The thought of hurting him satisfies somewhere deep.
This sort of anger isn't healthy. I've been through too much to care about a guy who failed to call seven years ago.
I need to get past this.
"Later." I take a step backward. My ass hits the counter. My heels too. "I don't want to break your hand."
"You're no fun."
"Was I ever?"
"Yeah. In your way, you were always fun, sunshine." His voice drops as he calls me by the old pet name.
It's the same charm as always.
He has no idea he hurt me.
Or he doesn't care.
Which is worse—stupidity or apathy?
"I should get to work." I move behind the counter. Take a seat at the stool. Pretend as if I know what I'm supposed to do with the computer.
"You want some help?" The light from the window surrounds him. Bounces off his hair, his neck, his chest.
He looks like an angel.
But that's all wrong.
Dean is a devil, plain and simple.
And he's not tempting me again.
I press my lips into a smile. "Ryan has it under control."
"Suit yourself." He takes a step backward, out of the bright light, into an even, diffuse one. "If you need anything, you know who to call." His voice gets soft. Seductive.
Is it an actual offer to fuck him?
Or more of his usual bullshit?
I guess it doesn't matter.
I'm not sleeping with him again.
I'm not letting him get to me.
I'm not taking any of his bullshit.
Chapter Three
Dean
I roll my shoulders back. Focus on the neat line of black ink. This is almost done and it's fucking badass.
For a moment, my limbs fill with nervous energy. There's a thrill to marking someone's body. One that never gets old.
My eyes fix on the back piece.
This is it.
The end of a twelve hour, three session piece of art.
"You gonna miss me?" I ask.
"Not even a little." Randy squeezes the teal vinyl. He squirms, knocking his sandals together, turning his head to one side.
"You're brave." I turn the gun on. It hums. Vibrates against my gloved hand. "I could still fuck it up."
"Your ego won't let you."
"That's my favorite subject." I lower my stool. Lean closer. Until I'm out of direct sunlight. Why aren't the shades down? It's too fucking bright in here.
"I thought it was whoever you had last night."
I chuckle. Randy is, well, randy. He always fishes for details on my latest fuck.
Usually, I oblige.
Gladly.
Shooting the shit with customers is half the fun of the job.
I attract a certain type of client—guys who want to get crude or women who want to flirt. It works for me. Skin is skin. Doesn't matter if it's a middle-aged programmer like Randy or an eighteen-year-old model.
I kick ass, every time.
Truth be told, I went home last night. After leg day, I was dead tired. Crashed with takeout and TV.
But that isn't what he wants to hear.
I try to reach for an old story, one sure to please, but my brain is blocked.
Chloe is at the counter. Her almond eyes are fixed on me. Her short hair is sticking to her cheeks. Her black nails are tapping the counter.
Same as always. Impatient. Annoyed. Interested.
There's something about her that gets right under my skin.
Thinking about another woman is impossible.
My head is flush with thoughts of her. Those black jeans at her ankles. The shy smile when I wrapped my fingers around her cotton panties (black, of course). She was worried they weren't sexy. But they were.
There's something about plain cotton panties. The innocence. The sweetness. The Chloe no one sees.
My cock stirs.
I can still taste her cunt on my lips.
Still hear her groaning my name.
Feel her painted black nails against my back.
Three years of teasing and flirting and they ended exactly how they needed to.
Shit.
I can't think about this or I am gonna fuck up.
This tiger is too perfect for that.
"Must be a good one." Randy laughs. "Do I need to give you a minute alone?"
If I keep thinking about Chloe, he will.
I push it aside. Find a… not fiction, but an exaggeration. Sometimes a tall tale is what gets the job done. "You ever have a guy beg you to fuck his girlfriend?"
"No way."
"Way." It was a while ago, yeah, but it was also unforgettable. "It was his thing. He liked to watch."
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell me you're uptight, Randy."
His laugh is hearty. "No."
"I get the objection. I wouldn't let some asshole touch my girl—"
"Certainly not someone like you."
"Randy, stop being brave. You're on your stomach. I've got the gun. I could write Dean Maddox owns my soul on your ass."
"You wouldn't."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah…" His voice trails off. "Pretty sure."
He's right. I wouldn't.
But I'm not gonna let him know that.
Focus returns as I bring the needle to his skin. This is where I belong. Don't get me wrong. I love a lot of things—weight lifting, surfing, TV, women—but nothing compares to doing ink.
Nothing.
I shift into the zone. "Last one. You ready?"
"And my details?"
"After." Everything fades away as the needle hits his skin. The breathy whine of a miserable lyricist—Leighton's pick—blurs into heavy guitar, conversation, the whir of the air-conditioning, the smell of rubbing alcohol and A&D ointment.
The afternoon light gets soft.
I only see the tiger's paw.
The line of black surrounding it.
Four fingers. Four claws.
There.
Done.
I turn the gun off.
Randy's sigh shakes his entire body.
"Did it hurt?" I ask.
"Nah."
Bullshit. He thrashed and blubbered with the best of them. It's a solid rule—the tougher the guy, the harder he cries.
He goes to push himself up.
"Stay," I say. "Gotta clean you up."
"Can't the cute chick at the counter do it?"
"Which one?"
"They're both hot."
True. Leighton is a certified babe. Back when she tended bar at Rock Bottom, I spent a lot of nights flirting with her. But once I got her a job here, and we actually became friends, my head threw up this road block.
I couldn't see her as a potential fuck.
Then she confessed her undying love for Ryan, and I drew a hard line in the sand. No way I step on my brother's turf. I have some standards.
Now, Chloe…
Fuck, the pint-sized firecracker still revs my engine. I'm not sure what it is—the perky tits, the black panties, the don't fuck with me smile…
Shit. I'm getting distracted.
I drag my gaze from the counter. Look back to Randy. "You need to work on your game."
"Do I?"
"Girl's don't want to hear that anyone will do. You gotta make them feel special."
"Guess you'd know."
That I do.
Randy pushes himself onto his elbows. He looks up at me expectantly, like I'm holding the keys to the castle. "So. The guy begged you to fuck his girlfriend."
I grab the aftercare lotion. Squeeze it onto my gloved fingers. "She was smoking hot. I'd had a few. It seemed like a good idea."
"Yeah?"
I start at his shoulders and work my way down. "We go to their place. He's got this chair set up to watch. I figure I should pay it forward, help the guy live out his fantasies."
"That a policy of yours?"
I look back to the counter. Chloe is staring at me.
There's something in her dark eyes.
The usual mix of I want you and I hate you.
It stirs something inside me. Just like when we were kids.
She challenges me. To be a better version of myself. To be more of myself. To just be more.
Nobody expects more from me.
I'm a good time, a nice tattoo, a wicked story.
But Chloe…
She saw something in me. She still does. It's hard to explain. She hates me because I'm the court jester. But she sticks around because she believes I'm more than that.
"Dean?" Randy asks.
"Yeah." I shake my head. Push my thoughts away. Chloe is working here. Not for long—Ryan and I are gonna have a talk about this—but for now. That means I need to get my head in gear. "Of course."