"Ryan started apprenticing around then. Once he was a full-time artist, I guilt tripped him into getting me a gig at his studio."
"No wonder he's hesitant to teach anyone," I say.
Dean laughs. "Fucked that up for everyone. Sorry." He winks.
I don't know how to take it, so I focus on the work. The outline takes shape. A woman sitting on an anchor, her back arched, her lips parted, her chest in the air.
Classic.
He finishes the black. "Red."
I grab the pad, open it, place it on the tray.
Dean stops the gun. Switches needles. He's careful. Focused. Intent.
That other Dean. The one I don't understand.
Then he's back to the troublemaker. "My turn."
"Yeah," I say.
He turns on the gun. Draws the first line of red—the sailor girl's lips. "Chloe, what color panties are you wearing?"
Rick's cheeks flush. He barely notices the needle.
But that doesn't soothe my temper.
My eyes narrow. My fingers curl into fists.
"Black, I bet," Dean says.
Calm down, Chloe. He's helping the client. Look how calm he is. He's practically floating.
So what, if he's right about your panties?
That's an easy guess.
It doesn't mean he's thinking about your panties.
It doesn't mean he wants you out of them.
For forty-five minutes, I swallow my anger. I play along with Dean's game. Answer his question. Ask my own. Watch the tattoo take form.
Dean takes me through the after-care.
Has me check out Rick and walk him to the door.
Bright light floods the shop as I pull it open. It swings shut. Blocking the beautiful afternoon.
Keeping out the heat.
Breaking the dam holding back my frustration.
I march to the counter. Wrap my hands around Dean's wrists. Lean in close enough to glare. "What the fuck was that?"
"You're smarter than that question, sunshine."
"What color panties are you wearing?"
He smirks. "Are you pissed 'cause I was right?"
I fold my arms.
He reaches into his back pocket. Pulls a stack of twenties from his leather wallet. "I'll put a hundred bucks on it."
"On what?"
"You're wearing black panties."
"That's an easy guess."
"Is that a yes?"
"Fuck off."
He smiles as he slides his wallet into his jeans.
I reach for the first hint of upper hand I can find. "Ryan would kill you for asking that." It's the wrong thing to say. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
He shoots me a really, that's your line look. "You need Ryan to fight your battles for you?"
"No." I don't need Ryan. I don't need Dean. I don't need anyone. It's not like there's anyone I can trust. It's Dad and Gia. That's it. "I need you to mind your own business."
"You want the client freaking out?"
"No, but—"
"Figuring out how to keep someone calm is part of the job."
"I know what getting a tattoo is like. Most people don't—"
"Yeah, but Rick does. And our twelve o'clock does too."
"You must offend people with this frat boy routine?"
"Aww, you think I'm smart enough to be in college."
"No."
"Could have gone to UCLA."
"Because you were offered a swimming scholarship."
"Even so."
"That waives the regular application requirements."
He stares back into my eyes. "You don't like the way I handle my clients, you can leave."
"You're supposed to be helping me."
"You telling me you didn't learn anything?"
I bite my lip.
"You can handle your clients however you want. Do shit by the numbers. Talk about weather. Talk about celebrity gossip. Talk about the Dodgers. Fuck, be like Ryan and sit there in silence. Everybody finds what works for them."
"And perverted bro works for you?"
He presses his hand to his heart. "You know me too well, sunshine."
UGH. He's so…
He's right but he…
I…
I stare back at him. Try to find a calm, even response. Fail. "DON'T TALK ABOUT MY FUCKING UNDERWEAR."
"Sure thing, Chloe." He smiles serenely. "I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."
"Bullshit."
He holds up four fingers. "Scouts honor."
Total bullshit. He lives to annoy me. How did he live before I started working here? That's the real question.
It's just…
He's so…
UGH.
I take a deep breath. Cultivate all the calm I can manage. "Don't ask about my panties, or my sex life, or my taste in men."
"Of course."
"Good." I bite my lip. There's no way he's just agreeing. He must be up to something.
"You distract our client, I'll keep our conversation PG." He offers his hand. "Deal?"
There's some catch here. I know there is.
I shake his hand anyway.
This is just like high school. We're competing again. And, this time, I'm not losing to Dean Maddox.
Chapter Seven
Chloe
Zack, our noon appointment, introduces himself with a nervous smile.
He's a bundle of anxiety.
We're doing a cover-up. As in, someone already fucked-up his first tattoo. As in, he has every reason to be cagey about ink penetrating his skin forever.
Dean watches me like I'm a monkey in the zoo.
Like I'm just oh so adorable and out of my element.
"It's going to look awesome." I cut out the temporary tattoo and apply it.
"Yeah." Zack's voice gets hollow as he stares at the tattoo gun. His eyes go wide. His jaw cricks. "How long is it gonna take?"
"About an hour." Dean stretches his arms over his head. "You good to sit?"
"Sure." Zack continues staring at the needle.
"Chloe is my apprentice," Dean says. "She's just gonna watch."
"Right." Zack nods.
"That's kind of her thing—" Dean catches himself getting dirty. Clears his throat. "You ever get a cover-up, Chloe?"
"Yeah." My hand goes to my hip reflexively. "My first tattoo was terrible. A lopsided star. I went to a really shady place. I was lucky I didn't get hepatitis."
Horror creeps over Zack's expression.
Shit. That isn't helping.
I back up. "We're really careful here. Sanitized needle. New pad of ink every time." I tap the ink on the shelf. "It's um…" I reach for a comforting response and find nothing. Dean makes this look so easy. But it's just… not. "We really are careful."
Zack stays horrified.
I bite my tongue.
Dean shakes his head. Pathetic.
No.
I won't prove him right.
"It's my favorite tattoo now. The cover-up." I roll my jeans over my hips to show off the ink. It's no longer a lopsided five-point star. It's a shooting star, trailing across my skin.
Zack's expression softens. "Nice." He turns to Dean. Throws him one of those guy looks are you two a thing?
"You haven't shown me the new version," Dean says.
This is artist to artist.
It's not him checking out my bod.
Not that I want him checking out my bod.
I…
Ugh.
I turn to Dean.
"Fuck. That is nice. Who did it?" he asks.
I relay the artist's name.
Dean nods knowingly. "Now put your clothes back on. We wouldn't want Zack distracted."
I fight a glare.
He smiles smugly.
Whatever. This isn't making it about sex. Nudity isn't always sexual. If anyone knows that, I do.
I shift my attention to Zack. "What do you think?" I motion to his temporary tattoo. "Is it perfect?"
"Yeah." He stares at his reflection. "It is."
Dean picks up the gun and turns it on. It buzzes against his hand. It hums that low, steady roar.
There's something relaxing about it. To me.
To Zack…
Every last ounce of calm fades from his expression. His face goes white. Really white.
I need to distract him. Now.
But…
How?
I've never been gregarious. Or chatty. I can hold my own in a conversation okay, but creating one from scratch?
Not as much.
I look for clues. He's in a plain blue t-shirt. Normal jeans and sneakers.
His other arm is covered in ink. A skull and crossbones. A dagger. A Nirvana logo.
Ah.
"Can I ask you for some advice, Zack?" I sit next to Dean. Stare into Zack's dark eyes like I find him endlessly fascinating.
"Yeah. Sure," he grunts.
"I want to get into grunge, but all I know are the five songs they play on KROQ." Total bullshit. But what's a white lie to bring someone comfort?
He chuckles. "Yeah, they play a lot of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Nirvana is my favorite, but I still get sick of it."
Dean turns the gun on.