Her ice blue eyes flicked up. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Why did he have the sudden urge to prostrate himself at her feet? She wasn’t some magic solution to his problems. Hell, women in general made his issues unbearable. “One more condition. Don’t touch me.”
She snorted. “You’re kidding.”
“You can only touch my back with the paper towel and heel of your gun hand.”
Another snort. “Good lord, you’re weird.”
He chuckled, and the sound surprised him.
“Sit your happy ass on the table. Got to make a call then we’ll get started.”
She wiggled a phone from her back pocket. Sweet Jesus, she could fill out a pair of jeans. She tapped the screen and pressed it to her ear with a grin. “Hey, gorgeous…Yeah, running late…Umm, an hour…Yep.” A bigger grin. “Overprotective much?…I know…You, too.”
Her endearments penetrated his chest, lifting it in a way he didn’t understand. He stared at his lap and imagined himself on the receiving end of that call. For the first time in years, he felt invigorated with a tingling sense that everything would be okay.
She pocketed the phone and gave him a beaming smile. Fuck him but he’d found a beacon of salvation in this gorgeous girl.
And lost his goddamned mind.
She sidled behind him to her workbench. “What’s your name?”
“Jay.” His voice cracked like a pubescent boy.
Plastic crinkled. Paper ripped. The snap of a rubber band. “And what do you do, Jay?”
“I’m—” He cleared his throat “—in a band.”
“In a band,” she mocked in a deep voice and laughed at herself. “What do you call yourselves?”
A damp cloth touched his shoulder blade. The contact sent a shiver through his body. “The Burn.”
“No shit? You guys sold out Lewey’s Uptown, right? I heard you rocked it hard tonight.”
Big deal. They sold a hundred tickets. After months of rockstarving on the road, they were still unheard of, but the truth didn’t stop her praise from sending a rush of satisfaction through him. Play it cool. “Yeah.”
The tattoo machine buzzed once, twice, and fell quiet.
“A big ol’ sheet of black, huh?” Her heel tapping resumed. “I really don’t think you should do this.”
“I’m not paying you to think.” Shit. That was a dick thing to say.
Her laugh filled the room with crescendo. “Don’t be hateful. I’m concerned about my safety. Your fan girls are going to trample me for defacing your perfect body.”
The compliment sifted through him and caressed vulnerable places. “Don’t worry about the fans.” They’d never see his back. No one did. No one but this tight-bodied little artist.
“I love your scars. They inspire me.” She softened her voice. “I’ve never met another person who has experienced pain like—”
A shiver raced over him, and he turned his head. She looked out the window, her eyes unfocused.
“Pain like what?” Hers? Had someone hurt this girl? “Does your boyfriend—”
“No!” She glared at him. “Of course not.”
He turned away, settled by the conviction in her voice, irritated he didn’t have an excuse to kill the boyfriend.
Her minty breath curled over his shoulder. “Done up with the right design, your scars would be a kick ass reminder.”
His spine snapped upright. He didn’t want a fucking reminder.
“You know, a reminder you survived.”
He wished he hadn’t. “You done with this speech?”
“And healed.”
He never healed, not where it mattered. This was a mistake. “We’re done.” He stood to leave.
The sound of an angry hornet halted his forward motion.
She dialed down the machine’s ohms, fidgeted with the rubber band hugging the dual-coils, and patted the table. “Sit down, you big baby.”
The promise of spending fifteen minutes in the spotlight of her magnetic eyes snuffed out his unease with her trying to read him. “Can you keep your opinions to yourself?”
A shrug. The flicker in her icy blues should’ve sent him running. Instead, it wrapped phantom fingers around his stupid lonely heart and tugged him back to the table.
For the next fifteen minutes, the silence of the room was shared only with the vibration of the motor and her occasional humming. Off-key and erratic, most of her melodies were unrecognizable, though the one she frequently returned to sounded a lot like Punk Rock Girl by The Dead Milkmen.
Yeah, you’re for me, punk rock girl.
Not once did she violate his no-touch rule. He tried not to think about why the stab of the needle was less painful than the touch of a finger. In fact, the discomfort was almost as pleasant as her whimsical tunes. It was exactly what he needed. When fifteen minutes spread to an hour, he held still, wishing time would too.