“I’m in security,” he finally says.
Security? “What . . . like a mall cop?” I say, and I regret my condescending tone the second it comes out of my mouth, because what if he is a mall cop? God, I hope not. While I don’t really care what a guy does, just picturing Sebastian in one of those ill-fitting uniforms and hovering around a teenybopper chain store, watching for twelve-year-old shoplifters, has somehow knocked him down a notch or three in attractiveness for me.
Please don’t be a mall cop.
“No. I’m not a mall cop.” He chuckles, forcing my needle away from his skin until he settles down. He has a nice laugh. And nice straight white teeth, I see, watching him from this angle. When his laughter dies down and my needle touches his skin again, he admits, “I’m a bodyguard.”
I have to pull away again, to process. “Really . . .” That is way more interesting—and appealing—than a mall cop. “I’ve never met a real bodyguard before. That sounds dangerous.”
“It can be.”
“Who do you protect?”
“People who need bodyguards.”
I wipe away the excess ink just a touch harder than I probably should. “Are you always so evasive?”
“Are you always so inquisitive?”
“Only when I’m doing someone a huge favor.” I bite my bottom lip to keep from tacking on an extra-acidic remark about his shitty communication skills.
He sighs. “For politicians, for celebrities, for civilians facing safety concerns. Pretty much anyone who needs a shield.”
“That’s . . . commendable.” And brave. “I guess it’s a natural career coming out of the army?”
“I guess,” he says quietly.
It’s all beginning to make sense to me now. No wonder Sebastian is so in shape, so strong. No wonder his movements seem so fluid and measured. No wonder, when he stepped into Black Rabbit for the first time, I felt his looming presence taking control of the entire room. Though I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, I sensed right away that he could protect me from anything.
“So, are you working now?” His schedule seems flexible, if he’s shown up here three days in a row, ready to spend seven hours under my needle on any one of them.
“I’m taking a break,” he says simply.
“A bodyguard on vacation?”
He smirks. “We need vacations, too.”
“I guess. But why’d you stay in town, then? I think I’d be on a beach the second I had a chance.”
He smiles. “Maybe next week. I really needed to get this tattoo before you ran off.”
“Sure you did,” I mock, but I also smile. “Where are you going to go?”
“Greece.”
“Why there? You have family there?”
“Nope.”
“So you’re just going to pick up and go to Greece?”
“Pretty much.”
I grin. Finally, something that Sebastian and I have in common.
FOURTEEN
SEBASTIAN
HOUR TWO
The ink on my shoulder was done by a small shop in San Diego nine years ago. It took four and a half hours to complete. I didn’t feel nearly as vulnerable with the artist—a scrawny middle-aged hipster named Marcus—as I do now, under Ivy’s skilled hands, with her leaning over me, her gloved fingers touching my skin, that intoxicating perfume wafting around my nostrils in seductive waves.
I have no choice but to lie to her about my work—for obvious reasons. She bought the cover instantly. I wasn’t sure that she would.
“How are you doing? Still good? Need a five-minute break?” she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.