by M. Leighton
While he’s working, I give myself a pep talk, reminding myself that life is short and that, in most cases (like this one for instance), it’s now or never. All I could do was ask. Which I did. Now, I can move on.
But the longer I lie here and think about it, the more I wish Hemi had agreed. I would love the opportunity to learn how to place my art on skin, to etch it permanently onto someone’s body, onto their soul.
I hear the buzz of the gun die and I glance down at Hemi. “You’re gonna need to lift your shirt up a little farther and turn up onto your side.”
He’s matter of fact, which is good. I wouldn’t want him acting differently. That would be humiliating, like I’d offered up something else to him and been shot down. It makes me think of all that I’d like to offer up to him, but that would be too risky. Too brave. Too brazen.
But life is short, a quiet voice reminds from somewhere deep inside me.
It gives me chills to think of how a scene like that might play out, especially if Hemi were agreeable to my…offer.
“Are you cold?” Hemi asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down at him, meeting his eyes. “No, why?”
“You’ve got chills,” he says, stroking my side with his warm palm, making my flesh pebble even more.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he drags his hand back and forth over my side, as if to test the temperature of my skin. But I told him I’m not cold. So why? Why touch me this way?
I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking behind those indigo orbs.
Ignoring his observation, I ask, “Which way do you want me to turn?”
He doesn’t look away and he doesn’t move his hand as he answers me. “Turn to face me.”
I roll onto my left side, facing Hemi. When I’m comfortably situated, he lowers the table a little more, bringing my side down to a manageable height for him. “Come toward me some more.”
I scoot closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body against the part of my stomach that’s bared to him. I will my skin not to react, not to shrivel up in goosebumps. “Is that close enough?” I ask, suddenly feeling breathless being this close to him. The situation isn’t helping any—him sitting near the curve of my body, the studio empty but for us, the lighting dim everywhere else, midnight hovering just beyond the walls.
Hemi leans in as if to check the comfort and his ability to work in this position before he nods. “Yes, that’s fine. Now, your shirt.”
I reach between us to raise my shirt, pulling it up along my ribs, exposing the area where he’ll be drawing. I lie still, waiting, waiting for him to touch me. Unable to help myself, I inhale when I feel his hands on me again. Heat floods me from head to toe and everywhere in between.
“How far do you want to go?” he asks in a husky voice.
My eyes fly to his. He’s looking at me, no hint of playfulness in his expression. “Pardon?”
“How far do you want me to go? Up your side? Where do you want me to stop?”
My pulse is skittering along at a rapid pace and I try my best to jerk my wayward mind back to the present, to the situation, and get it out of the gutter.
“Umm, maybe up to here,” I say, pointing to what feels about right, high up on my side.
“You’ll need to unhook your bra so I can get under the strap then,” he tells me.
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, hoping he doesn’t think this was what I was getting at, that I’m hitting on him or something.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. You can just stop at the edge then.”
“I want you to be satisfied,” he says, his words playing right into a game that I’m not even sure he’s aware of.
Or is he?
“I’ll be satisfied either way.”
“I think it would look good if you took them all the way up. But that’s just me. It’s up to you. If you don’t feel comfortable…”
Is that challenge in his voice, in his eyes? He’s just looking at me. There’s no change in his expression... But still, there’s a subtle undercurrent here, running between us like churning river water. At least I think there is. But I can’t be certain it’s real and not imagined.
“It’s not that,” I begin.
“Good,” he says, his lips curving at the corners. “You don’t have to take it off, just unfasten it so I can move it up a little.”
My breathing is shallow as I lever myself up on my elbow and reach around to unsnap my bra.
Thank God I didn’t wear one that opens in the front!
The band around my torso loosens and I get back into position, bending my arms and folding both hands under my cheek as I scoot back toward Hemi again.
He wheels his chair in as close as he can get and, without a word, lays one arm across me and fires up the gun to freehand another string of beautiful butterflies.
Positioned like I am, there’s really nowhere to look but at Hemi, which is fine by me. His eyes are sharp in concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. His tongue is caught between his teeth, barely visible at the edge of his sculpted lips. It makes me wonder what it would taste like—his tongue and the inside of his mouth.
“You doing all right?” he asks, not looking away from what he’s doing.
“I’m fine.”
“The higher I get onto your ribs, the more it will sting.”
“I know. I’m prepared. It’ll be worth it.”
Hemi does glance up at me this time. He studies me curiously for a few seconds. His lips move as though he might say something, but he changes his mind and turns his attention back to his task. “Good,” he finally says. “Just let me know if I need to stop.”
I watch him as he works. I watch his face, I watch the competent way his hand holds me, the controlled way his fingers grip the gun. I watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath the skin in his forearms. I watch the way the light glints off his shiny dark brown hair. I admire the way the ends curl up on the longer pieces. My guess is that if Hemi didn’t keep his hair short, it would have a wave to it. I can just imagine running my fingers through it, feeling the texture of it tickling my palms.
Hemi weaves up and down along my side, giving me a lazy ribbon of butterflies that winds ever higher toward my arm pit. When he reaches the place where my bra strap rests, he slips his fingers under the edge and pushes it up out of the way.
He inks a butterfly right at the edge of my bra line and then dips down, closer to the underside of my breast to do another. I feel my nipples tighten in response to the brush of his hand as he holds the material out of his way. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else. I focus on the painful sting of the needle as it penetrates my skin, leaving only beautiful color behind.
When the prickling stops, I open my eyes, confused. Hemi is watching me. He doesn’t move. Not one muscle. He just looks at me. For a few seconds, I’m lost to everything but him—the look in his eyes, the way his hand feels hot as fire where it rests against my skin, the way my breast aches for him to slide his fingers up just a fraction of an inch.
After at least a full disconcerting minute of watching me without saying a single word, Hemi finally speaks, surprising me. “Maybe we should give you a rest and finish up later.” I see him glance at a place above my head. “You’ve been here nearly two hours. That’s a long time under the needle.”
I’m shocked. It feels like I’ve been here only a few minutes. Or a lifetime. I’m not sure which. Kind of like the way I feel about Hemi. On the one hand, he’s a perfect stranger who gives me butterflies of a different kind every time he looks at me. But on the other hand, in a way I feel like I know him. Like we’re…connected. But not in the way one might think. I feel as though there’s a tug of war going on. Between us as well as within us. I’m the sheltered girl trying to break free and really live for the first time in her life. I’m striving to put fear and reservation and hesitation aside in favor of seizing the moment.
But not Hemi.
I get the fe
eling that he’s lived that way for a long time, that he seized all of life’s moments until something happened to make him stop. Stop and take notice. And slow down. And distance himself.
I could be way off base. But if I’m not, how do two people like that meet in the middle? Or do they? Is that even possible?
Maybe I’m overthinking something that’s merely fleeting. I mean, he’s giving me a tattoo. He didn’t ask me to move in, for God’s sake.
But still…
I’m sure it’s psychotic as hell that I don’t want the night to end, that I’m willing to endure such discomfort to stay here a little longer.
You’re pathetic. And desperate.
But that other voice inside me pipes up again, reminding me that there’s no time like the present. No one is promised a tomorrow. We have today. Right now. Nothing more.
Hemi’s hand over my ribs, rocking me gently back and forth, shakes me out of my stupor. I don’t know how long I’ve been watching him, thinking, saying nothing, but I’m guessing too long. I nod and smile, pushing myself up into a sitting position, protectively holding one arm over my chest.
“Oh, sorry,” Hemi says, whirling around in his chair to tend his equipment so he can give me a little privacy.
With my eyes glued to his broad shoulders, I right my bra and fasten it. I pull down my shirt then reach for my pants, tugging them up to where they belong.
Hemi stands to throw something into the garbage. When he turns back toward me, our eyes collide. That’s when the impulse hits me. It slams into me like a gust of wind going ninety miles an hour. It steals my breath and makes my heart beat so hard that I can hear it in my ears. And for once in my life, I put thought aside. I don’t overthink it. In fact, I don’t think about it at all. Before I can change my mind, I slide off the table and step toward him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t back up, just stands tall and perfectly still. Watching me. I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. What I’m about to do. And I wonder if he’ll stop me.
But I don’t overthink that either. If I do, I’ll chicken out. And I can’t afford to chicken out on life anymore.
I take another step toward him, building up the nerve to just do it, just kiss him. But Hemi surprises me when he takes the step that will bring us near enough to touch.
He’s so close, my chest almost brushes his every time I inhale. I sway toward him the tiniest bit, craving the contact. With him. A perfect stranger.
“Sloane,” he whispers, the sound of my name on his lips bringing chills to my arms again. He reaches out to push my hair back over my shoulder. His fingertips linger on the skin of my neck before they fall away.
“Hemi,” I sigh, melting into the heat of his eyes. I knew there was something between us. Well, I’d hoped. Hoped I wasn’t imagining it. But now I know I wasn’t. It’s there, staring out at me from behind his hooded midnight eyes. Blatant and unabashed, he wants me. And I want him, too.
“You need to walk out that door and never come back.”
My heart stops. Of all the things I thought he might say, this came out of nowhere. “What?” I ask in a small, uncertain voice.
“You need to leave. And don’t look back.”
I scramble to recover. “But…but what about the rest of my tattoo?”
“I’m not talking about your tattoo and you know it.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I inquire, playing dumb to save what’s left of my crumbling pride.
“I’m talking about you. And me. This. Us.”
“There is no us.”
“There will be in about thirty seconds if you don’t get the hell out of here.”
“What if I don’t want to leave?” I’m confused. Is he saying that he wants me? Or that he wants me to go?
“I’m not asking.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want me to go?”
“Because guys like me change girls like you.”
“Girls like me?”
“Innocent girls.”
“What if I’m not that innocent?”
His lips quirk in a wry grin. “Oh, you’re exactly that innocent. I can practically smell it on you. Sweet, pure, untouched. And, if I’m being honest, I’d like nothing better than to taste that on the tip of my tongue.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
I watch him wrestle with…something. “I don’t have the time or the inclination to get involved in ruining someone else’s life.”
“What makes you think you’d ruin my life?”
“Oh, trust me. I would.”
“But—”
“But nothing. For tonight, I’ll be the good guy you need me to be. Whether you know you need it or not. I’m asking you to leave, Sloane. But I promise you—promise you—that if you so much as darken my doorway again, I won’t let you walk back out again.”
I’m torn between heady elation and harsh rejection. “Hemi—”
“Go, little girl,” he says softly. “Go before I change my mind.”
CHAPTER SIX- Hemi
A persistent buzzing wakes me. I swat toward the sound and hear my phone clatter as it hits the floor. With bleary eyes, I lean over the side of the bed to look down at it. I have to blink three times before I can focus on the lighted screen. I note two things. Number one, it’s only fifteen minutes until eleven. It’s too damn early for anyone to be calling me. Everyone that has my phone number knows I work at night and sleep late in the morning. Number two, it’s my older brother, Reese. Wanting an update, I’m sure.
I curse under my breath when my head pounds as I lean over the side of the bed to reach for the phone. I roll back up quickly, throwing an arm over my eyes as I slide my thumb across the screen to answer it.
“What?”
“You’re still in bed?”
“Hell yes, I’m still in bed. You know I don’t get in until after three most nights.”
“You’ve got more than seven hours already, you pussy. You’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t go straight to sleep, asshole.”
“Damn, you’re grouchy. You must’ve been drinking.”
Reese has always complained that drinking makes me pissy. I guess maybe he’s right. I feel like I could drive my fist through a solid steel wall.
“What do you want?” I ask, ignoring his observation. Lucky for him, he lets it go.
“Just checking on…things.”
“’Things’ are fine. No change.”
“Are you any closer?”
“You say that like it’s easy to get close to these people when it’s anything but easy. They’re naturally suspicious. It’s what they do, who they are.”
“And I’m sure you don’t inspire confidence as a trustworthy guy.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You ink skin. You’re a step up from a criminal in some people’s eyes.”
“Oh, right,” I say drolly. “This sounds familiar.”
“I didn’t say I feel that way, just that some people do.”
“Well then ‘some people’ can kiss my puckered ass.”
“Look, I didn’t call to pick a fight. Just…just keep me posted.”
“I will,” I squeeze through my gritted teeth.
“And lay off the sauce.”
“Suck it, dickweed,” I murmur before I hang up.
I peek out from under my arm long enough to hit the disconnect button. I’m sure once I get sobered up, I’ll feel like shit about this conversation, but right now, I’m just ill.
Reese is a good guy and I love him. We actually get along pretty well. Normally. Our relationship has just been a little strained since I moved to the Atlanta area. We’ve all been under a lot of pressure and stress. Losing Ollie changed everything.
Already tired of my thoughts, I sit up quickly. Too quickly. My head spins and throbs. I press my palms to my temples and squeeze, wishing I could make it stop.
“Damn yo
u, Sloane,” I mutter into the emptiness of my bedroom.
I blame her. One hundred percent. What the hell was she thinking, coming into the shop, looking all sweet and innocent?
But I know it’s not that. The sweet and innocent I can handle. That’s never appealed to me. It’s the sweet and innocent combined with this innate sexiness that she has that’s tempting me. Tempting me bad. There’s a little gleam in her eye that says she wants me to show her naughty rather than nice. And oh, how I could show her naughty. I could show her naughty like she’s never even dreamed before.
But a girl like her deserves nice, too. And naughty’s all I’ve got. It’s all I’m interested in. Especially now. Which means I need to stay away from her. I need to deny myself the pleasure of her. And I’m not used to denying myself anything that I want. Including women.
Sloane might have to be the first.
And I like it even less than I thought I would.
Ignoring the still-drunk swim behind my eyes, I get up and head for the shower. For the cold shower.
CHAPTER SEVEN- Sloane
The only good thing I can think of when I open my eyes is that it’s Thursday. Which means tomorrow is Friday. Which means no classes. Which means I can sleep in.
I roll over and look at the clock. Three minutes until my alarm goes off. This is the fourth morning I’ve awakened before it sounds its annoying buzz. And it’s the fourteenth morning I’ve awakened thinking of Hemi.
I haven’t seen him or talked to him since three Saturdays ago. When he told me to leave. I did. Even though I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay, to explore what I saw in his eyes, felt in his touch. Explore all the things he hinted at but didn’t say.
But I didn’t. I left. And now I get to wake up every morning with the regret of my decision.
Throwing back the covers, I head for the shower.
Less than an hour later, I’m climbing into the passenger side seat of Sarah’s truck.