Chapter 3
Allie
I race—if nine miles over the speed limit can be considered racing—to work. I’d been so wrapped up in finishing my paper for Business 302 that I’d forgotten about the appointment Mandy had scheduled for me on my day off. Or maybe I wanted to forget. I’m not looking forward to working with Mr. Hottie, whose bedroom eyes will be striving to strip away my casual indifference along with my clothes. His bad boy aura bugged me—I’m beyond done with bad boys—but his gaze bothered me most. The last thing I want to do is design for him. Then there’s the fact he hit on Mandy, which she was very vocal about, prior to hitting on me. Nasty as that is, though, I don’t really have much choice since I’m trying to build my business. I’d be an idiot to turn away a new client, especially a musician. Word of mouth is the best marketing tool out there. And musicians are some of my best customers.
After parking in the lot behind the shop, I rush through the back door.
Shaya bursts into the hallway. “You’re late. You’re never late.”
“Got distracted working on a paper.”
“Well, he’s been waiting for almost a half hour.”
“I’m not that late.”
“He came early.”
I cock my head to the side, thinking. Either he’s the punctual type or he thought Mandy would be working. That wouldn’t surprise me—I hired Mandy because she’s attractive. She may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not above using whatever tactics are necessary to keep people, males to be exact, in the shop. Her looks along with her flirting help distract them from me. Many guys who are into tattoos are attracted to girls who can ink. Like artistic talent means that a girl will be a kinky, sexual gymnast in bed.
“Huh,” I say, opening the door to my office and pulling off my jacket. I yank my iPad out of my bag and toss my coat on the desk. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll take care of it.”
Out in the shop, I’m greeted by the sight of Justin’s long body curled in one of the chairs along the wall. His hands cover his face while his fingers dig into his temples. I walk over to him, but he doesn’t look up, so I clear my throat. His green eyes, as deeply shaded as a painting of an English garden, are filled with a pain that makes me step back. The flirty guy from the other night has been replaced, at least for the moment. Somehow I find my voice. “Hello, Justin, I, um, want to apologize for my lateness.”
The tortured expression on his face dissipates as he stares at me. Though I’m wearing a tank top with the shop logo, skinny jeans, and calf-hugging brown boots, I feel naked under his gradually warming gaze. “No problem. Can’t say I minded waiting for you to come,” he says, smiling like he holds some secret knowledge.
It’s easy to ignore what is probably innuendo with his deep dimples distracting me. Dang, dimples get me every time. But I will stay immune. “Why don’t we get started?” I gesture to the corner where my art table sits.
He stands gracefully while I try to ignore those dimples.
“All right,” he says. “But I have to warn you, I’m counting on your abilities as an artist to bring me some inspiration.”
Tall and lean, he towers over me. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his sharp jaw contrasts with the dark blond rumpled hair falling over his forehead, and the white of his teeth contrasts with his coppery skin. In his distressed jeans and a faded, fitted T-shirt with sunglasses resting in the V neckline, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for something ridiculously priced and European. Or maybe for an exotic men’s cologne. Because he smells fantastic. Words like clean, woodsy, and dusky come to mind as I breathe in the dark scent.
I pull out the chair in front of my drafting table, putting on my best professional face. “Have a seat,” I say. “I should be able to come up with something.”
I hold in a sigh as I set my iPad on the surface and then drag out the stool from under the table. Sometimes part of my job is pulling inspiration from my clients. But for some reason, I don’t want to know more about this man. Those dimples are enough already.
“So you’re a musician, right?” I say, sitting down and plucking a pencil from the cup on my table.
“Singer actually,” he says.
I try to ignore the image of him on a dark stage that flashes through my mind, intent on staying on task. Dang. This would be much easier if he played an instrument. “For a band?” He nods. “What kind of music?”
“Mostly alternative rock.”
The image in my head of him onstage becomes clearer. His lashes lowered. Hips cocked. Strong hands wrapped around a microphone. I ignore it. “Is that your favorite type?”
“I like all types of music. What about you?”
“Not preferential either. You want a tattoo related to singing?” I want to stay off the topic of my own likes and dislikes, especially under his intrusive gaze. He nods while I tap my pencil in frustration. I don’t know how I’m going to survive an hour or more of him staring at me with those hot, shaded green eyes. He flashes another smile at me. When he brings out those dimples, he really is something. “Any ideas?”
“Music notes? A microphone? Art is a bit out of my realm of knowledge.”
I give him a pointed look. “Music’s considered a form of art.”
He leans back to stretch, his legs spread and his muscular shoulders strain against his thin T-shirt as he reaches behind the chair. “Then graphic art’s not my thing.”
Trying hard not to gawk at the picture of masculinity across from me, I force myself to focus on artistic possibilities and reach for my iPad. “Where were you thinking of getting the ink?” I ask, absently biting my lip ring.
He stares at my mouth and my face heats, and for a brief moment I feel like the shy, insecure girl I used to be.
“My back would probably be the best idea,” he says. His tone has me guessing there’s more than the matter of tattoo placement behind the statement, but I can’t imagine why. Glancing at his arm of ink, I release the ring from under my teeth, then somehow say without dread, “Could I see your other tattoos?”
“Sure,” he says, reaching a hand back and yanking off his shirt in one smooth move. He stands, with both arms at his sides and his shirt bunched in one hand.
Um…I push the profanity from my brain and settle on Holy crap, Batman, shut the front and back door! The sight before me sizzles onto my retinas and will forever be scorched on them.
Justin’s body is an ancient Greek statue come to life. Though lean, he’s all ripped muscle. And unlike the cold surface of marble statues, his skin is warm and golden. I do a full inspection, trying to keep my expression neutral as my eyes roam over his rippled abs, the sexy hoop through his nipple, and the designs inked on his body. He has tribal art on one arm that swirls and loops across a rib to touch the corner of his pectoral. Japanese letters run between the tight skin under his belly button and the waistband of his boxers, which rides above his low-slung jeans. Though I’ve tattooed Japanese calligraphy, I know only the most popular sayings by heart, and this isn’t one of them.
“Any on your back?” I ask, my mouth dry. Wow, this guy is hot.
“Just one,” he says, turning.
His back is as ripped as his front. Now that he’s turned around, I allow myself to swallow. I’m not sure what my problem is. It’s not like I haven’t tattooed lots of hot bodies, but staring at his, I have to resist the urge to fan myself.
He glances over his shoulder.
It’s the way he looks at me. Like he’s trying to see into me and learn my secrets. Secrets that aren’t all that mysterious, just rather sad. Stay on task, Al. I again force myself to concentrate on his ink. A sharp, pointed tribal design rolls across his shoulder blades. The lines are clean and the ink dark. In fact, all of his tats are well done. He either knows how to choose his artists or has been lucky enough not to run into a hacker.
“Were you thinking lower back? Or middle?” I ask casually.
He runs a finger down the center of his spine, and his lats ripple as he turns to me again. Ugh, I’m staring like a fan girl. “More like in between,” he says.
I breathe heavily through my nose. I’m bordering on ridiculous, but I just might hyperventilate if his skin doesn’t get some cotton over it soon. “Okay, you can put your shirt back on.”
While he pulls on his T-shirt, I scroll through images on the iPad and avoid looking across the table so I can concentrate. After several searches, an idea forms in my mind. I’ve always believed one of my greatest talents is how quickly I can create art. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll make a quick sketch,” I say. “If you like it, I can draw a more in-depth design.”
Sitting down again in the chair across from me, he gives me a flirtatious grin. Very sexy but light. I must have been imagining the pained look earlier—not to mention the searching one. He’s just another guy looking for a hookup. I reach for my pencil and start to sketch. Except for the scratch of the pencil and the music that always plays in the shop, it’s painfully quiet until he asks, “What’s between the blue on your arm?”
He’s referring to the sleeve of flowers and branches wrapped around my upper arm, curling around my elbow, and ending at my wrist. On my upper arm, between the branches sprouting pale pink, almost white flowers are various shades of blue. Though it appears to be filler, at closer inspection the blue is full of dragons, stars, skulls, butterflies…the various art I’ve spent years creating on people’s skin.
Without looking at him, I answer, “Branches. Not exact but van Gogh. Inspired by his almond branch painting.”
Justin sits up a bit. “The guy who cut off his ear?”
My teeth grind. “Why is that what everyone remembers? Like it’s the one defining moment of his life and art?”
I sense more than see him shrug as I shade in an edge. “Guess self-mutilation is hard to forget.”
The pounding song coming from the speaker behind the counter changes to something low and jazzy. I let Todd pick the music, and his taste goes beyond eclectic. The variety of playlists he has is endless. I rarely hear the same song twice.
“So you’re into classical art?”
“I’m into all art.”
“But your favorite is the ear-slicing van Gogh?”
I nod and keep sketching. I’m hoping my silence will give him a clue that talking about me isn’t an option.
“You busy Saturday night?”
My pencil pauses. “Now, Justin, I already told you I don’t date customers.” I rarely date at all, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He leans forward, resting his chin on his steepled hands. “You did, and I wasn’t asking, but I have some extra tickets for our show this Saturday.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of a way to dig myself out of this hole. “I usually work on Saturday nights, but if you have an extra two or three, I’d love to give them to my employees.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Employees?”
I match his brow raise. “The ones who work here.”
“You’re the owner?” he asks with an incredulous tone, glancing around the shop.
Though he can’t see it, I smash my eraser into the tabletop. “Why is it so hard to believe? Because I’m female?”
His long dark lashes flicker. “Ah…no. You seem kind of young to be owning a business.”
My irritation fades along with the pressure on the pencil. “Well, to be honest, I’m part owner.”
He gives me the look again. Like he’s trying to glimpse inside me. I didn’t imagine that searching look after all.
“That’s still impressive. You’re what?” He studies me. “Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-two. Just turned.”
A dimple appears. “Now that is impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, becoming intent on finishing the sketch. I want both him and his dimples gone. I shade in some shadows, add a bit of red around the edges with a colored pencil, and hold out the sketch. “See if something like this will work.”
He reaches for it slowly, raises the paper, and stares at the drawing. His lips curve. “Damn. This is perfect. Awesome really.”
I shake my head at his amazement. “It’s hardly perfect. Just a rough sketch, but if you like it, I can resketch it in more detail, then we can set up some appointments.” I nearly squirm in my seat at the thought of tattooing him. Being in a room alone with him for hours is going to be putting my hormones in a state of salivation for far too long.
“Also,” I say, holding out a sheet that explains payment and hourly prices, “here are my rates. You’re looking at about five to six hours.” I’m almost hoping the eight-hundred-dollar bill will dissuade him.
He gives the price sheet a quick glance. “We can set it up now. I trust your work. But appointments, as in plural?”
I nod, recognizing he must have had all his work done by separate artists, even though, except for the Japanese lettering, the tribal designs all coordinate. Again, the man has ink luck. “You indicated almost a foot of your spine. I’d first do the outline, then the interior tribal work, shading, and coloring. Two separate appointments. At least a week apart.”
“A week apart?”
“Or more. Your skin needs to heal in between each session.”
“Two sessions,” he says in an almost ardent tone. “Okay, let’s set it up.”
With a feeling of dread, I push up off the stool.
“Well,” Shay says from the counter, holding my appointment book in one hand. We both turn to her with startled expressions. It’s obvious that neither of us was aware she was in the room, and I’m slightly off-balance at how much Justin commands my attention. I never get this way around guys, hot or not. “Today’s your lucky day. Al has an opening on Friday afternoon. Usually people have to wait a couple weeks or more for Al unless they do Saturday nights.”
Justin nods. “Friday will work.”
Friday feels too soon. “Friday’s probably not a good idea if you have a show on Saturday.” He gives me a questioning look. “You’ll be in pain.”
He shrugs. “Let me worry about that. I’m not exactly a novice. Friday’s fine. Perfect in fact . I’m class free on Fridays. We can do the next one the Friday after that if you’re open.”
Against my better judgment, I nod, and Shay pencils him in for the next two Fridays. I’m about to step back behind the counter and put space between Mr. Hottie and me when the front door bursts open.
At the sight of the person standing there, I freeze, overwhelmed as a messy kaleidoscope of emotion bursts within me. Bright yellow hope tangles with soft pink longing. Never forgotten black humiliation drips beneath dark blue streaks of despair while red-hot anger splatters over everything. I push down the strong desire to run as those familiar eyes meet my own. He takes a step farther into the shop. He is less than twenty feet away from me.
I need a buffer.
In desperation, I stupidly choose the one next to me.
My arm wraps around Justin’s waist while my eyes beg his. Though his expression is confused, he doesn’t step away.
“Hello, Allie.”
I force calmness and look into the face that haunts my dreams and nightmares. Except for the new tattoo along his neck and the nearly shaved dark head, he appears the same. A harsh, angled face with contrasting soft, blue eyes. The thin line of his lips is unforgiving. He’s as magnetic as ever and completely off-limits.
I force myself to appear composed, but inside I’m a shocked mess. “Trevor. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?” Why didn’t you warn me? Let me freak out before coming face-to-face?
Perhaps sensing my distress, Justin wraps an arm around my shoulders. I place my other hand on his stomach, the muscles tight under my palm.
Trevor shrugs the wide shoulders I know so well. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.” He scowls at the man I’m holding on to like a life preserver. “Who’s this?”
Justin puts a hand out. “Justin Noel.”
They shake hands stiffly while I chew on my lip ring. Though I’m trying to appear comfortable in Justin’s embrace, this whole thing is so whacked, it almost feels like an out-of-body experience.
Trevor lifts his chin and glares down at me. “You said you weren’t dating the last time we talked.”
Of course he’d come out and say it. I refuse to contemplate why he sounds angry. “I…well,” I mumble, searching desperately for a plausible explanation. Recalling the last time we talked, I say, “I didn’t want to say anything with Ben there.”
Trevor’s eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms against his chest and glances around the shop. His dark eyebrows rise as he takes in the vast changes. As soon as he left, I repainted the walls, changed the art on them, and rearranged the furniture. I didn’t want to be reminded of him one bit. His tightened gaze comes back to me. “Since I’m in town, I thought I’d take a look at the books.”
“Okay, yeah, sure,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Let me walk Justin out and I’ll meet you in the office.” I don’t wait for an answer, just grab Justin’s hand and tug him toward the exit. He follows but stops to grab his jacket off a chair and says, “Catch you later,” to Trevor, whose upper lip curls slightly.
As shock continues to roll through me, my breathing turns shallow. I tug Justin’s hand harder. On the sidewalk outside, I drag him past the shop’s window, let go of his hand, and bend over, dragging air into my lungs.
Justin’s boots come into my vision. “Allie? You okay?”
With one hand on one knee and the other in the air, signaling for him to wait, I shake my head, hoping I can avoid a face-plant onto the ice-speckled cement. Though suffering a concussion might be better than explaining the situation to Justin or facing Trevor in the office. After sucking in air for a few minutes and trying to exhale as slowly as possible, my breathing slows down to normal. I stand up and meet Justin’s worried gaze.
“I’m sorry.” I lean my head back and let out a groan at my idiocy. “I’m so embarrassed I did that to you.”
“Hey, it’s no big deal.” He holds the jacket in his hand out to me. “You have to be freezing.”
I wave the jacket away. I’m still shaken, and the cold isn’t registering. Though my behavior doesn’t seem to be bothering him, I can’t stop my apologetic explanation. “Shock just got the better of me. He’s my business partner and my ex.”
Justin nods. “I kind of guessed the last part.”
“I haven’t seen him in almost two years. He lives in California. Owns a shop there too.” I rub my forehead. “Why isn’t he in California? Ugh, I really can’t believe I did that to you.”
Justin grins deep enough for his dimples to show. “I don’t care that you let him think we’re together. It’s not like I didn’t already ask you out.”
I slap my jean-clad thigh hard enough for it to sting. “Well, I do. Wow. I feel like a complete idiot.”
“No worries. You’re not an idiot.”
A self-deprecating snort escapes me. “Oh, I most definitely acted like an idiot, but thanks. And thanks for going along with my ridiculous act.” He watches me as I take in a deep breath. “All right, I’ve got to get in there.”
“You going to be okay?” He puts on his jacket in one smooth motion.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. Just super shocked there for a minute, but I’m good.” I take a step toward the shop. “See you Friday, and thanks again for not blowing my cover.”
“Anytime, Allie,” he says, slipping on his sunglasses as I walk past him.
Still mortified by my behavior, I don’t reply or look back. The shop appears to be empty when I walk back in. Not caring where Shay is, I go to my drawing table and lean over it. The sketch of a treble clef decorated inside with tribal designs and wrapped around a microphone lies in the middle of the table, reminding me of the man I just left on the sidewalk.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter under my breath.
“I heard that!” Shay yells from behind me, and in seconds a jar half filled with ones is under my nose. “Hand it over, sister.”
Sighing, I dig into my pocket, count off five ones, and drop them in the jar. Ever since I instituted the swear jar, Shay and Mandy have enforced it like bulldog cops.
Shay smiles sweetly. “Maybe Mandy’s right. You need to get laid.”
My eyes cuss at her.
She shrugs. “Seems like there’s ample opportunity around here today, but hey, I don’t mind you paying for pizza night.”