He didn’t dump me. I left him. And he wasn’t just a boyfriend.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She leans her forehead on the glass. “My husband.”

  Those two words have me feeling like the wind was just knocked out of me. “You were married to him?”

  She doesn’t lift her head. “For over a year.”

  Fucking married. My hands clench around the steering wheel. I want to punch it. That’s why this guy is such a huge deal to her. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason her eyes always churn with the depth of a stormy gray sky. And why she’s so distant. “You must have been young,” I somehow get out.

  “Eighteen.”

  I guess a connection. “He cheated on you with Jazz.”

  She lets out another sigh. “And others but mostly her. He always goes back to Jazz. Childhood sweethearts.”

  “Sounds to me like you were his childhood sweetheart.”

  “After
Jazz. Always after Jazz.” Her voice is small and sad.

  I pull up in front of her shop. “You should have warned me about the past between you two. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so pissed off and attacked you.”

  Her laugh sounds miserable but it’s still sexy. “I try to pretend the past doesn’t matter. Explaining it makes it matter. Besides, I wasn’t really complaining when you pushed me against the wall.”

  At this point, I’m not sure what to make of that. “Allie…”

  She reaches for the door handle. “See you Friday. Good night, Justin.”

  With those final words, she’s out of my car, leaving me as confused as shit.

  Chapter 8

  Allie

  I’ve been dreading Justin’s appointment since he dropped me off Tuesday night. Beyond being embarrassed by my meltdown, I’m having a hard time forgetting his kiss. I haven’t been kissed like that in ages. Heck, I haven’t been kissed at all in ages. But it doesn’t matter. Justin is not the man for me. Not even close. If I were looking, it would be for someone mature. Definitely someone not on the one-night-stand merry-go-round. So when Shay brings him into the room for his appointment, I force myself to appear calm and professional. I don’t want him to notice my jittery nerves.

  Of course, Justin is his usual grinning, smooth self. “Hey, Allie,” he says, dragging off his designer sunglasses and leaning a hip against the tattoo chair.

  Shay gives his whole body a slow once-over, then looks at me pointedly as she leaves. I ignore her. The last thing I need to be reminded of is that he’s hot. All I want at this point is to clear the air. I want the elephant out of the room before I stick a needle in him. Putting my twisting hands behind my back, I start, “I want to apologize again for Tuesday. Regardless of my reasons, my behavior was unacceptable—actually, ridiculous.”

  He gives me a slow smile. “Come to my show tomorrow and no apology needed.”

  Oh, crap. I forgot about our deal. I bite my lip ring. Why he’d want me to go after Tuesday’s debacle is beyond me, but I can’t back out after what he put up with at the art show. “If I don’t have anything scheduled, I should be able to go. If not, when’s your next show?”

  He taps his sunglasses on his thigh. Though his face is relaxed, the motion suggests irritation. “In four weeks. We rarely play back-to-back Saturdays, usually once a month or so.”

  “If not tomorrow, then four weeks gives me enough time to work out my schedule.” Ignoring the frown turning his full lips down, I reach for my stool. “You ready to get started?”

  He answers by setting his glasses on the counter and reaching for the bottom of his T-shirt. He pulls his shirt off in the same efficient yet sensual way as usual, then straddles the chair. I ignore the “Holy crap, Batman!” comment ringing through my head again as I stare at his muscled back, then apply another transfer. After that I get to work filling in the tribal work inside the treble clef. I’m 99 percent artist and only one percent female, and am totally focused on the process. I keep the question of why he’d want me to go to his show so badly in the far recesses of my mind.

  Everything’s quiet, smooth, and lovely until the endorphins kick in and he starts talking. “I’m curious, did your ex call?”

  Yes. He did. And had the audacity to warn me away from Justin. This was thanks to Jazz, who had heard that Justin was known for moving through his band’s groupies like a fast-moving summer thunderstorm. I was not amused by a warning from cheating Trevor. “Yeah, but ugh. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Art?”

  I pause and lean back, checking out my work. I’m almost half done with the interior. Unconsciously, I switch the topic to him. “How about music? What do you like to sing best?”

  “Mmm…Never thought about it.”

  “You have some time now.”

  His fingers tap on the armrest he’s leaning over. “Probably the songs that get the crowd wild. It’s more about the energy between the crowd and me than the enjoyment of singing the song. Their energy gives me a natural high that no amount of alcohol or drug can beat. It’s like their excitement, their enthusiasm flows into me. It puts me on top of the world, but it humbles me too.”

  I’d been trying to make small talk with the question about singing, but his explanation deepens the conversation and gives me a glimpse beyond his playboy persona. I find it intriguing that the crowd’s enthusiasm humbles him. I can’t help asking, “What songs get the crowd going the most?”

  “Different songs produce different kinds of momentum. Something rocking and fast like ‘Remedy’ gets them excited and moving with the music. With that song, an almost tangible energy comes off the crowd.”

  “Remedy?”

  “It’s a heavier song, almost metal. By Seether. You’ve never heard it?” He glances over his shoulder.

  I wipe at the blood and ink on his skin. “Probably. It’s not ringing a bell though.”

  He shakes his head slightly and I imagine the expression of incredulity on his face. “While that song is loud and rocking other songs like ‘Twenty-One Guns’ by Green Day…You’ve heard of that, right?”

  “Yes,” I say wryly. “I’m not totally out of the music sphere.”

  “Well, dramatic songs like that bring a different energy, a sort of passion to the crowd. I’ve even seen tears. Those songs are like riding an emotional wave. It can be draining, a roller coaster of emotion worth the drain.”

  The needle hovers over his skin as I take in his words. “Why?”

  He draws in a deep breath, and luckily I wasn’t inking him because his muscles ripple from the acute rise of his shoulders. “Not sure if I can put it into words correctly.…” His fingers drum again on the vinyl armrest. “It’s like we’re connected for the length of the song. Their memories, their regrets, their hopes crash into me, and all of it becomes part of the song. For a few minutes we’re on the same wavelength of emotion, connected by compassion, sometimes sadness. Though strangers, we understand each other in that moment.”

  His explanation astounds me. I’d like to rest my forehead on his skin and take in this moment—part of me can’t believe he has opened up and let me see beyond his playboy persona. I’d never expect such depth from him. He’s cocky and an obvious womanizer, yet his heartfelt explanation makes him more attractive because it’s a perfect description of how I consider art. In its highest form, art ignites universal emotions that transcend the differences among people.

  Instead of giving in to the urge and pressing my cheek on his back, I simply say, “I think you explained it rather well.”

  He shrugs but says, “I’m not sure I did but thanks.” A soft rock song fills the silence. “So how long have you been into van Gogh?”

  I wipe at a bead of ink on his skin. “Since I was about twelve.”

  “How does a twelve year old girl get into van Gogh?”

  “We had to do a two-page paper in art. I picked his name out of a hat. The first time I saw Starry Night it was love at first sight. Then I read about him and read his letters to his brother, and I don’t know…He seemed so lonely and sincere yet troubled. My little twelve-year-old heart went out to him.”

  “Huh. You must have been one mature girl. At that age, I was drooling over Beyoncé and Gwen Stefani. Sincerity didn’t enter into the drool.”

  “There were Tiger Beat boys pinned to my wall too. Not just van Gogh prints. I wasn’t a total nerd.”

  “You sound sweet not nerdy.”

  Me sweet? I’m not a raging beezy or anything, but sweet? There’s only a small circle that gets sweetness from me. “Don’t get any wrong ideas about me. Remember, I’m sticking a needle in you.”

  His laugh is rich and deep.

  “You might want to stretch while I change needles,” I say, wishing his laugh didn’t make me want to open up to him.

  He pushes out of the chair, and I adjust my rear post to modify the supply of ink and then attach a large mag needle for the shading and coloring. The cha
nges to my machine keep me from watching him stalk around the room and in front of the mirrors.

  Finally, he sits all that skin down and I get back to work. We talk about art and music as I shade the tattoo, then fill in the tiniest amount of red for some extra definition. Once again, he’s easy to talk to. It’s nice. But not as nice as his kiss, which shouldn’t be in my thoughts while I’m working—or at all.

  I let him look at the finished tat before I put the bandage on. While he checks it out in the mirror, deep dimples form as he smiles, just like the last time. He studies the defined treble clef filled with intricate tribal work wrapped around the detailed microphone.

  “It’s amazing.” His eyes meet my reflection in the glass. “You’re beyond talented.”

  My murmured thanks receive a quick hug. A moment later he slides away, brushing his slight five-o’clock shadow with my cheek and leaving me frozen as he plops into the chair. I stiffen from his embrace and try not to recall the sensation of his warm, lovely skin. I slowly reach for some goo, then apply it in a dreamlike state to his back. I haven’t been to dreamland in years. Nor have I felt fuzzy and warm, which are the only words that describe how I feel from his hug.

  Not good.

  After applying the bandage, I shake my head to clear it. Head in the clouds leads to idiotic things. Like fake dates.

  Once he’s dressed—I peeked very little by keeping myself busy cleaning up—he hands me two tickets. “You need to come see your work. It’ll be center stage tonight.”

  My fingers reach for the tickets, and warning bells ring in my head at the touch of his hand. I snatch the tickets and clasp them to my thigh. “That will be a first.”

  He snags his sunglasses off the counter, and gives me an uncompromising stare with those clear green eyes. “I’ll be looking for you in the crowd.” Then he and his inked body are gone, leaving only the scent of his dark, sexy cologne.