“Music notes? A microphone? Art is a bit out of my realm of knowledge.”
I give him a pointed look. “Music’s considered a form of art.”
He leans back to stretch, his legs spread and his muscular shoulders strain against his thin T-shirt as he reaches behind the chair. “Then graphic art’s not my thing.”
Trying hard not to gawk at the picture of masculinity across from me, I force myself to focus on artistic possibilities and reach for my iPad. “Where were you thinking of getting the ink?” I ask, absently biting my lip ring.
He stares at my mouth and my face heats, and for a brief moment I feel like the shy, insecure girl I used to be.
“My back would probably be the best idea,” he says. His tone has me guessing there’s more than the matter of tattoo placement behind the statement, but I can’t imagine why. Glancing at his arm of ink, I release the ring from under my teeth, then somehow say without dread, “Could I see your other tattoos?”
“Sure,” he says, reaching a hand back and yanking off his shirt in one smooth move. He stands, with both arms at his sides and his shirt bunched in one hand.
Um…I push the profanity from my brain and settle on Holy crap, Batman, shut the front and back door! The sight before me sizzles onto my retinas and will forever be scorched on them.
Justin’s body is an ancient Greek statue come to life. Though lean, he’s all ripped muscle. And unlike the cold surface of marble statues, his skin is warm and golden. I do a full inspection, trying to keep my expression neutral as my eyes roam over his rippled abs, the sexy hoop through his nipple, and the designs inked on his body. He has tribal art on one arm that swirls and loops across a rib to touch the corner of his pectoral. Japanese letters run between the tight skin under his belly button and the waistband of his boxers, which rides above his low-slung jeans. Though I’ve tattooed Japanese calligraphy, I know only the most popular sayings by heart, and this isn’t one of them.
“Any on your back?” I ask, my mouth dry. Wow, this guy is hot.
“Just one,” he says, turning.
His back is as ripped as his front. Now that he’s turned around, I allow myself to swallow. I’m not sure what my problem is. It’s not like I haven’t tattooed lots of hot bodies, but staring at his, I have to resist the urge to fan myself.
He glances over his shoulder.
It’s the way he looks at me. Like he’s trying to see into me and learn my secrets. Secrets that aren’t all that mysterious, just rather sad. Stay on task, Al. I again force myself to concentrate on his ink. A sharp, pointed tribal design rolls across his shoulder blades. The lines are clean and the ink dark. In fact, all of his tats are well done. He either knows how to choose his artists or has been lucky enough not to run into a hacker.
“Were you thinking lower back? Or middle?” I ask casually.
He runs a finger down the center of his spine, and his lats ripple as he turns to me again. Ugh, I’m staring like a fan girl. “More like in between,” he says.
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?”