by Jean Haus
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.”
While he pulls on his T-shirt, I scroll through images on the iPad and avoid looking across the table so I can concentrate. After several searches, an idea forms in my mind. I’ve always believed one of my greatest talents is how quickly I can create art. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll make a quick sketch,” I say. “If you like it, I can draw a more in-depth design.”
Sitting down again in the chair across from me, he gives me a flirtatious grin. Very sexy but light. I must have been imagining the pained look earlier—not to mention the searching one. He’s just another guy looking for a hookup. I reach for my pencil and start to sketch. Except for the scratch of the pencil and the music that always plays in the shop, it’s painfully quiet until he asks, “What’s between the blue on your arm?”
He’s referring to the sleeve of flowers and branches wrapped around my upper arm, curling around my elbow, and ending at my wrist. On my upper arm, between the branches sprouting pale pink, almost white flowers are various shades of blue. Though it appears to be filler, at closer inspection the blue is full of dragons, stars, skulls, butterflies…the various art I’ve spent years creating on people’s skin.
Without looking at him, I answer, “Branches. Not exact but van Gogh. Inspired by his almond branch painting.”
Justin sits up a bit. “The guy who cut off his ear?”
My teeth grind. “Why is that what everyone remembers? Like it’s the one defining moment of his life and art?”
I sense more than see him shrug as I shade in an edge. “Guess self-mutilation is hard to forget.”
The pounding song coming from the speaker behind the counter changes to something low and jazzy. I let Todd pick the music, and his taste goes beyond eclectic. The variety of playlists he has is endless. I rarely hear the same song twice.
“So you’re into classical art?”
“I’m into all art.”
“But your favorite is the ear-slicing van Gogh?”
I nod and keep sketching. I’m hoping my silence will give him a clue that talking about me isn’t an option.
“You busy Saturday night?”
My pencil pauses. “Now, Justin, I already told you I don’t date customers.” I rarely date at all, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He leans forward, resting his chin on his steepled hands. “You did, and I wasn’t asking, but I have some extra tickets for our show this Saturday.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of a way to dig myself out of this hole. “I usually work on Saturday nights, but if you have an extra two or three, I’d love to give them to my employees.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Employees?”
I match his brow raise. “The ones who work here.”
“You’re the owner?” he asks with an incredulous tone, glancing around the shop.
Though he can’t see it, I smash my eraser into the tabletop. “Why is it so hard to believe? Because I’m female?”
His long dark lashes flicker. “Ah…no. You seem kind of young to be owning a business.”
My irritation fades along with the pressure on the pencil. “Well, to be honest, I’m part owner.”
He gives me the look again. Like he’s trying to glimpse inside me. I didn’t imagine that searching look after all.
“That’s still impressive. You’re what?” He studies me. “Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-two. Just turned.”
A dimple appears. “Now that is impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, becoming intent on finishing the sketch. I want both him and his dimples gone. I shade in some shadows, add a bit of red around the edges with a colored pencil, and hold out the sketch. “See if something like this will work.”
He reaches for it slowly, raises the paper, and stares at the drawing. His lips curve. “Damn. This is perfect. Awesome really.”
I shake my head at his amazement. “It’s hardly perfect. Just a rough sketch, but if you like it, I can resketch it in more detail, then we can set up some appointments.” I nearly squirm in my seat at the thought of tattooing him. Being in a room alone with him for hours is going to be putting my hormones in a state of salivation for far too long.
“Also,” I say, holding out a sheet that explains payment and hourly prices, “here are my rates. You’re looking at about five to six hours.” I’m almost hoping the eight-hundred-dollar bill will dissuade him.
He gives the price sheet a quick glance. “We can set it up now. I trust your work. But appointments, as in plural?”
I nod, recognizing he must have had all his work done by separate artists, even though, except for the Japanese lettering, the tribal designs all coordinate. Again, the man has ink luck. “You indicated almost a foot of your spine. I’d first do the outline, then the interior tribal work, shading, and coloring. Two separate appointments. At least a week apart.”
“A week apart?”
“Or more. Your skin needs to heal in between each session.”
“Two sessions,” he says in an almost ardent tone. “Okay, let’s set it up.”
With a feeling of dread, I push up off the stool.
“Well,” Shay says from the counter, holding my appointment book in one hand. We both turn to her with startled expressions. It’s obvious that neither of us was aware she was in the room, and I’m slightly off-balance at how much Justin commands my attention. I never get this way around guys, hot or not. “Today’s your lucky day. Al has an opening on Friday afternoon. Usually people have to wait a couple weeks or more for Al unless they do Saturday nights.”
Justin nods. “Friday will work.”
Friday feels too soon. “Friday’s probably not a good idea if you have a show on Saturday.” He gives me a questioning look. “You’ll be in pain.”
He shrugs. “Let me worry about that. I’m not exactly a novice. Friday’s fine. Perfect in fact . I’m class free on Fridays. We can do the next one the Friday after that if you’re open.”
Against my better judgment, I nod, and Shay pencils him in for the next two Fridays. I’m about to step back behind the counter and put space between Mr. Hottie and me when the front door bursts open.
At the sight of the person standing there, I freeze, overwhelmed as a messy kaleidoscope of emotion bursts within me. Bright yellow hope tangles with soft pink longing. Never forgotten black humiliation drips beneath dark blue streaks of despair while red-hot anger splatters over everything. I push down the strong desire to run as those familiar eyes meet my own. He takes a step farther into the shop. He is less than twenty feet away from me.
I need a buffer.
In desperation, I stupidly choose the one next to me.
My arm wraps around Justin’s waist while my eyes beg his. Though his expression is confused, he doesn’t step away.
“Hello, Allie.”
I force calmness and look into the face that haunts my dreams and nightmares. Except for the new tattoo along his neck and the nearly shaved dark head, he appears the same. A harsh, angled face with contrasting soft, blue eyes. The thin line of his lips is unforgiving. He’s as magnetic as ever and completely off-limits.
I force myself to appear composed, but inside I’m a shocked mess. “Trevor. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Why didn’t you warn me? Let me freak out before coming face-to-face?
Perhaps sensing my distress, Justin wraps an arm around my shoulders. I place my other hand on his stomach, the muscles tight under my palm.
Trevor shrugs the wide shoulders I know so well. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.” He scowls at the man I’m holding on to like a life preserver. “Who’s this?”
Justin puts a hand out.
“Justin Noel.”
They shake hands stiffly while I chew on my lip ring. Though I’m trying to appear comfortable in Justin’s embrace, this whole thing is so whacked, it almost feels like an out-of-body experience.
Trevor lifts his chin and glares down at me. “You said you weren’t dating the last time we talked.”
Of course he’d come out and say it. I refuse to contemplate why he sounds angry. “I…well,” I mumble, searching desperately for a plausible explanation. Recalling the last time we talked, I say, “I didn’t want to say anything with Ben there.”
Trevor’s eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms against his chest and glances around the shop. His dark eyebrows rise as he takes in the vast changes. As soon as he left, I repainted the walls, changed the art on them, and rearranged the furniture. I didn’t want to be reminded of him one bit. His tightened gaze comes back to me. “Since I’m in town, I thought I’d take a look at the books.”
“Okay, yeah, sure,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Let me walk Justin out and I’ll meet you in the office.” I don’t wait for an answer, just grab Justin’s hand and tug him toward the exit. He follows but stops to grab his jacket off a chair and says, “Catch you later,” to Trevor, whose upper lip curls slightly.
As shock continues to roll through me, my breathing turns shallow. I tug Justin’s hand harder. On the sidewalk outside, I drag him past the shop’s window, let go of his hand, and bend over, dragging air into my lungs.
Justin’s boots come into my vision. “Allie? You okay?”
With one hand on one knee and the other in the air, signaling for him to wait, I shake my head, hoping I can avoid a face-plant onto the ice-speckled cement. Though suffering a concussion might be better than explaining the situation to Justin or facing Trevor in the office. After sucking in air for a few minutes and trying to exhale as slowly as possible, my breathing slows down to normal. I stand up and meet Justin’s worried gaze.
“I’m sorry.” I lean my head back and let out a groan at my idiocy. “I’m so embarrassed I did that to you.”
“Hey, it’s no big deal.” He holds the jacket in his hand out to me. “You have to be freezing.”
I wave the jacket away. I’m still shaken, and the cold isn’t registering. Though my behavior doesn’t seem to be bothering him, I can’t stop my apologetic explanation. “Shock just got the better of me. He’s my business partner and my ex.”
Justin nods. “I kind of guessed the last part.”
“I haven’t seen him in almost two years. He lives in California. Owns a shop there too.” I rub my forehead. “Why isn’t he in California? Ugh, I really can’t believe I did that to you.”
Justin grins deep enough for his dimples to show. “I don’t care that you let him think we’re together. It’s not like I didn’t already ask you out.”
I slap my jean-clad thigh hard enough for it to sting. “Well, I do. Wow. I feel like a complete idiot.”
“No worries. You’re not an idiot.”
A self-deprecating snort escapes me. “Oh, I most definitely acted like an idiot, but thanks. And thanks for going along with my ridiculous act.” He watches me as I take in a deep breath. “All right, I’ve got to get in there.”
“You going to be okay?” He puts on his jacket in one smooth motion.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. Just super shocked there for a minute, but I’m good.” I take a step toward the shop. “See you Friday, and thanks again for not blowing my cover.”
“Anytime, Allie,” he says, slipping on his sunglasses as I walk past him.
Still mortified by my behavior, I don’t reply or look back. The shop appears to be empty when I walk back in. Not caring where Shay is, I go to my drawing table and lean over it. The sketch of a treble clef decorated inside with tribal designs and wrapped around a microphone lies in the middle of the table, reminding me of the man I just left on the sidewalk.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter under my breath.
“I heard that!” Shay yells from behind me, and in seconds a jar half filled with ones is under my nose. “Hand it over, sister.”
Sighing, I dig into my pocket, count off five ones, and drop them in the jar. Ever since I instituted the swear jar, Shay and Mandy have enforced it like bulldog cops.
Shay smiles sweetly. “Maybe Mandy’s right. You need to get laid.”
My eyes cuss at her.
She shrugs. “Seems like there’s ample opportunity around here today, but hey, I don’t mind you paying for pizza night.”
Chapter 4
Justin
Thursday morning, I race across campus. Freezing rain pelts my face as my untied shoelaces slap against the wet cement. It’s not a surprise that I forgot to set my alarm, since I almost never use one. If a class starts before noon, it’s not on my schedule. But I can’t miss meeting Lila this morning in the library. She’s been my go-to girl for papers all year, and she could only meet me today at nine. She’s going to be totally pissy if I’m late.
Outside the library doors, I shake the water from my head and tuck the wet laces into the front of my boots, then head into the hushed main room. The low murmur within the library is overlaid with the noise of rain pelting on the roof. After a quick walk around the perimeter of the lower level, I find Lila in a secluded seating area near a window.
When I stand over her, she looks up from a textbook. Her lips thin, and she says flatly, “You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I say, bending to give her a quick hug. I make sure to slide my cheek against hers, slow and sexy.
“Ugh, you’re all wet and freezing,” she somehow wails within a library whisper.
I plop into the chair next to hers and gesture toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Rushed through the rain to get to you.”
“Rushed? Really?” She rolls her eyes. “One would think that since I’m doing this for you, you could at least be on time.”
I give her an imploring look and make up an excuse. “I forgot to switch my phone from vibrate.”
She sighs and holds out an open hand. “The assignment?”
A chuckle stays locked behind my lips. Freshman girls are the most gullible creatures in the world. Leaning forward, I dig the handout from my back pocket.
She snatches it from my grip, then reads over the requirements. Partway through, her mouth falls open. “Ten pages?”
My expression turns contrite.
Hers turns livid. “You’re going to the Spring Fling with me for this.”
It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. I weigh my options. Sorority and fraternity mixers aren’t my thing. Ten-page papers are really not my thing. And Lila, with her long hair and pouty lips, has been my thing—more than once. I smile lazily. “I’d love to. As long as we don’t have a gig that night.” Her lip curls, and I’m hoping we’re booked.
Her lids lower. “If so, then the end-of-the-semester bash.”
Writing a research paper or partying with douche bags? I nod my consent, and she goes back to reading the paper requirements.
Obviously, showing up with me at a party is enough of a reward to do hours of boring research and writing. Since I joined the band, getting girls has become far too easy. More than me, they’re after my persona. And I’m okay with that. I think. Getting deep isn’t my style. The real me is off-limits anyway. But fuck—where’s the challenge? I search through memories from several encounters, trying to remember what Lila was like in bed. Fast. And there wasn’t a bed. Rather, the back of a door. Maybe the party won’t be too bad. Or more specifically, the after-party.
I tap my fingers on the circular armrest while she finishes reading the lengthy assignment description. In the sitting area next to us, a group of students compare notes. Beyond the study group is the checkout desk, where a short line of students wait. My fingers stop their tapping at the sight of the l
ast person in line. I’m out of my chair in seconds and moving across the library. Though Lila hisses my name, I snag a book from a shelf and then keep walking to the end of the line.
I stare at the waves in each of her dark auburn ponytails—she looks hot with her hair up. I wait for her to turn my way, then say, “Hey, Allie, didn’t know you went here.”
The large bag on her shoulder almost hits me in the stomach as she turns around. Her charcoal eyes slightly widen. “Well hello, Justin.”
“You’d think that since we’re dating, I’d know we go to the same college,” I say with a smirk. I wonder about her ex, then wonder why I give a shit. It’s not like I’m after anything more than a fling. An extremely sexy fling, given that husky voice and the many hidden tattoos to discover. But my pursuit has been slow. Her rule about not dating customers is a total cock block.
Her lashes flutter at me. “I forgot to tell you over our romantic dinner date. With all that lobster and your cute dimples, sharing my educational pursuits escaped my mind.” Her sarcasm brings a grin, and probably dimples, to my face. Her smile drops, and the usual restraint returns to her expression. “But then, I only take two classes a semester. You?”
“Full-time.” Studying her face, I wonder why I’ve never seen her on campus. With those eyes and that lip ring, I would have noticed this girl in a hallway packed with people or the bookstore or on a sidewalk or…anywhere. Next to her, I’m alive with lust. In a fucking library. “You must take morning classes.”
She nods. “Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”
I drag my gaze from her mouth and notice The Fundamentals of Business Law title wrapped in her arms and pressed against her chest. “Business? I would have thought art.”
“Couldn’t get away from it totally. Art is my minor,” she says, studying the spine of the book in my hand. “And you?”
I glance at the book in my hand: Taking Charge of Your Fertility. An internal groan rolls through me. Leave it to me to lift something that makes no sense. “Communication.” I tap the book. “Family communication. Big paper. Fertility’s more of an issue in marriage than most people imagine.”