by Jean Haus
“Coffee then?”
Her chin drops. “Caffeine is the world’s most addicting drug.”
I’m getting desperate here. “Milk shakes?”
A deep, sexy laugh escapes her. “If you’re really interested in me designing for you, Mandy”—she nods toward the back counter—“can set up an appointment. But I have to get back to work.”
Damn. She’s leaving me high and dry, and all I want is to hear more of that voice. “Oh, I’m interested.” Those eyes. That lip ring. I force a smile. I can’t keep my tone from conveying that I’m interested in more than her talent.
Her chin lifts slightly. “Okay then, I’ll see you soon, Justin.”
“Very soon, Allie.”
She gives me a slow nod, then walks away.
I watch her—a figure dressed in a shapeless sweatshirt and tight jeans—until she disappears into a hallway beyond the counter.
After taking in a deep breath and snatching a hooded sweatshirt from the shelf at the end of the glass case, I move toward the counter.
“What did you decide on?” Mandy asks, giving me hot eyes.
She hasn’t gotten any less sexy since I walked in the door, but—with Allie now in the mix—my lust-o-meter isn’t registering even a one for her. “This,” I say, dropping the hooded sweatshirt on the counter. “And I’d like to set up a design appointment with Allie for Monday, if possible.” I’m already haunted by her smoky voice and those stormy gray eyes.
Fuck. I’ve fallen in lust. Big time.
Chapter 2
Justin
When I signed up for a communication class called Persuasion and Attitude Change, it sounded like it would be a breeze—and maybe somewhat interesting. But the class blows. And I have to deal with it every single Monday afternoon. How can it be called a communication class when the professor lectures at us for three hours?
I doodle possible tattoos in my notebook for my appointment with Allie as the professor drones on. I couldn’t concentrate on the art of communication even if I wanted to because I’m trying to come up with ideas to inspire her art. And I’m going to look like an idiot because all I can think of are musical notes or instruments. Or even worse, the traditional skull or dragon shit.
I’m not too deep. I don’t like deep. I sing. I party. I fuck. Occasionally, I study. In general, emotions pretty much suck. I try to stay away from them. I shouldn’t be surprised that creating a meaningful graphic illustration is beyond my skill set and emotional range.
The guy next to me takes pages of notes while I sketch a shitty snake wrapped around a musical note, like middle school kids draw all over their notebooks. As if I’d show this crap to a tattoo artist. Much less one who has been on my mind sexually for the past three days. I went home alone Saturday night, that’s how infatuated I am with Allie. Caught a ride with another dorm student. None of the girls who’d hit on me at Rats had that voice or those eyes or a lip ring. Until I have her, no girl will be able to compare.
Finally, the professor who never shuts up releases us.
With my notebook clutched against my hip, I race across campus. Several people, mostly girls, try to stop me to chat and others yell out hellos, but I just nod. I’m on a mission.
In our dorm room, Romeo sits at his desk in front of a laptop. He glances at me over his shoulder as I throw my notebook on my dresser, then turns back to his work. “You need to apologize to Gabe before practice tomorrow,” he says while typing.
“I’m not apologizing to that dick after he hit me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even,” I say, searching my closet for a clean shirt. Something dark that will bring out the green in my eyes.
“If shit blows up during practice, then I’ll dock both of you on the next gig for wasting time.”
Shrugging—our pay is like chump change to me—I spray on some cologne and grab my keys.
At the rattling of keys, Romeo’s head snaps around. “Where are you going?”
I almost snicker at his confusion. I rarely drive, and not just because my car has only two seats. The main reason is that if I’m not on campus, I’m usually out partying. And since I don’t really date, whatever girl I end up with usually does the driving. If we have band practice, I catch a ride with Romeo.
“Dragonfly Ink,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Tattoo shop.”
His eyes roll and he turns back to the computer. “You’re not lifting tonight?” he asks absently, referring to our usual workout. Since he trains people—mostly kids in an after-school program—in boxing, he has access to the weight rooms on campus. And since the weight room is the one place where we get along, we’ve been spotting each other since freshman year.
“I’ll be there. Just going for a consultation today. Might be getting a custom tat this time around.”
He shakes his head.
Grabbing my coat from the bed, I almost snort. Romeo is such an uptight fuck. If they hadn’t stuck us together freshman year, the two of us would have never agreed to room together. Though my parents won’t spring for an apartment, I could afford one on their ridiculously generous allowance, but living in the dorm makes life easier. I’m all about the easy life.
Done with my stupid ass roommate, I head out the door.
It’s almost a hike to my car in the back corner of the dorm parking lot. I’ve had the car since I turned sixteen, when my father bought a new car and gave me his old one. He only drives BMWs, so I do too. Not a big deal. Not like he was giving me a Lamborghini or some other car from his collection, which sits 99 percent of the time in his monstrous garage. But I have no problem with my Z4, and I’m lucky my father went on a sports car buying spree in his early fifties. Otherwise, I would have ended up with a sedan.
I get into the car, push on my sunglasses, and start the engine purring with a turn of the key.
A glance at the clock tells me I’m going to be early. I drive slower than usual. People pass me on the highway, but I keep my speed around fifty. Damn. I’m nervous. Music usually blasts while I drive, but I’m hoping the quiet will help calm my nerves. I can’t remember the last time a girl made me nervous. I’m not sure if I want to date her—shit, I haven’t dated anyone since high school, and that was just a few times—or what. Though there is one thing I know I’d like to do with her.
After a twenty-five-minute ride that should have taken fifteen, I park across the street from Dragonfly Ink. I do some breathing techniques I regularly use prior to going onstage, then force myself out of the car. Time to turn on the charm. Just like onstage—time to shine.
The girl behind the counter isn’t Mandy or Allie. “Hello,” she says with a smile. “May I help you?”
With her bronze skin and a mane of light brown curls, this girl is hotter than Mandy. She could be a model. Like runway in Paris shit. But like Mandy, she doesn’t move me. She doesn’t have that voice or those eyes. Or that talent.
Out of habit, I smile back. “I have an appointment with Allie,” I say, walking to the counter.
She reaches for a leather appointment book with a hesitant look. “Um, let me take a peek.”
“Is there a problem?” Somehow I keep the tension I’m feeling from my tone.
“I’m not sure.” She quickly turns pages. “But Al usually doesn’t come in today.” She turns some more pages and her finger scans. Tapping her finger on a page, she looks up. “Justin Noel?”
I nod.
She glances at the skull clock above the shelves filled with logoed T-shirts. “You’re a little early. Al’s not here yet, but she’s never late.” She gestures to a row of chairs along the wall. “You can sit and wait.”
Damn. After driving slow and breathing like a moron, I’m still almost ten minutes early. “I’ll take a look around.”
“Okay. Can I get you anything? Bottled water? Coffee?”
> “I’m good.”
“Okay. Name’s Shaya, if you need anything,” she says politely.
I wander over to the counter with the photo albums containing custom work, hoping for some inspiration. I flick through the stuff again. Although it’s great work, nothing grabs me.
My phone vibrates as I shut the book. Since I’m expecting it to be one of the many girls who constantly blow up my in-box, I’m slightly annoyed to see it’s a bank update. My monthly allowance just went into my account. Gotta love my parents, coming through with the only form of love they know how to deliver.
With nothing else to do, I hit my father’s number on speed dial. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message. My mother doesn’t answer either, but her recorded voice says, “Leave a message, but we’re in Barbados until the end of March.” I smack the phone on my leg. They could have told me they were taking a month-long trip out of the states, but no. They don’t tell me shit. Don’t even answer my calls.
Pissed off, I move over to the row of chairs and plop onto the middle one.
My parents have always been the distant kind. I had a nanny until I was ten, and though they were hardly around, they seemed to at least like me. But once my full-time babysitter left, my attention-getting antics brought nothing but perpetual sour glares. When they weren’t too busy. And ever since my father retired two years ago from being a surgeon, it’s felt like we live on opposite sides of the US instead of opposite sides of Michigan.
My elbows dig into the hard metal arms of the chair as I wearily rub my hands across my face. Even though I’m twenty years old, thinking about my parents still makes me feel like that lost ten-year-old boy, which has me peeved. I don’t need anyone. Much less their lame asses.
Chapter 3
Allie
I race—if nine miles over the speed limit can be considered racing—to work. I’d been so wrapped up in finishing my paper for Business 302 that I’d forgotten about the appointment Mandy had scheduled for me on my day off. Or maybe I wanted to forget. I’m not looking forward to working with Mr. Hottie, whose bedroom eyes will be striving to strip away my casual indifference along with my clothes. His bad boy aura bugged me—I’m beyond done with bad boys—but his gaze bothered me most. The last thing I want to do is design for him. Then there’s the fact he hit on Mandy, which she was very vocal about, prior to hitting on me. Nasty as that is, though, I don’t really have much choice since I’m trying to build my business. I’d be an idiot to turn away a new client, especially a musician. Word of mouth is the best marketing tool out there. And musicians are some of my best customers.
After parking in the lot behind the shop, I rush through the back door.
Shaya bursts into the hallway. “You’re late. You’re never late.”
“Got distracted working on a paper.”
“Well, he’s been waiting for almost a half hour.”
“I’m not that late.”
“He came early.”
I cock my head to the side, thinking. Either he’s the punctual type or he thought Mandy would be working. That wouldn’t surprise me—I hired Mandy because she’s attractive. She may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not above using whatever tactics are necessary to keep people, males to be exact, in the shop. Her looks along with her flirting help distract them from me. Many guys who are into tattoos are attracted to girls who can ink. Like artistic talent means that a girl will be a kinky, sexual gymnast in bed.
“Huh,” I say, opening the door to my office and pulling off my jacket. I yank my iPad out of my bag and toss my coat on the desk. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll take care of it.”
Out in the shop, I’m greeted by the sight of Justin’s long body curled in one of the chairs along the wall. His hands cover his face while his fingers dig into his temples. I walk over to him, but he doesn’t look up, so I clear my throat. His green eyes, as deeply shaded as a painting of an English garden, are filled with a pain that makes me step back. The flirty guy from the other night has been replaced, at least for the moment. Somehow I find my voice. “Hello, Justin, I, um, want to apologize for my lateness.”
The tortured expression on his face dissipates as he stares at me. Though I’m wearing a tank top with the shop logo, skinny jeans, and calf-hugging brown boots, I feel naked under his gradually warming gaze. “No problem. Can’t say I minded waiting for you to come,” he says, smiling like he holds some secret knowledge.
It’s easy to ignore what is probably innuendo with his deep dimples distracting me. Dang, dimples get me every time. But I will stay immune. “Why don’t we get started?” I gesture to the corner where my art table sits.
He stands gracefully while I try to ignore those dimples.
“All right,” he says. “But I have to warn you, I’m counting on your abilities as an artist to bring me some inspiration.”
Tall and lean, he towers over me. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his sharp jaw contrasts with the dark blond rumpled hair falling over his forehead, and the white of his teeth contrasts with his coppery skin. In his distressed jeans and a faded, fitted T-shirt with sunglasses resting in the V neckline, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for something ridiculously priced and European. Or maybe for an exotic men’s cologne. Because he smells fantastic. Words like clean, woodsy, and dusky come to mind as I breathe in the dark scent.
I pull out the chair in front of my drafting table, putting on my best professional face. “Have a seat,” I say. “I should be able to come up with something.”
I hold in a sigh as I set my iPad on the surface and then drag out the stool from under the table. Sometimes part of my job is pulling inspiration from my clients. But for some reason, I don’t want to know more about this man. Those dimples are enough already.
“So you’re a musician, right?” I say, sitting down and plucking a pencil from the cup on my table.
“Singer actually,” he says.
I try to ignore the image of him on a dark stage that flashes through my mind, intent on staying on task. Dang. This would be much easier if he played an instrument. “For a band?” He nods. “What kind of music?”
“Mostly alternative rock.”
The image in my head of him onstage becomes clearer. His lashes lowered. Hips cocked. Strong hands wrapped around a microphone. I ignore it. “Is that your favorite type?”
“I like all types of music. What about you?”
“Not preferential either. You want a tattoo related to singing?” I want to stay off the topic of my own likes and dislikes, especially under his intrusive gaze. He nods while I tap my pencil in frustration. I don’t know how I’m going to survive an hour or more of him staring at me with those hot, shaded green eyes. He flashes another smile at me. When he brings out those dimples, he really is something. “Any ideas?”
“Music notes? A microphone? Art is a bit out of my realm of knowledge.”
I give him a pointed look. “Music’s considered a form of art.”
He leans back to stretch, his legs spread and his muscular shoulders strain against his thin T-shirt as he reaches behind the chair. “Then graphic art’s not my thing.”
Trying hard not to gawk at the picture of masculinity across from me, I force myself to focus on artistic possibilities and reach for my iPad. “Where were you thinking of getting the ink?” I ask, absently biting my lip ring.
He stares at my mouth and my face heats, and for a brief moment I feel like the shy, insecure girl I used to be.
“My back would probably be the best idea,” he says. His tone has me guessing there’s more than the matter of tattoo placement behind the statement, but I can’t imagine why. Glancing at his arm of ink, I release the ring from under my teeth, then somehow say without dread, “Could I see your other tattoos?”
“Sure,” he says, reaching a hand back and yanking off his shirt in
one smooth move. He stands, with both arms at his sides and his shirt bunched in one hand.
Um…I push the profanity from my brain and settle on Holy crap, Batman, shut the front and back door! The sight before me sizzles onto my retinas and will forever be scorched on them.
Justin’s body is an ancient Greek statue come to life. Though lean, he’s all ripped muscle. And unlike the cold surface of marble statues, his skin is warm and golden. I do a full inspection, trying to keep my expression neutral as my eyes roam over his rippled abs, the sexy hoop through his nipple, and the designs inked on his body. He has tribal art on one arm that swirls and loops across a rib to touch the corner of his pectoral. Japanese letters run between the tight skin under his belly button and the waistband of his boxers, which rides above his low-slung jeans. Though I’ve tattooed Japanese calligraphy, I know only the most popular sayings by heart, and this isn’t one of them.
“Any on your back?” I ask, my mouth dry. Wow, this guy is hot.
“Just one,” he says, turning.
His back is as ripped as his front. Now that he’s turned around, I allow myself to swallow. I’m not sure what my problem is. It’s not like I haven’t tattooed lots of hot bodies, but staring at his, I have to resist the urge to fan myself.
He glances over his shoulder.
It’s the way he looks at me. Like he’s trying to see into me and learn my secrets. Secrets that aren’t all that mysterious, just rather sad. Stay on task, Al. I again force myself to concentrate on his ink. A sharp, pointed tribal design rolls across his shoulder blades. The lines are clean and the ink dark. In fact, all of his tats are well done. He either knows how to choose his artists or has been lucky enough not to run into a hacker.
“Were you thinking lower back? Or middle?” I ask casually.
He runs a finger down the center of his spine, and his lats ripple as he turns to me again. Ugh, I’m staring like a fan girl. “More like in between,” he says.
I breathe heavily through my nose. I’m bordering on ridiculous, but I just might hyperventilate if his skin doesn’t get some cotton over it soon. “Okay, you can put your shirt back on.”