I was trying to impress her with my knowledge of art, not my travels, which weren’t impressive but lonely. They were never family trips. My parents did their thing. I did mine. How else would I have wandered into an art museum? My parents certainly weren’t interested. But if she’s impressed, I’ll roll with it.
“And Rome. I’ll never forget Rome.”
I’d been sixteen, and the dark-eyed girls had liked my height and light hair. A handful of them had been older than girls, and I still remember what they’d taught me. But even after all that lush flesh, I refused to go to Barcelona the next summer. The moments of pleasure didn’t compensate for the loneliness of being in a foreign country while my mother shopped ten hours a day and my father relaxed into becoming a zombie. The one month of summer vacation was when he relaxed. The only time he relaxed.
Allie stares up at me with interest while clutching her book to her chest. “So you’re into art?”
Honesty should have me admitting art is intriguing—I’ve always welcomed the way it brings feeling to my usual emotionless state for at least a few moments—but it’s not my style to be deep. Opening up to people feels as foreign as the countries I visited across the ocean were. I remind myself what I’m here in this line for, and grin. I lower my voice and say, “I like lots of things.”
She raises a brow, but the request of “May I help you?” has her moving to the counter.
After she checks out her book and starts for the exit, I can’t help calling out, “See you Friday, Allie.”
She nods over her shoulder before slipping out the doors.
The librarian behind the counter looks at me expectantly. I’m clueless for a second, but stuck with a line of people behind me, I check out the book on fertility. At the entrance, I jerk out the research paper directions and drop the book into the return bin. Time to find Lila. While freshman girls can be overly dramatic, they are also extraordinarily forgiving.
Chapter 5
Allie
Though usually soothing, the small space of my tattooing room feels confining as I prepare for Justin’s appointment. I’m so nervous it’s hard to stay focused, but luckily I could fill ink caps in my sleep. I’ve done it for years. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since…well, Trevor. And in many ways, the insane attraction I have for Justin reminds me of how it was with Trevor in the beginning. I still find Trevor attractive, but it’s tainted now by all the heartbreak he put me through. Trevor has made me wary of all men. The pain he caused is enough to last a lifetime. I’d rather let my idle lady parts dry up to dust than deal with another rampage on my heart.
My apprehension about Justin might be for nothing. After meeting him three times, I’m quite sure that he’s a relentless flirt. His intense gaze, which always throws me off, is most likely part of his calculated bad boy act. But I’m very, very tempted to use his act to my advantage. He could be the perfect buffer to help me deal with Trevor’s return. Justin seems shallow enough to agree to play the part. When it comes to Trevor, my emotions are so warped I don’t trust myself.
Todd strolls into the room and lifts the thermal paper with Justin’s design on it from the tray stand. His lip curls. “More tribal shit?”
“Todd,” I say in a warning tone. He is forever complaining about people who come in and pick “cool” or “cute” ink. Tribal designs and fairies top his whine list. I don’t care what people pick. I’m always honored they let me permanently mark their skin. But Todd is the textbook image of a tattoo artist. Attitude. Shaved head. Two arm sleeves. Ear gauges. Pierced everything, which is why Todd is the shop’s piercer.
“Hey, I quit saying shit in front of customers.”
“Quit saying sh—stuff, period.”
“Oh.” He leans back and points a finger at me. “I almost got you.”
I give him a low-lidded stare, then nod toward the stencil. “Take a better look, beep face. That one is custom. The guy is a singer.”
“Beep face?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I say, “Figure it out. Fill in the blank.” I point at the design. “Just take a look.”
He peers closely at the stencil. “This thing would rock without the lame tribal shit.”
Irritated, I point to the door. “Go find something to do. Clean the bathroom if you can’t figure out anything else.”
He wrinkles his nose until the end of the septum ring practically points at me. “I’ll find something.”
Once he’s gone, I set up the tattoo chair so Justin will face away from me, leaning over the arm chair, which makes it easy for me to pull up my stool and work on his lower back. I’m rechecking everything on my tray when Mandy brings him into the room. He’s dressed casually swanky again—dark jeans, a white button-up shirt with a gray tank underneath, and black boots. With the wave of blond hair tousled over his forehead and the slightest hint of a five-o’clock shadow, he is picture perfect just like last time. The small room, with its plain white walls and bright light—I like to work within a clear canvas—was finally feeling calm and, somehow, quiet even with the thrashing music blaring from the overhead speakers. But Justin’s entrance brings a crackling energy that ruins the tranquility.
Ugh. The sooner this is over the better.
“His paperwork and payment are finished,” Mandy says to me, then smiles at Justin. Her eyes travel the length of him. “See you in a couple of hours.”
He grins at her, reaffirming my sense that his flirting is habitual.
I hand him the final sketch I’d made two nights ago. “Make sure this is exactly what you want.”
He studies it for several seconds. He shakes his head slightly. “You are unbelievably talented. It’s perfect, Allie.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly shy as a blush warms my cheeks. What am I, twelve? I stuff down my embarrassment and put on a professional face. “Um, if you take off your shirt, we can make sure I’m putting it exactly where you want.”
“Trying to undress me?” he asks with a grin.
I shoot him a level, emotionless glare. I’m not Mandy. I’m not into playing flirtatious games. Not sure if I’d even remember how. If I ever knew how.
His response to my look is to slowly—it’s too slow to me—unbutton his shirt, then reach for the bottom of his tank and lift it off in a sensual motion. Shirt gone, his eyes connect with mine—and I’m once again telling myself his gaze is just part of his flirty nature. But it’s still very hot. And regrettably I’m not immune.
Ignoring the reawakening of my stupid hormones, I gesture to the long mirrors in the corner. “Show me again where you want the tattoo.”
He stalks over to the corner, glances over his shoulder, and runs a finger along his spine. The movement is as sexy as the last time he did it. “I’m thinking here. Or do you think lower would be better?”
His muscular chest is facing me. His defined back is in the mirrors. Um…Damn. Though a flush travels over my skin, I force myself to consider his question and not devour him with my eyes, but the picture he makes is stunning. Something I’d like to re-create with harsh brush strokes in black-and-white. I clear my throat. “I think a few inches lower would spatially work better.”
Still glancing over his shoulder, he cocks his head in thought, then runs a finger lower. Near the band of his boxers. “Here?”
“Ah-huh,” I say, getting more flushed, which is ridiculous. I never get like this anymore. He needs to get away from the mirrors. Now. I lift the thermal paper. “You can check the transfer once I apply it.”