"Exactly." He laughs.
I'm not exactly opposed to the idea. Grey would suit Dean. Dark enough to line those baby blues but not dark enough to overpower them.
Shit.
This is…
It's just because I hit puberty when the emo look was popular.
It has nothing to do with that one time Dean dressed as some musician for Halloween. It has nothing to do with how badly I want to tug at his bangs and tear off his skinny jeans.
Besides, he's way too buff to look emo anyway.
This— "Did you fuck her?" Rick asks.
"You gotta butter me up if you want juicy details like that."
"Girl like that. In those boots? Bet she's a tiny package of kink."
"Do you?"
"Yeah. Damn. How the fuck do you get all the hot chicks?" His cheeks flush as he catches me staring.
Dean laughs.
I blush. I get that I'm in a male environment. That tattoos are masculine and a lot of guys think they're in some let's talk about babes and brews and sports place.
But tiny package of kink? Really?
I suck a breath through my teeth. A lot of artists turned me down for an apprenticeship because women just can't do tattoos. I'm already at a disadvantage here.
It sucks, but I have to play nice if I want to level the playing field.
Dean's eyes catch mine. He motions come here. "Be honest, Chloe. You like this tattoo?"
It's a bicep piece, a classic sailor girl pinup. Vertical. Dark lines. Bright colors. Big, clear details. "It's good."
"Just good? Fuck, which of us should take offense to that?" Dean asks.
"It's great." It's bold, eye-catching, classic and original at once. "It suits you."
Rick looks to Dean and raises a brow.
"She told me the same thing about mine." He pushes his shirt up his sleeve to show off his Han Solo temporary tattoo.
"She was right about you." He looks to me. "I'm sure she's right about me."
"You know Chloe isn't just a masterful artist," Dean says.
"No?" Rick says.
"She does aikido," Dean says.
Confusion streaks Rick's expression.
"Martial arts." Dean jumps out of his chair. Sinks into his heels. Karate chops the air. "She kicked Ryan's ass."
My shoulders tense. I anticipate their stupid commentary. Of course, the Asian girl does karate. Oh, you're only half Asian? Does that make you an egg or a Twinkie? What do you mean karate is Japanese not Korean?
But the commentary doesn't come.
Dean threw a lot of bullshit at me over the years, but he never brought up my heritage.
Concern flares in his eyes. He notices my discomfort. Stares at me, asking me something.
I'm not sure what it is, but I trust him not to go there. I wave him on.
He turns back to Rick and launches into a story. "Ryan had no idea what he was in for."
I play my part. Shrug as if I had no problem defeating Ryan. Even though the truth is I've never bested Ryan.
Dean continues. "He was all pissy about his ex. You know the way he was before Leighton. And he was out for blood. Saw Chloe. Saw that dark hair and thought of all the ways he wanted to hurt Penny. He went dirty. Did shady bar fight shit. But he was too slow. Chloe was bobbing and weaving. She wrapped her arm around his neck and threw him over her shoulder."
Rick hangs on every preposterous word.
Dean lights up like a pinball machine as he acts out our fight. He mimes my hold on an invisible Ryan. Throws the invisible Ryan over his shoulder.
Rick's eyes go wide. He looks to me with respect. "Badass."
"Thanks." I fight my blush.
"Dean, you think you could take her?" Rick asks.
"If I had a death wish, maybe." Dean shakes his head no way.
"But she's…" He looks to me. "You're so small."
"And agile. As soon as you see her, she's gone." He slaps his hands together. Lets one whiz past the other. "If you want to go, be my guest. But I'm gonna insist on charging first. In case you don't make it back."
Rick's jaw drops.
He's really buying this.
It's weird. He's looking at me with all this respect.
Ten minutes ago, I was nothing but a piece of meat.
Now I'm worthy of more than his boner.
Dean made me feel mixed-up, but he never made me feel like that. Not until I was staring at my cell, wondering what I'd done wrong, wondering why I wasn't worthy of his attention.
Dean winks at me. Turns back to Rick. "Stay still." He's quick about applying the temporary tattoo and peeling it off.
It's hard to explain how perfect it is. The lines fall over his muscles like they were made for them.
No. They were.
This is an art I don't understand. That I barely begin to understand. And Dean really is the perfect person to teach me.
He turns Rick to the mirror. "Still in love?"
Rick's eyes go wide. "Fuck yeah." He looks to me. "Would you clean it off?"
Dean nods. "Do the honors."
It's quick, a few swipes of rubbing alcohol, then a few of a paper towel.
Rick looks at me with goo-goo eyes. "You sure she can't do the ink?"
"Damn. This is why no one hires hot women." Dean shakes his head with mock indignation.
"Is it?" God, he's stupid.
"Yeah." Dean nods. "They steal all your attention."
"Wasn't gonna stare at your chest." Rick blushes. "I mean—"
"It's fine," Dean answers for me.
Who the fuck does he—
"Go wash up, Cloe." He taps the gun with his gloved hand. Nods to Rick's easy, breeze smile.
He's calmer than he was when he came in.
Because of Dean's stupidity.
Because he's too busy thinking about my boobs to consider the giant needle awaiting him.
I get his point. Really, I do.
But those are my boobs he's using as bait.
He could at least ask permission.
I wash and dry twice, return to the suite, pull on plastic gloves.
Dean already has the stencil taped to Rick's arm.
But Rick is lacking the cool of a moment ago. He's staring at the tattoo gun, his eyes wide, his jaw tight.
Dean motions to the stool next to him. It's teal, like every other chair in the room.
I sit. Watch Dean turn the gun on. Look to Rick.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah." Rick fails to sell his sentiment.
"Let's play a game." Dean turns the gun on. "Truth or truth."
"What?" Rick asks.
"It's easy. You pick truth or truth. You in?" The gun buzzes against his hand. "Don't forget, I can still write I have mommy issues on your arm."
"I'm in." Rick lets out a nervous laugh.
"You first, Chloe." Dean turns back to Rick. Brings the gun to his skin. "On three."
Rick nods.
"One, two—" There's no three. The needle is already on Rick's skin.
Rick bites his tongue as he stares straight ahead. He's clamming up. Nervous.
This isn't a particularly painful spot, but a needle jamming your skin several times a second is always painful.
Especially if you hate needles.
"Chloe." Dean taps my toe with his. "Your turn."
"Oh." I have to distract the client. It's weird, but it makes sense in a Dean kind of way. "How'd you get into doing ink?"
"Damn, my ego." He looks to Rick. "Can you believe she isn't asking about my cock?"
He laughs.
"Who'd want to know something about my feelings?" Dean feigns confusion. "But fair enough, sunshine." He traces the outline over Rick's skin. "Ryan got his first tattoo at sixteen. Our parents freaked. Grounded him for a month. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Talked him into taking me to the studio."
I can see that.
"The artist stared at me and said, 'what are you, twelve? Wait until you're eighteen, kid.' He wouldn't do it. Later, I found out, Ryan had arranged that. But I didn't forget it. As soon as I turned eighteen, I went back there. To the same guy. He remembered me. Did my first piece for free."
"What was it?" I ask.
He taps his side. "Our beautiful state."
The ink he showed me that night.
I fight my blush, but it doesn't work. My cheeks are on fire.
Rick looks between us. Arches a brow, angling for a story. He's eager for dirt. He's practically oblivious to the needle on his arm.
Dean is good at this.
"How'd you get from there to doing ink?" Rick asks.