Greer is disgustingly quiet with everyone but his family and I. He won’t drink for fear of doing or saying something out of turn and always tries to reel me in when we went out. Laughable actually.
Lately, though, there has been something different about him. He seems more restless and temperamental than a hormonal teenager, and I am worried. Waiting in my truck, he crashes out of the office building that houses our landscaping business with a deep scowl on his face.
“What the fuck are we doing, Eli?” he grouches, slamming the truck door harder than necessary.
“It’s a surprise!” He hates them, so I make as many happen for him as I can.
He bitches the whole way to the tattoo parlor, and as we pulled up, he shoots me a look so dirty I should be in hell.
“Tough shit, dude,” I tell him getting out of the vehicle and going to the front door.
Holy. Fuck. Is all that comes to mind when I see what’s inside.
Or rather, who.
Greer
Some days I want to strangle this prick. He is always pushing me beyond my limits. I hate it and love it at the same time, not fully understanding why I am the way I am. It’s like the more days that pass, the more reserved I become. There’s been no trauma causing me to close myself off, it’s just a slow slide I can see happening.
Occasionally, my cynicism makes me miserable as hell, but that’s what I have Eli for—the crazy bastard that he is. It has also saved us both from heartbreak and betrayal a time or two.
We’ve known each other since the day we were born; nothing could separate us, and so it wasn’t a shock to anyone when we started sharing women in college. Not long after that, we decided it was something we needed. We both felt more complete when we gained the pleasure of the same woman than when we were in a traditional relationship.
Some think us weird, but this is one thing that makes sense for me. Eli is the spontaneous half, while I am the more sensible one. All we have to do is find a woman to balance us out, but being able to attain that dynamic is what has me feeling so off lately. Loneliness is creeping in, and with the holidays upon us again, I want a woman to come home to. To call ours.
Watching Eli open the door to the tattoo shop and pause with a dumbstruck look on his face has me curious. My friend isn’t easily rendered speechless, so I climb out of the truck quickly.
A sight to be-fucking-hold greets me…
Tattoos everywhere. More piercings than should be legal. Bare slender legs that go for miles.
Fuck. Me.
Jet
Bending over in front of the desk, I’m going through a supply box of new ink I ordered from a new supplier only last week. The door jingles signaling my six p.m. client. Standing, I turn and brush the dust from my hands.
“Well, fuck,” I murmur but probably not quietly enough.
Two of the most incredibly handsome men I’ve ever seen walk in.
One is tall with shaggy brown hair, tattoos peeking from the collar of his shirt, and I see a few running onto his hands. The work looks immaculate enough that I feel the need for a closer look until I notice the scowl on his friend’s face. Clean-cut blondie has a body to die for, but I doubt he’s willing to look past the disdain in his gorgeous blue eyes.
“How can I help ya, fellas?” I can be polite.
Tattoo hunk clears his throat. “Got an appointment with Mr. Ryhan.”
Don’t laugh, Jet. It’s not the first time people have assumed I’m male because well, I am in a man’s world with a man’s name.
“You got her.” I smile serenely at them. Oh, this is gonna be fun. “Which one of ya is Greer?” Normally I’d say tattoo hunk, but I’m the queen of misconceptions, so I’m going with blondie.
“Wait! Let me guess?” I pretend to ponder them for a moment. Hunk smiles, blondie scowls. “Your tattoos tell me you should be, but the glower on Blondie’s face says he is.”
Tattoo hunk bends over howling at the nasty look his friend shoots him. “Not bad.”
“It’s a gift. What can I say? So really, how can I help you?”
Blondie still hasn’t spoken.
Going behind the front counter while they seem to be in some sort of eye fight, I look up the details of their appointment. Greer wants a memorial tattoo for his father. Hmmm, simple enough depending on where he wants it.
As they continue with their silent argument, I begin to draw. The man himself seems very staid, withdrawn, but I’m willing to bet he’s got some fire in him. It isn’t long before shape begins to take form. Simple but bold. The only color will be “Dad” so it stands out.
A large, simple cross with wings spread wide on either side form. Dark, avenging like they’re hugging the cross. Shading the cross in, I feel shadows approach my counter.
“Way to take care of the client,” a put-upon voice says above my head. Why does it have to be sexy? Like rough gravel and smooth bourbon. It sent shivers up my spine.
Not looking up from my sketch, I ask with a bite in my tone, “What year was he born?”