WhatLiesBeneath
Page 4
“That’s nice work, J. How many more sessions before we’re done?” Alfonse “Nickelback” Jimson posed in front of a full-length mirror. Peering over his shoulder, he examined the tattoo stretching across his back. A tight end for the San Francisco 49ers who’d earned his moniker after scoring five touchdowns during his inaugural game, Al had become a good friend during the hours spent together while Jericho worked on him.
“Three, maybe four more.” Jericho motioned for his client to turn around. “Let me get it cleaned up.”
While Jericho washed the area with antibacterial soap and applied a thin layer of antiseptic ointment, Al talked.
“It would be nice to have it finished in one or two. The only reason I can get it done during the season is because this ligament thing has me out of commission for the next few weeks.”
“You know the drill. Four hours is my max.” He secured a bandage over the freshly inked skin and clapped the football player on the shoulder. “You have a hard enough time sitting still for that long.”
“If you weren’t the best damned ink slinger in the country, I wouldn’t put up with your diva shit.”
Al held up a hand and the two high-fived.
Pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap, Jericho flexed his fingers. The constant vibration of the electric needle held in a tight grip often left his hands cramped and achy. That was another reason he limited his appointments. Each was scheduled with a thirty-minute bridge between it and the next so he could stretch and loosen up. He’d worked late on Al only because the last client of the day had cancelled.
“Talk to Vix on your way out and double-check your next appointment. She should have you booked through the end of the month so you won’t have to walk around with half a dragon on your back much longer.”
“Thanks, man.” Al gingerly pulled on his shirt, careful not to dislodge the bandage, and left.
Jericho cleaned up on autopilot. Disposable ink cups and sanitary paper cloths into the trash, needle into a biohazard sharps container, tattoo machine components readied for sterilizing in an autoclave. A quick wipe-down of the surfaces and equipment with disinfectant and he was done. He headed to the front of the studio to check the calendar for tomorrow.
“Hey, Vix, I’m—”
Stunned.
Shocked.
Speechless.
His Blonde—pearls and all—sat in one of the lobby chairs, one leg crossed over the other.
“You didn’t read my text, did you? I sent you three messages.” Vix folded her arms and glared at him. “Miss Fine has been waiting almost forty-five minutes.”
“Sorry. My phone was turned off.” Miss Fine. Well, at least now he knew half of her true identity. Her first name had to be Very.
“I updated your calendar late yesterday afternoon. May I assume you didn’t bother to check it this morning? I can’t keep you organized if you don’t cooperate.” His assistant cocked an artfully plucked eyebrow. “I was able to save Amanda a six-week wait, thanks to Mr. Taylor’s cancellation this afternoon. Lucky thing I wrote down her name and number when she first called for an appointment and asked if you had a waiting list.”
Amanda Fine. Warm satisfaction coiled in his stomach. She wasn’t a nameless stranger anymore. He wondered how long ago she had called, annoyed he may have been suffering needlessly.
“I appreciate your efforts to keep me organized, Vix.” Jericho was too distracted to let her admonishment bother him. “Are there any other changes I should be aware of before I get started on Miss Fine?”
Boy, what he wouldn’t give to really get started on His Blonde.
“No.” Vix frowned. “You do remember I asked to leave early tonight?”
“Yes. I’m usually on top of things once I’m aware of them.”
Again, he picked up on the unintentional innuendo in his statement. He was very well aware of Amanda Fine and more than willing to be on top.
Then it hit him.
She had made an appointment to get a tattoo.
He was going to be touching her.
Professionally.
Time to get a handle on the X-rated thoughts running through his head.
“Lock up when you leave and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Turning to Amanda who had silently watched their exchange, he introduced himself. “Welcome to Body of Art. I’m Jericho Creegan. It’s nice to see you again. Are you ready?”
Amanda wasn’t sure if she was ready for a tattoo but she was more than ready for a chance to seduce Jericho. She was relieved he hadn’t offered to shake hands—she would have been appalled to offer a sweaty palm. When he invited her to follow him to a private room, it took a second to get her shaky legs under her.
During the short walk back, she took in every delicious detail of his backside—lean, denim-clad legs, tight ass, gray T-shirt stretched across muscular shoulders, thick, black ponytail that lay along the indentation of his spine. She’d been able to reacquaint herself with the front side during his conversation with the receptionist. Those amazing hazel-ish eyes. The jawline stubble that made him seem a little bit rough. Full lips that softened the harsh masculinity of his strong facial bone structure. She liked the way his shirt fit…just snug enough to reveal the definition of his pecs. The same could be said for the boot-cut jeans that cupped a nice-sized package.
Giddy excitement blurred her vision, mimicking the rush of lightheadedness brought on by a strong martini, the mental disconnect making everything surreal. This exhilaration was a hundred times more powerful than the kick she got thinking about the Abbess Collection. The daring audacity marked a leap from her comfort zone into the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unconventional.
Amanda had not experienced this sense of naughty titillation and antsy anticipation since she was fifteen and had snuck out of her parents’ house for a date with the nineteen-year-old brother of a girlfriend. Her parents would have been livid had they ever found out. But breaking the rules was a huge part of the thrill.
Jericho allowed Amanda to precede him into the room and she looked around in interest. The fixtures and furniture echoed the same glass, chrome and leather of the reception area. She noticed the room was a bit warmer than was comfortable and the overhead lighting was dim. Uncertain as to what constituted proper tattoo-getting etiquette, she stood and waited.
“Is this your first time getting inked?” Jericho straddled a rolling stool, gripping the front edge of the seat with both hands.
She resisted letting her eyes drop to his crotch. “Um, yes.”
“You have something in mind?”
Did she ever! “Uh, yes.”
“Would you like to share it with me?”
If he kept up this line of questioning, they’d be naked sooner than she’d planned.
The hint of a smile lifted one corner of his lush mouth. “I usually see two types of newbies. Those who are nervous because they’re having second thoughts, and those who are edgy because they can’t wait to get started.”
Something in his tone bugged her. It wasn’t quite condescension but close.
“I’ve chosen a phrase that has personal meaning to me for my tattoo.” She pulled a piece of paper from her purse, handed it to him and set her bag on a chair.
While he read it, she turned her back. Slowly she lowered the zipper on her jeans, the measured snick of each tooth being released rebounding off the silence. Feigning nonchalance, she bent at the waist and arched her back as she pushed her jeans down, wiggling just…a…little…bit…to get the white denim over her hips. Kicking off the three-inch heels that nicely lengthened her legs, she daintily stepped out of the jeans, folded them and laid them on top of her purse.
She’d practiced the maneuver several times at home—one, to make sure she didn’t fall off her heels, and two, to make sure the sexy reveal of her ass carried a punch worthy of Mohammed Ali. Pivoting on the ball of her foot to face Jericho, she smiled inwardly. The hunger in his eyes confirmed the rehearsal had been well worth it.
He swallowed hard and cleared his throat before answering. “No. We’re good to go. Just tell me where you’d like it.”
She bit her tongue to hold back her initial response. “Centered, at the base of my spine.” She twisted, offering a view of her backside, and nudged down the Y-shaped waistband of her thong. “It’s very private, so I want it where no one else will see it.”
He braced her hips in his strong hands and stroked his thumbs over the dimples on either side of her spine. “Right here?” He inched the fabric down a bit more.
Self-control melting under his warm touch, Amanda rallied her last bit of chutzpah and met his eyes over her shoulder. “That’s a good place to start.”
Chapter Eight
Jericho found that if he focused on the tip of the tattoo needle and the trail of black ink unwinding behind it, his cock didn’t throb quite as frantically as when he allowed his gaze to roam over the smooth skin of Amanda’s ass and legs. Hard as he tried to concentrate on the elegant flourishes of the delicate script she’d chosen for her tattoo, he couldn’t shake the sexual tension that had begun mounting the moment he saw her waiting for him.
Some degree of physical intimacy, even nudity, was par for the course in tattooing. He’d inked virtually every inch of human anatomy, including breasts, vulvas and penises. Most of his clients were exceptionally good-looking, especially the women, and while he would have to be dead or gay to remain immune to their allure, he had never experienced anything as powerful as his craving to get down and dirty with Amanda.
She felt it too. Her loquacious body language gave her away—the prolonged eye contact, the provocative postures, the nipples jutting through the thin fabric of her tiny silk blouse, the little gasps that underscored the flex and release of her muscles when his touch strayed into an erogenous zone. And if that wasn’t convincing enough, all he had to do was inhale. Amanda’s sweet, musky aroma wafted beneath the familiar scents of disinfectant and eucalyptus.
Every signal from her glowed neon emerald-green and his engine was revving in the red zone but Jericho refused to take his foot off the brake.
He had his professional reputation to consider. Like rock stars, professional athletes and plastic surgeons, tattoo artists tended to attract groupies. From the start, Jericho had known he didn’t want that kind of image associated with his work so he’d learned to tactfully deflect such unwanted attention. Part of his strategy included keeping personal relationships separate from business relationships. That had worked so far, but he could feel his foot slipping off the pedal.
The electric tat machine slowed before resuming a steady hum. His foot really was slipping. Sweat dampened his hairline. Inside the latex gloves, his hands were damp. It was unlike him to lose control this way but everything about the situation with Amanda triggered unusual actions and behavior. Unwilling to jeopardize her safety or the integrity of his artwork on her body, Jericho called a time-out.
“Let’s take a break.” Rising from the stool, he tugged off his gloves and put some space between them.
Amanda, lying belly down on the adjustable tattoo table, lifted her head from her forearms. “I could stand to stretch a bit.”
Hopping down, she raised her arms overhead. Her shirt inched upward. Jericho admired the flat plane of her abdomen before his gaze fixated on the scrap of fabric riding low on the concave depression between her hipbones. The longer he stared, the more uncomfortable his jeans became.
“Can I see what you’ve done so far?” Amanda waited for his quick nod before padding over to the mirror. The same one Nickelback Jimson had used earlier.
“The redness and swelling will fade in a couple of days, so it may be a little difficult to get the full effect until then,” he told her. “I’m going to get something to drink. You should have something to stay hydrated.”
“Whatever you’re having is fine. Thanks.” She seemed distracted, busy examining the partially completed inscription near the small of her back.
After splashing water on his face and retrieving two chilled bottles of juice from a refrigerator Vix kept stocked with drinks and snacks, he returned. Amanda perched on the edge of the chair, which had been opened into a flat work surface. Accepting the container he offered, she twisted the cap off and took a sip. He chugged his down and put the bottle aside. Motioning with his index finger for her to lie back down, he then pulled on fresh gloves and settled himself on the stool.
With some relief, Jericho noticed the atmosphere in the room had lightened. The sexual awareness was still there, just less overwhelming than minutes ago. He wondered if it was due to some change in Amanda…or if it was the decision he’d made while looking at his reflection over the sink in his private bathroom.
As soon as he had satisfied his professional commitment, he planned to satisfy his personal compulsion.
Both his body and mind felt buoyant now that he was no longer battling his conscience. It wouldn’t take long to finish the tattoo but there was no reason to rush. Call it foreplay. Or maybe payback for Amanda’s sexy enticement.
“Tell me. What’s the significance of this statement? ‘Love without passion is life without breath.’ Did you come up with that?” Jericho leaned over her backside. He dragged the thong’s narrow band halfway down her ass cheeks then allowed his fingertips to drift upward, barely caressing the crease between them.
She sucked in a breath and held it until the buzz of the tattoo machine reverberated around them. Her muscles relaxed under his hands but her voice was breathy when she answered.
“It’s a line from my favorite story, a book published a long time ago. The first time I read the author’s sentiment, it struck a chord with me.”
“So you value passion?” Midway through the tattoo, close to her tailbone, he was working on an area known to be sensitive and, therefore, more painful. He used every bit of skill to minimize the discomfort but she seemed unaffected by any pain. Perhaps the conversation was distracting her, the same way it was distracting him.
“Yes, but in a broader sense than just love. Why waste your life laboring at a job you detest or living somewhere just because you happened to land there? There are so many opportunities and adventures out there.” Her voice deepened with the strength of her conviction. “As much as possible, I try to fill my life with dynamic people and pursue activities that inspire me. Without enthusiasm and excitement, life is nothing more than going through the motions. That isn’t living. That is simply existing.”
Her words surprised him. She didn’t sound like a woman accustomed to having the good things in life handed to her on a silver platter. Her words resonated with perception and appreciation. They reminded him that even the wealthy and privileged endured difficulties of one kind or another. Although his attraction to her was purely physical, Jericho was glad Amanda had a little depth to her. Sex with a hot babe was nice, but sex with a hot babe who had a bit of complexity was even better.
“What brought you here?” He slowed the needle to complete an intricate curlicue on the F in “life”. “Is this your next adventure? Daring to get a tattoo that no one will ever see?”
She stiffened, and he realized how his question must have sounded. Critical. Judgmental. Patronizing.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He flushed and was relieved she couldn’t see his embarrassment.
“Why did you?” Her tone held no anger, only curiosity.
“I guess I’m as temperamental as any traditional artist,” he admitted. “Tattoos have become trendy, which means some people get them just to have them. They don’t put any thought into the meaning, so in five or ten years, they’re paying to have it removed. Tattoos have held cultural significance for thousands of years, commemorating rites of passage or denoting social status. In some civilizations, the markings were considered the p
hysical manifestation of a person’s soul.” He lifted the needle to wipe away tiny beads of blood pearling the line of freshly applied ink. “Polynesians endure hours of excruciating pain when undergoing traditional hand-tapped tattoos to prove their strength and virility. Compared to that, the college kid who goes on spring break and comes home with a cartoon character on his backside seems pretty trivial.”
“The pictures in the front of your shop. Is that your work?”
“Yes and yes. The tats and the photography…” His words drifted off.
Relaxed now, Jericho was in The Zone—that mental space where outside distractions faded and all of his senses attuned to his work. His touch adjusted to apply just the right amount of pressure to lay the ink beneath the epidermis. The drone of the tattoo machine filled his ears. The metallic tang of blood and ink filled his nostrils. His eyes scanned the image developing beneath his hand to measure the accuracy of each line and the shading of each color. When he entered this space, he felt both invigorated and at peace. Everything was right in his world.
Intuitively he recognized when to stop. Thanks to an instinctive flair for tattooing, he knew when one more stroke, one more line, one more bit of detail would throw the piece off. As the needle rounded the final flourish, Jericho’s hyper-focused attention rebalanced. He leaned back to assess his work.
“Done?”
Amanda’s question startled him. “Oh uh, yeah. Sorry. Sometimes I get distracted.” He rolled away from the chair so she could get up. “Take a look and then I’ll get it covered up.”
While she admired his handiwork, he went over instructions on how to care for her new tattoo. As he watched her move around the room, a purple-tinged haze of lust settled over him. God he wanted her!
As he affixed the last strip of medical tape to a bandage and rolled back on the stool, Amanda spoke. “You didn’t hear a word I said while you were working on me, did you?”