My eyes meet hers. "Where would you put that design?"
She studies the drawing. Thinks it over. Slowly, she holds out her arm. Draws a line from her wrist to the crook of her elbow. "Or a hip." She nods to my right hip. "You're ink free. Or you were, last time I saw that."
"It's been—"
"You pulled it out the other day. To prove how I had to stoop to sex."
So I did.
"Which was a dick move. And it wasn't even true. That was tattoo haver to tattoo haver."
"You're a hot chick. He's a straight guy."
"Nudity doesn't have to be sexual."
"Maybe for doctors. But the average guy—"
"You?"
"What do you think, sunshine?"
"Remember when we ended up in the same figure drawing class? The one at SMC?" She calls the local community college by its initials.
"Yeah." When I fell in love with ink, I got serious about drawing fast. Took every art class I could. My mom was delighted. She dragged us to museums every weekend. But that… That was fucked in all sorts of ways.
"Was that sexual?"
"When they were hot."
"If I thought you meant that, I'd slap you."
"You wouldn't."
"Yeah, I would." She stands. "If you can ask about my panties, I can slap you."
"Is that a deal?"
"No." She folds her arms. "I'm not violent."
"You do Aikido."
Her brow furrows. Her eyes flare. "Martial arts is about non-violence." She takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. "You know that."
"Do I?"
"Yes. You do."
"Don't know a lot."
"You know more than you let on." Her eyes go to the paper. "Aren't you getting out of here?"
"You don't have keys yet."
"Oh. I'll pack up my stuff."
"No. I have something else for you."
"Can't it wait?"
I shake my head.
She slides her sketchbook into her backpack. Sets both on the counter.
She rocks back on her heels as she looks up at me. "Seriously, Dean. I can't handle any bullshit today. If it's—"
"It's not." I motion to the sink. "Wash up. Then meet me in my suite."
"Okay…" Her combat boots pound the hardwood as she stomps to the sink.
She scrubs her hands. Slides on gloves. Looks to me with that what the hell are you up to expression?
It fades into I don't care. Whatever it is, I'm meeting this challenge.
It fills some place that's usually empty.
I want to help her.
I want to teach her.
I want to show her things. I want to show her everything.
She takes a seat on the stool. Taps her heels together. "Yes?" Her voice is determined. Sure. I can do this.
She needs the confidence.
This is going to push her as far as she can take.
Further, maybe.
I lean back in the chair. Adopt an easy smile. "Do me."
"What?"
"You've never inked anyone before."
"Of course not."
My hand brushes hers as I lean down. I roll my jeans up my ankle. Turn my leg to show off the bare skin. "So do me."
Her eyes go wide. Not fear or frustration, but genuine shock.
She bites her lip. Stammers something that isn't a word.
I was as gung ho as anyone ever has been, but I was still terrified the first time I put a tattoo gun to skin.
To my skin.
I still have the shitty, uneven lyrics on my other ankle. They're ugly as fuck, but I wouldn't dream of doing a cover-up. It's a battle scar. No way am I hiding that.
And this, offering my skin to Chloe, that's another battle scar.
Fuck, never thought I'd be offering my body to a woman like this. To be honest, most of my fucks aren't exactly offering. I don't give anything of myself. I don't expect anything in return.
Expectations lead to disappointment.
To hurt.
To betrayal.
Who the fuck needs that?
Shit. I'm getting distracted. It's Chloe. She does something to me. She tears at the string holding my thoughts together.
A week ago, I was sure everything in my life was just right.
Now…
I stare into her dark eyes. "You want to be an artist?"
"Of course."
"You have to start somewhere."
Her gaze focuses on my ankle. My calf. My knee. My crotch. Her cheeks flush as she drags her gaze to my eyes. "But I don't—"
"Don't what?"
Her lips press together. "What if I mess it up?"
"Can you think of better revenge?"
"True." She fails to sell the confidence in her voice.
She slides off her stool. Leans into her heels to crouch on the ground.
Her gloved fingers brush my skin.
It's not like when she touched me before. It's clinical. She isn't looking at me like the guy she wants to fuck—she can deny it all she wants, but she does. That's clear as day.
She's looking at me the way she needs to. Like skin stretched over bone.
Like a canvas.
Then she isn't.
Her touch gets softer as she drags her fingertips up my leg. To the hem of my jeans. "Can you even do a tattoo with all this hair?" Her voice steadies. It's not quite confident, but it's closer.
"No." I chuckle. It's a good question. But, fuck, it makes it even more clear how little she knows. "That didn't come up?"
"I guess it did."
"What happened?"
"Walker shaved some guys arm." Her nose scrunches as she looks up at me. "Do I have to shave your ankle?"
"Yeah."
She sticks her tongue out gross.
"You do realize you have to touch people to give them ink?"
"Of course."
"Guys a lot less attractive than I am."
"Not possible. You're hideous."
"That so?"
"Yeah."
"You need to look at me again?"
Her laugh breaks up the tension in her jaw. "You're conventionally attractive, sure. But your personality ruins the whole thing."
"You'll have awful customers. It's part of the job."
"Thank so much, master tattoo artist. I had no idea I'd have annoying customers in a customer facing job."
"You're gonna pretend you know customer service?"
"I sold Doc Martens for years."
I can't help but laugh.
She flips me off.
"Just…"
"It suits me, yeah. I got an amazing discount."
"Didn't it bother you?"
"What?"
"Selling all that leather?"
"Sometimes. But we had a great vegan line. I got to talk people into that. And leather is a renewable resource, unlike plastic. So, it's not cut and dry." She bites her lip. Stares at the ground. "You really remembered that?"
"You wore a Meat is Murder shirt to class once a week."
She laughs. "I was sort of—"
"Confrontational?"
"Yeah."
"You give it up?"
"No." She drops to her knees. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."
"How long has that been?"
"Sixteen years. Not that I'm counting."
"But no Meat is Murder shirt all week."
"That's where you're wrong." She taps her tank top. "It's on here in all black. I could never give up my all black aesthetic. Even for my morals." Her lips curl into a soft smile. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it. With how hard you stare."
I can't help but smile. I don't stare, exactly, but I do look. I can't help myself. Chloe is my kryptonite. She always has been.
"You can't get out of this," I say.
"Seems like I'm getting there."
I shake my head. She's charming me, yeah, but she's not getting any closer to getting out of this.
Chloe is doing this ink tonight.
She drops the teasing to look up at me. "What do you want?"
"A shooting star."
"That's complicated."
It is. Way too complicated for her first tattoo. It's good she has some idea of her limits.
For being a week into her apprenticeship, she's doing fucking amazing.
Most people don't touch a gun for months. They don't start tattooing clients for a year or so. And then there's a year of doing shitty simple stuff for free before they're anywhere near good enough to charge.
I find something that will be easy for her to do. Well, easier. "Then a five point-star."
She drops to her knees. Her jaw drops. Her eyes go wide.
She isn't here to suck me off.
But the thought burns into my brain.
God, that smart mouth of hers…
What is it about the way she looks at me?
It's fucking irresistible.
She presses her lips together. "Did you draw it out?"
"You need me to draw a five-point star?"
"Some people are specific."
"No. Go ahead. Make a stencil."
"I will." Her voice wavers. "I'm going to do it."
"Good."
She rises to her feet. Presses her gloved hands together. "Are you really—"