by MI
Once he got away from here, once he started a new life somewhere else, why would he ever turn back? He’d put down new roots. Deeper, stronger, healthier than ever before. If she were a true friend, why wouldn’t she want that for him? Why wouldn’t she want him to grow and thrive, even if that meant she’d likely never see him again? It certainly wouldn’t surprise her if he chose to cut all ties to his former life—herself included—and if she were smart, she’d do the same. One quick, preemptive incision. Because the cleaner the cut, the easier it would heal.
Five years down the road, she could see that she’d been right. Hopefully, by now, enough time had passed that they could see each other again, take pleasure in what they’d once had, maybe even indulge in a little harmless nostalgia, without any danger of either of them backsliding.
At the very least, she hoped she could look forward to seeing Declan secure in the knowledge that her feelings were once again under control. She was over him.
Chapter Three
Three weeks later…
“Okay. You’re all set.” Declan smoothed a final piece of tape into place, securing a layer of plastic wrap over the tattoo he’d just finished—his last of the day.
The pretty blonde who was his latest client slowly sat up on the padded table, her T-shirt clasped against her chest. “Thank you,” she said as she gingerly slipped the shirt over her head and then tugged her clothes back into place. “It’s beautiful.”
Declan nodded. “I told you it would be.” He’d designed the tattoo—an abstract, deconstructed peacock—to follow the lines of her body. It flowed along her curves, from shoulder to hip, in a sinuous cascade of perfect, paisley-shaped feathers. “I’m glad you like it.”
It bore only the slightest resemblance to the tattoo she’d thought she was getting when she’d come in today—and a damn good thing too. The pictures she’d sent in as examples of what she was looking to get had been boring and uninteresting and didn’t really work with his style. They were too simple, too small, and would have required entirely too much line work. Plus, she wanted it across her lower back, which was totally the wrong placement for something like this.
Declan took his craft seriously. The watercolor-style tattoos for which he was becoming well known always looked better on a larger canvas. It hadn’t taken much to convince her of that and to make her see the wisdom of letting him give her what he wanted.
Plenty of artists would have been all too happy to give her just another, generic-looking tattoo, but she’d come to him. It would be nice to think she’d come for his eye, his talent, his artistry, for all the experience he brought to the table. In all likelihood, however, what she’d come for the Declan Ross she thought she knew from TV.
Luckily for him, that Declan didn’t do run-of-the-mill ho tags either.
“Now be sure and read over this sheet,” Declan instructed as he handed her the page he’d had printed detailing his personal aftercare suggestions. “It’s got a lot of important information. You’ll want to keep it covered for the first couple of hours, but that’s all. After that, you’ll want to rinse it off, pat it dry and leave it uncovered as much as possible while it’s healing. You’ll also want to stop on your way home and pick up some calendula cream. I know you’ll hear otherwise, but trust me; you really want to steer clear of petroleum-based products, scented-lotions and especially sunscreen.”
“Calendula cream,” she repeated dutifully, as though she had no idea what he was talking about. She probably didn’t.
“Or coconut oil. That’s good too, but I don’t know if you can find organic around here. If not, you’re really better off sticking with the calendula.”
“Okay.” She nodded for a moment, still seated on the edge of the table, gazing at him expectantly, making no move to leave.
Declan clapped his hands together. “Okay. Good. So. Any last questions for me?”
“Yes.” Immediately, she thrust the paper back at him. “Can I get your autograph?”
Declan pretended not to notice the rolled eyes, the faked coughs, the snorts of derisive laughter the other artists tried to muffle. Bastards. They were just jealous because no one was asking for theirs. “Sure thing,” he said as he forced a smile. He grabbed a marker off the closest counter and then paused. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Oh, it’s for me.”
Declan waited.
“Make it out to Chrissy.”
“Chrissy. Right.” He hurriedly scrawled his name, added a couple of platitudes, and then handed the paper back to her. “But, seriously, Chrissy, I need you to follow the instructions on this. All right? They’re important.” It really annoyed him when clients failed to care for their tattoos. He did good work, but once someone left his chair, he had no control over what happened. He hated when a good tat got messed up because some dumbass didn’t follow directions. “C’mon.” He held out his hand to help the girl down from the table. “Let me walk you out.”
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps before Shep Montgomery looked up from the sleeve he was working on and called out to him, “Hey, Ross.”
“Yeah?” Declan turned his head and warily eyed his former mentor. It’s not like he wasn’t used to it by now, but it was rarely a good sign when someone addressed him by his last name.
“I don’t know what you’ve gotten used to out there in Hollywood, but around here, we still have to clean up after ourselves.”
“Really?” The words were out before Declan could stop himself. “’Cause that’s not how I remember it.”
He cast an involuntary glance around the shop, taking it all in; the brick walls, the stainless steel, the sinks, the counters, the padded black vinyl, the red and black paint, the gaudy gold trim. He loved tattoo shops. He loved everything about them—the smells, the sounds, the artwork on the walls, the funky, edgy vibe they invariably gave off. But he did not especially love cleaning them. And, the way he recalled it, back when he’d first come to work at Midnight Ink—back when the legendary Henry Lee Cairn still owned the shop and Declan was just a fiery-eyed, tattoo artist wannabe and Shep’s lowly apprentice—that’s mostly what he’d done.
Even after he’d progressed to the point where he was allowed to set up his own station and tattoo on his own, without supervision, as low man on the totem pole, he’d still had to clean up after himself and everyone else. Not to mention cover for the receptionist on her days off. Good times—not.
One thing he had absolutely not come back to New Orleans to do was to pick up where he’d left off. He was here to help publicize a good cause. One of the charities that would benefit from the New Year’s Eve tattoo-a-palooza was his own pet cause, the Wounded Warriors Project. His father had been in the military. He’d come back from the first Gulf War with PTSD and killed himself when Declan was just a kid. Whatever Declan could do to help other kids from having to go through what he’d gone through, he’d do it. No questions. Not even when it meant having to put up with a certain amount of crap from his co-workers. His former co-workers.
“Anyway, it’s Oakland, all right? Not Hollywood. And relax. I’m not gone for the day. I’ll take care of it before I leave.”
Shep nodded. “A’ight. See that you do. And don’t leave it too long either.”
On the other hand, there was a limit to how much crap Declan was willing to take. “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery. I will jump on that right away.” He flipped him off with a muttered, “And you can jump on this.”
An excited giggle at his shoulder recalled Declan’s attention.
Chrissy looked fascinated. No. Worse. She looked freaking turned on. So this was what she’d come here for, bratty Declan, the artist everyone loved to hate—especially the other artists. Fan-fucking-tastic. He could just imagine her hauling out her cell phone the minute she hit the banquette, getting her girlfriends on the line so she could tell them all how, it was so awesome! Omigod, you guys, it was just like being on an episode of Inked in O-Town!
All t
he thoughts he’d been entertaining while he’d tattooed her, of asking her if she wanted to meet up with him later for a drink, of inviting her back to his hotel room after that, were forgotten. There was no way he was tapping that.
Still, as his agent never tired of reminding him, giving the audience what they wanted was as big a part of his job now as the actual tattoos. So he flashed her a wink and his trademark smirk, then guided her as quickly as possible toward the front of the shop. Celebrity Declan would just have to suck it up; he’d have to live with not getting laid for one more night.
He supposed he shouldn’t really resent all the crap that came along with his success. He’d known what he was letting himself in for when he signed on to play a jerkified version of himself on television. Or, as his last girlfriend had preferred to put it, someone who was maybe just a little bit more of a jerk on camera than he was in real life. But who cared what she thought? He made good money doing what he did and she sure hadn’t complained when he was spending most of it on her.
Last he heard, Tonya had moved to LA and was dating some kind of football player. So how much sensitivity and self-awareness could she really have been looking for in a guy anyway?
As long as it continued to bring in the Benjamins, he guessed he’d just keep playing himself for as many seasons as they’d let him. Being loud, rude, and obnoxious sure hadn’t hurt his reputation as an artist any—or his bank account, for that matter. These days, he was busier than he’d ever been.
The small waiting area at the front of the shop was mostly empty. A couple of people sat around, paging idly through the various ink magazines or artists’ portfolios stacked on the coffee table. They didn’t even look up when he passed through the room—and, man, wasn’t that a relief?
Sassy, the shop’s current receptionist, was busy at her computer, bangles jingling as she typed. After seeing his client out, Declan went over and leaned on the front counter, waiting patiently for her to finish what she was doing. The streak in her hair was red today. Shiny and festive, it glowed with an almost metallic sheen. What was it with the women who worked here and their multi-hued hair? He wondered if they purposely planned for it to complement their tattoos. Come to think of it, maybe Sassy and Roisin coordinated those with each other as well, so as not to clash. It wasn’t impossible. They looked damned good together. In fact, he’d love to paint a portrait of the two of them. It would have to be nude, or semi-nude, but he was pretty sure he could talk them into that. He was good at talking women into things.
He’d pose them right there on the couch, with Sassy draped languidly across Roisin’s lap, sleek and contented as a cat. Her rich, caramel-and-chocolate coloring would be a perfect foil for Roisin’s cool porcelain skin and raven hair. Roisin’s blue eyes would stare challengingly out of the canvas, straight at the viewer, straight at him, as she raked her fingers through Sassy’s hair, or dipped her hand lower to palm the other girl’s breast…
“Earth to Declan.” Sassy’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Did you need something?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Declan pasted on his most winning smile. “My mind must’ve wandered.”
“Uh-huh. So I’d assumed. And I guess your eyes went right along for the ride, huh? Maybe you wanna lock those puppies up from now on, okay? Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, here’s the thing. I’d really love a cup of coffee right about now, but I think Shep’s gonna have my balls if I try and sneak out to get some before I clean up my station. You wouldn’t happen to know of a good place around here that delivers, would you?”
Sassy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that coffee pot is empty again?”
Coffee pot? “I, uh…”
“No.” Gold bangles slid up her arm in a jangling rush as Sassy held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t know why I even ask. Of course it’s empty. Never mind. I’ll deal with it. Meanwhile you are running late.” She picked up a sheaf of papers and slapped them down on the counter. “Your next client’s been waiting on you. I didn’t realize your last session was going to run so long. Your station’s just gonna have to wait. Hopefully your balls will survive.”
“My next what?” It was Declan’s turn to frown. “Oh, hell no. Are you kidding me? I am not doing back-to-back tattoos today. What is this, paint-by-numbers? Just because I made an exception for tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve party, doesn’t mean I plan on doing it all the time.”
“And are you through being a diva now? It’s not a tat, okay? So chillax. It’s just a consult, one which you requested, by the way. So I’m sure you can handle it even without the caffeine fix. I don’t know what you’re freaking out about. I sent you the artwork weeks ago, along with your schedule. Didn’t you even look at it?”
His schedule—right. The one he’d ignored while he’d been working round-the-clock to free-up time in his calendar for this trip. The one he’d barely glanced at during his flight here because, by that point, he was too exhausted to think. “Sure I did.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. A little.” Still frowning, Declan picked up the papers and rifled through them. “Oh. This one.” An unwilling smile crossed his face. “Yeah, I remember now.” This was the one tattoo he was really looking forward to. It was just his style. The pictures that had been sent as guidelines were perfect, a series of delicate watercolor paintings of poppies, from full blown to just unfurling, to tightly budded, their details picked out in pen and ink. Bold yet feminine, quirky and just abstract enough to be interesting, the only thing he wasn’t sure about yet was how he was going to bend the images to fit the contours of a woman’s body, without distorting them beyond recognition. Which is why he’d insisted on meeting with the client ahead of time.
He’d already done some preliminary stencils using some of the individual flowers as guides, but that was about as far as he could go without having a better idea of the body he was attempting to fit them to. Or maybe he could change his unknown client’s mind. Get her to make it a back piece instead. Or let him wrap an entire leg in giant poppies. How hard could it be? “Sorry. I didn’t realize this was what was on the schedule for tonight. It’s not a problem. I love this one.”
“Don’t waste time telling me that, sugar.” Sassy nodded at the room behind him. “Tell her.”
Her? Who, her? Declan glanced at the release form in his hand, quickly searching for a name. When he found it, he froze. “No way.” He turned away from the counter, his eyes searching for her face. “Sophie Jane. I don’t believe it.”
“Hey, Declan. Long time, huh?” Sophie’s voice was exactly as he remembered it. Her smile, on the other hand, was far more cautious. Her face was pale, her arms were folded almost defensively across her chest, and her eyes held a sadness that tugged at his heart.
“C’mere, you,” he said as he pulled her in for a hug that could have set new records for extreme awkwardness.
It started out okay. The smell of her hair and her skin was so familiar, so right; it felt like coming home. For just an instant, when she rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing against him like she always used to do, he could almost imagine he’d never left.
“Welcome home,” she whispered. But the words sounded hollow and she didn’t hug him back.
Her arms had been crossed when he’d grabbed her. He’d assumed she’d unclasp them and wrap them around his waist, but instead they’d gotten twisted up between them. When he squeezed her tight, all he could feel were bones and hard angles, rather than the softness he’d remembered and longed to feel again. It was obvious she’d lost weight. She was disturbingly thin, blow-away-in-a-stiff-breeze skinny from the feel of her. All too soon she was pulling away.
As Declan’s gaze slid over her body he felt himself frown. Had it really been only five years since he’d seen her? Looking at her now, it felt so much longer. Her beautiful hair had all been hacked off, and what in the hell was she wearing?
The old Sophie had never met a bandage dress she didn�
�t fall instantly in love with. The shorter and tighter it was, the better she liked it. She hadn’t been afraid to show off her curves or more than a little skin. She’d loved low-cut tops, painted-on jeans, anything that bared her midriff, and she’d proudly rocked some of the tallest, spikiest fuck-me heels he’d ever seen. She’d been game for anything, and the way she dressed made sure everyone knew it.
Today’s Sophie, on the other hand, came wrapped in a billowy poet’s shirt, buttoned to the neck and topped by a long, filmy scarf that fell in loops across her chest. Sure, her skirt was short and her boots were high, but between the shirt and the scarf and the tense, defensive posture, it was as though she’d become a different person since he’d seen her last.
“So what’s with the outfit?” Declan asked, flicking at the scarf. “And, Jesus Christ, girl, your hair!”
Sophie’s cheeks turned pink. She fingered the ends of her pixie-short cut and laughed nervously. “Oh. Yeah. That…”
“I cannot believe you cut it.”
“Well, I kinda had to.”
“Honest to God, Declan,” Sassy growled. “Where are your fucking manners?” Her cheeks were as flushed as Sophie’s and the expression on her face was one of mortified disbelief.
Declan’s eyebrows rose. “What? Was that rude? We’re friends, all right? Friends are allowed to say things like that to each other.” He turned back to Sophie because it was her opinion that mattered after all. “Aren’t they?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Same old Declan,” she said with something like her old spirit. Sassy just shook her head.