"Seriously. It's that or Like a Stone," I say.
"Or Even Flow." He laughs. "You'll never hear the best stuff on the radio. The singles have too many edges smoothed off."
"What would you recommend?"
He launches into a list of bands. Most, I know. A few are new. Zack is really into this stuff.
And he's really distracted.
He grimaces every time Dean changes needles or moves to a new line. But I manage to bring him back to music every time.
I keep him distracted for the entire cover-up.
When we're finished, he hugs me goodbye and leaves his card. Not in a do my next tattoo kind of way.
In a call me so we can make beautiful music together kind of way.
Dean shakes his head. "Not gonna stoop to sex?" He turns, tilts his hip into the air, rolls his jeans over his skin. "Low blow, sunshine."
My gaze refuses to budge from the tan skin on display. God, he has nice hips. I've never thought about a guy's hips before, but Dean's are so…
"My eyes are up here."
"I was showing him an example."
"You got any other examples? Here maybe." He points to my chest.
"Fuck off."
"Sure." He reaches for his zipper. "But only if you promise to watch."
"Is there some timer in your head that keeps you from being serious for too long?"
"I'm dead serious, sunshine."
I roll my eyes.
"Now you're hurting my feelings."
"I'm not."
His lips curl into a smile. "No. You're not." He rolls his jeans back up his hips. "We both know the truth."
"I don't want to watch you fuck yourself."
He smiles yeah, you do. "You had to resort to sex."
"I won't next time."
"Suit yourself. But there's no shame in taking an easy path."
"I…"
"It's hard enough doing this job. Why make it harder?"
The bell rings as a guy about Dean's height steps inside. He has dark wavy hair, dark eyes, and an easy smile.
He's dressed like Dean—jeans, t-shirt, sneakers.
Effortlessly casual.
Effortlessly hot.
He surveys the scene and shakes his head. "You must be Chloe."
"Yeah." I offer my hand.
"Walker." He moves forward. Shakes. Leans in to stage whisper. "If Dean's giving you too much shit, let me know. I'll kick his ass."
"Didn't work too well for you last time," Dean says.
"I let you win."
"If I thought that was true, I'd kick your ass for it."
Walker chuckles. He turns to me. "You can shadow me tomorrow, Chloe. I'm doing some cool shit." He moves into his suite. "Or you can stick with Dean. He's a good artist, if you can get past his personality."
"I'm not sure I can."
"I'm not sure I blame you."
Dean mimes being stabbed in the gut. He jumps over the counter—actually jumps—then stumbles forward. He lurches over. Grabs his chest. Stares at the imaginary blood on his hands.
"It's so… cold." He stumbles forward. Collapses on the ground.
He commits to his persona.
Even when it's stupid and annoying and rude.
And kind of funny.
Okay. Kind of really funny.
Our third tattoo is easier. The client is a woman. A tall, curvy, gorgeous woman.
Getting a tattoo just above her ass.
Dean charms her. Teases her. Makes her feel special.
I try to focus on the ink—a blossoming lotus, adorned with spirals and swirls.
It's great work—rich colors, sharp lines, soft shading—but my thoughts refuse to settle.
Jealousy builds in my gut.
My stomach twists. My heart sinks. My shoulders tense.
Finally, we finish. She giggles as he cleans her up. Hugs both of us. Gushes thank yous.
She's so nice and sweet and genuine.
And I want to punch her in the face because his hands are on her body.
They should be on mine.
They should be under my clothes. Between my legs. Inside me.
Fuck.
It's like high school. Dean owns my thoughts.
When I spend my late lunch break on a picnic bench by the beach, eating my homemade almond butter and jelly sandwich, he owns my thoughts.
When I grab a cup of Earl Grey at the nearest cafe, he owns my thoughts.
When I return to Inked Hearts and finish up administrative work, he owns my thoughts.
The day crawls on forever.
Until he finally releases me. And I leave. And he stays in the forefront of my brain.
I drive to the dojo. Change in the car. Step into the gym with every intention of clearing my head.
No Dean.
No Inked Hearts.
No men staring at my chest.
Teasing me about my panties.
Reminding me of everything I can't have.
Thirty minutes until the next all level class. I warm up. Stretch. Let my mind wander past the padded floors and the bamboo screens lining the walls.
Back in high school, it took three days to realize Dean wasn't going to call. That his only interest was what was between my legs.
It killed me.
I was always cute enough, thin enough, petite enough. But I was the weird artsy girl who wore combat boots to prom. Without a date.
Back then, I had a hard time revealing myself to people. I guess that hasn't changed much.
I always pored myself into my art. And I always felt like Dean saw something in it.
Like he knew some part of me no one else did.
He knew exactly what buttons to press to get a reaction.
Before she died, Mom used to say that hate is the other side of love. They're both passions that consume you. That encourage you to throw away every bit of reason.
That keep you up at night.
But Dean…
I don't know.
Slowly, regulars file in. The woman who looks like a poetry teacher. The teenage geek who can handle himself against any jock. The newly divorced woman, finding herself after losing everything she thought she had.
The instructor joins us. Takes us through calisthenics. Strength. Technique.
Sparring exercises.
They steal my focus. Keep my thoughts from drifting to how much Dean annoys me. To how impossible it will be to survive another two years of working with him. Or living with Dad—I love him to pieces, but he drives me bonkers.
Staying at home is all I can afford.
Twenty-four and I'm restarting my life.
It's better than the alternative, but it's still frustrating.
After an hour of sparring, class ends.
It's late enough the drive home is quiet.
I park my sedan next to Dad's, flip on the kitchen light, head to the fridge to figure out dinner.
We've never been well-off—I only managed to attend our fancy high school with a scholarship—but we do okay. The little house in the valley is ours. It's decked with Ikea furniture (all black or white, but somehow it works) and adorned with family photos.
Dad works hard. I do what I can to make his life easier—grab groceries, cook dinner, clean up.
Tonight, there's no need. He's sitting on the couch with a box of delivery pizza and a beer.
He waves a hello. "How was it, Chloe?"
"Tough." I take a seat on the couch. Grab a slice of cheese, one that isn't touching any pepperonis, and take a big bite. "How was work?"
"Busy." He looks to the Seinfeld rerun on TV. "Have you seen this one?"
I've seen them all a million times—he watches sitcom reruns nonstop—but I still shake my head. "I don't think so. I'll watch it with you."
His smile is bright. This, the two of us eating and watching TV together, brings him joy.
It feels good, seeing him happy.
But, honestly, I don't understand it. How can he be happy after losing so much?
How did he drag himself out of that misery?
How does anyone?
I finish the show and the pizza. Hug him good night. Shower. Climb into my pajamas.
I pore myself into my sketchbook, but it doesn't grab my thoughts.
They drift back to the beginning. The horror that streaked across my mind as I felt a lump.
Just like Mom.
It happened so fast. Exam. MRI. Needle biopsy. Scary words like malignant and gene mutation and preventative double mastectomy.
I knew the drill. I'd watched modern medicine fail my mother.
I was sure my fate was the same.