From what I can see, Rush is concentrating really hard, his eyes pinned to my skin, his face tight with tension. It’s incredibly hot, and I wish I had a better view.
“Rush,” I say in a quiet voice, not wanting to jolt him from his focus. “Can I talk while you work?”
“Depends on what you have to say.”
“Just…thanks.”
His nostrils flare, but his hand is shockingly steady. “You can thank me after you see it.”
“No,” I correct him. “I mean for the asshole in the crowd.”
The bite of the needle is gone momentarily. And I realize he’s lifted it off my skin. His eyes flicker to mine. “It’s nothing.”
Then he returns to his work. I settle in to watching him again, completely unaware of the crowd, of Lisa, of everyone but him. It was always like that back when we were together. He was addictive. Like sugar. Like horror movies. Sometimes after we’d have sex I’d just lie there and stare at him, tell myself over and over that he was mine. That this gorgeous, talented boy belonged to me, wanted me, loved me. I saw us together, sharing an apartment as we went to college.
And then I got moved from my aunt’s house into a foster home, and then another foster home, and then a group home, and eventually everything I wanted and hoped for and believed in got crushed. Not by anyone I knew. God, that would’ve been so much easier to forgive. But by me.
“Is it starting to hurt?” Rush asks me, lifting the needle again, cocking his head to the side, his eyes finding mine. “You’re tensing up.”
“No,” I assure him. “Just thinking.”
He doesn’t ask. Instead his eyes return to my back. When the needle makes contact again, my mind tries to follow the lines it’s making. I sense a diamond shape, but I can’t figure it out.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re tattooing on me now?” I ask.
“You’ll see for yourself when it’s done.”
“How about a hint? Like if it’s something gross or pornographic or just really, really mean.”
I see the corners of his mouth twitch. God, he’s so sexy. Forget Ms. Pin-Up. He probably has a hundred girlfriends. All on speed dial. All waiting with bated breath for him to call.
I know I would be.
“It’s not a portrait of me flipping you off or anything,” he says.
“Okay, good.” I make a face. “That’s a relief.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t get cute with me, okay? You’ve wanted to get under my needle for what…two years now?”
I sober a little at his combative mood. “I think it’s going on three. Didn’t realize your wait list was that long.”
“It’s not.” Once again, he lifts the needle off my skin, gives me a look so dead sexy my breasts tingle against the table.
“You know, I never wanted a tattoo,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. That’s why you never got an appointment.”
I release a breath. “I just wanted a chance to talk to you.”
“Well, you got it. Or your girlfriend did. Either way, I’m here, you’re here. Go.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip. It felt so easy a second ago. Now my brain doesn’t want to cooperate. “It’s just…there’s a lot of people here…”
“And?”
“And I know it’s kind of loud in here, but are you cool with someone, I don’t know, in the front row maybe, hearing how I feel about you? How what I did five years ago is tearing me up? How every time someone touches me or kisses me I wish it was you?”
The sound of the tattoo machine dies, and Rush’s eyes cut to mine. They’re like twin daggers, and I can’t tell if he’s turned on or pissed off. Either way, my heart leaps hardcore into my throat. He looks up, gestures—no doubt to Ms. Pin-Up—and in seconds, I’m cleaned off and something warm is rubbed into my back. His jaw tight, Rush places a cloth over my tattoo and tapes around it, then re-clasps my bra.
“You can sit up now and put on your shirt,” he tells me coolly, ripping off his gloves.
I’m confused. Not by his tone—that I was expecting—but by the quick work. I always assumed tats took a few hours. “That’s it?”
“For now,” he says.
For now? As in, there’s more? “What the hell, Rush?”
He’s tossing his gloves in the trash, but as soon as they hit the rim, he rounds on me and places a hand on either side of my hip, locking me into his vibrantly tattooed airspace. The breath leaves my body as my gaze travels over his collarbone, which sports a skull interwoven with the letters of his last name. As I sit there in my boring bra and my even more boring skirt, his face closes in on mine, and I swear if I lean forward an inch I can press my lips to his. Does he taste the same? I wonder. Feel the same?
“You want to talk to me,” he says, his warm breath moving over my skin, making me shiver. “You want to finish this tat? We’ll do it my way.”
His way. Oh, god, I used to love doing things his way. I contemplate sticking my tongue out and lapping at the air, seeing if I can taste him that way.
“Be at my shop at eleven tonight,” he says. “Alone.”
I nod dumbly and mumble a raspy, “Okay.”
But instead of leaning closer, giving me what I think he knows I want, he releases me, pushes away. I instantly want him back.
Sound familiar, Addison?
My shirt is shoved into my hands by Ms. Pin-Up, and I stand up and get busy putting it on, buttoning it up. My heart is still knocking against my ribs and my insides feel almost as liquid as certain parts of my outsides. I don’t care about the dissolving crowd or how Lisa’s on her way over to me with a look of utter horror. All I care about is tonight, and seeing him again. Explaining things, asking for forgiveness.
Getting his hands on me again.
“And Addison,” he calls.
I turn so easily, almost involuntarily, toward the sound of his voice, like it controls me now.
He slips on a black knit cap, his eyes flashing emerald fire my way. “Don’t look at it. If you take off the bandage, I’ll know.”
Rush
I’m home. Outside of Vegas, near the Red Rocks where I belong, where I can breathe. Inside my shop, Wicked Ink, the buzz of three tattoo machines rends the air. Vincent, Jane and I are all working on our final clients. Well, V and Janie are anyway. I got one last piece coming in at eleven.
“You’re quiet tonight, man.”
“Just focusing, brother,” I say, adjusting my hand pressure. This cover-up on my old friend, Cory, is a monster—a bullshit tribal with heavy black ink and some scarring—and I want to make sure I get it right before he heads back to L.A. and whatever movie he’s making.
“You had that convention today, right?” he asks me.
I pull my needle back and dilute the color in some water. “Never doing one of those again. Not my scene.”
“Even with all the hot chicks?”
I grin at him. “Even then.”
He sighs, drops his head back against the chair. “Chicks with tattoos rock my world. And if they have a few piercings in some very private places, even better.”
I shake my head. The guy pretends to be such a cupcake on the red carpet. “Sounds like you need to hit the convention next time.”
As he laughs, Vincent sticks his head in the room. The guy’s black hair has just been recently skull-shaved. Between that, his black eyes and the nearly full body art, he looks like one of the death rockers Jane loves to ink. Except for the face. Boy’s got a fucking Hollywood face.