He eyes my hand on the knob of the window, which mirrors the current position of his own hand, and shakes his head in reply. As he pulls out of the parking lot, I fill him in on my morning activities.
“You’ll be happy to know I’m a full-fledged tourist now, Mr. Crowne. I watched the tossing of the fish at Pike’s Market and even visited the saliva-infested bubble gum wall, and before you ask—no, I didn’t add to it. I was a little grossed out by it.”
Though Easton remains quiet while I fill him in, his expression reeks of amusement from my ramblings before we fall into a comfortable, but music-filled silence. Not long after, we pull up in front of a glass storefront, and I draw my brows. “A tattoo is an errand?”
Easton wordlessly exits his truck and gathers me from my side with an offered hand before pulling me to the entrance. On his heels when he steps inside, he releases my hand before lifting his chin to a man running a tattoo gun. His subject is a twenty-something woman propped on a leather table that sits a few feet behind a small reception desk.
“Hey man, almost done here.” The tattoo artist’s eyes drift to mine. “And who is this pretty kitty you dragged in?”
“A friend,” Easton replies simply. This time, I’m the one who lifts a brow his way.
He gives me a dead stare. “Shut up.”
“So, we’re going A-side Easton today?”
Ignoring me, he sits in one of the nearby lobby chairs as I scan the parlor. In short summary, it’s clean and modern and looks more like a posh gentlemen’s club rather than a tattoo parlor. A sleek counter-height bar sits in the far-left corner, craft beer nozzles ready to pour and pint glasses stacked next to them. Next to it sits a glass refrigerator full of everything imaginable to wet a dry tongue. The furniture at the stations throughout consists of rich, expensive looking leather with chrome touches.
The lobby houses several matching chairs, the walls lined with digital displays that blink in and out with professional photos of completed projects. The finished product work atypical of what one might expect. I note as well there are no drawings on display to choose from for basic, uninspired tattoos. It’s obvious this isn’t the place to come without a clear idea of what you want. This parlor appears to be the crème de la crème of spots to get inked. From the digital signatures on the bottom of those displayed, it seems only three artists work here. Behind the guy currently running his gun, neither of the other chairs are occupied.
Glancing back at the gallery, I question if I would ever permanently mark my skin or want to endure the pain in doing so. Sensing Easton’s eyes on me, I turn to see him scanning the fit of his jacket on my frame. I swear I see slight satisfaction in his eyes before he pulls his cell from his pocket and begins to tap the screen.
Looking beyond the reception desk when the gun stops buzzing, I eye the artist as he starts to tick off aftercare instructions to the highly attentive twenty-something staring up at him as he dresses her fresh ink in plastic wrap. From the look she’s giving him, she’d like a little more aftercare than what he’s offering—and I can’t blame her at all. Upon closer inspection, I note he’s gorgeous and…mammoth in size. His height is similar to Easton’s, at around six-foot-two, and his curly dirty blond hair is cropped short, a lock of it loosely swept over midnight blue eyes. His build is immaculate. Not only that, but he’s also dressed to kill in a dark red collared shirt and designer jeans.
With sleeves rolled up a few inches on his forearms, it’s easy to surmise both arms are covered in ink. What appears to be bold black feather tips peak along the side of his neck. He’s the gasp-worthy blond in contrast to Easton’s breath-stealing tall, dark, and strikingly handsome.
They sure do seem to make them pretty in Washington.
Smiling at the thought, I glance over at Easton to see his nostrils flaring in my direction before he darts his eyes back to his phone.
Guilt I shouldn’t feel for ogling another man threatens as I walk over and take a seat next to him. Easton’s posture remains rigid, which has me scrambling to get some semblance back of the comfortable dynamic that we’ve managed to easily find since we met. Unable to help it, I glance over as he types out a fast text. I only catch a part of it to see it’s an apology.
“If I’m interrupting your plans—”
“Fucking shameless,” he scolds, clicking his phone closed before pocketing it.
“Sorry, I’m sitting right here. I am press.”
“How could I forget?” He mutters dryly.
Feeling stung, I slide back farther into the seat. Apparently, there is some grudge here because there’s no way he’s jealous.
“Ready for you, man,” the artist says as the girl gathers her purse to exit, her eyes scouring Easton greedily when she catches sight of him. Standing, Easton smirks at her just as she pushes out of the door. A jealous heat blooms in my chest at the interaction. Still hovering above me, Easton glances down at me as the artist speaks up. “Got a chair for her back here.”
Sensing my budding contempt, Easton grips my hand and pulls me to stand, locking eyes with me as if daring me to protest, and I feel every bit of the jolt it evokes. Turning, he guides me behind the counter as the artist gestures toward an empty chair beside the table.
“How’s it going, G?” Easton greets.
“Good,” he replies with an easy grin and the lift of his chin before the two embrace in a brief hug and exchange back claps. As they do, G’s dark blue eyes focus on me.
“So, who do we have here?” A perfect white smile dazzles me as I beat Easton to the punch.
“Natalie. I was just admiring your work. It’s incredible.”
His receptive smile reaches his eyes. “Thanks, Natalie. My friends, and friends of my friends, call me G.”
“Okay, will do.” I say in reply. “Nice place you have here.”
“Thanks. Is that a hint of a Southern accent I detect?”
“You caught that, huh?”
He gives me an inch between tatted fingers. “Li’l bit, and it’s adorable.”
“Well, I’ll take it,” I grin at him. “I’m a proud southerner, but not to an obnoxious extent, I promise.”
“Tell me, Natalie, what is a sweet Southern belle like yourself doing with this asshole?”
“Trust me, I’m no belle.”
“She’s lying,” Easton mutters as we begin to talk over the other.
“She’s drowning in propriety—”
“Those are called manners, Mr. Blunt and Moody.”
“Pure as the driven fucking snow.” Easton quips.
“What am I doing with this asshole?” I narrow my eyes at Easton. “Right now, I’m wondering the same thing.”
Easton turns and snaps at G. “Are we doing this or what?”
Amused by our back and forth, G grins my way. “Someone’s in a mood today.”
“Right?” I agree, widening my eyes as Easton’s nostrils flare in response, and G fails to hold in his chuckle.
“He’s got a nasty temper,” G reveals. “He can get downright street dog fight dirty at times.”
“Does he now? Interesting,” I muse as we both comically turn back to Easton, staring at him like parents expecting an explanation.
“Fuck off with that,” Easton snaps. Unphased, G palms Easton’s shoulder.
“Yes, darling, we’re doing this. Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah, but I want it altered now, and it’s going to take a little sketching.” Easton retrieves his cell and presents a picture of the sculpture we conversed at the day we met.
“Ah, so there was a reason we were there,” I say, “and I didn’t see you take that.”