When I get the courage to meet her eyes, her face is flaming bright red. A smidge of laughter rumbles through me, and I’m quietly thankful for the distraction as I try my hardest to hide what her words are doing to my body.
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” she chants, shaking her head back and forth violently. “I didn’t—”
Her words are cut off by Farrell’s loud laughter, and I watch as her back snaps straight, eyes go wide. She’s so cute when she’s mortified.
I hear Farrell slap his knees from his hideaway in the hallway. He’s shaking from head to toe with laughter once he steps into the main room. “That was…” Pausing to laugh again, he swipes at the tears running down his cheeks. “Good God that was perfect timing and theworstphrasing ever.”
“I didn’t meanthat!” she urges. “I meant tattoo. I’d love for you totattoome, Gaige. Not…” Her words die, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want it to be because shedoeswant me to do her.
“Sure ya didn’t, Teach.” Farrell reaches the counter, his laughter still giving him the shakes, just as a couple walks through the front doors.
Shaking my head at Haley, an amused grin playing at my lips, I motion for her to follow me. She hesitates for a brief moment before quickly catching up with my long strides.
“I didn’t,” she presses, her words soft and quiet.
“I believe you.”I don’t.“Come on in here and hop up into the chair.”
She follows me into the room and climbs into the seat. Her eyes search every square inch of the room. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, she doesn’t find it, and she seems pleased. Carefully, she pulls her shirt over her head, her hair falling in waves, sitting perfectly on the tops of her breasts. A wave of relief rolls over me when I see she’s wearing a camisole again.
I sit on the stool and scoot a little closer to her. Her scent hits me instantly. I’ve grown accustomed to it in the time we’ve spent together, but for some reason right now it seems so much…more. The normal sweet vanilla is tinged with a hint of orange, like a Creamsicle.
IloveCreamsicles.
“So,” I say loud enough to snag her attention and to divert my own. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh crap.” Her head falls into her hands. “I forgot to think.”
“Guess that album was—”
“Beautiful,” she interrupts. “It was stunning, really. I can’t… Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.
“Tell ya what,” I say. “Flip around. I’ll answer any question you have if you let me decide your airbrushing fate today. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She flips around instantly and I reach for my airbrush gun. A small shiver passes through her as I lay my hand on her back. I wish I could be cocky in this moment, excited over the fact that my touch sent literal shivers down her spine, but I’m almost certain it’s due to the cold touch of the gloves covering my hands.
I’m charged with a bolt of desire when I grab the strap of her camisole to move it aside. The impulse to reach out and touch her is strong and I have to work on controlling my breaths so she doesn’t know she’s affecting me so much.
“You’re one of the few people who know what I do,” I confess.
“Which is what exactly? It’s clear you’re an artist, but do you just design the tattoos?”
“No, I do it all. I’m a full-fledged tattoo artist. When people sport my work, it’s not just my lines mixed together, but it’s my hand that creates them and etches them onto their skin permanently.”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “Why do you even work at Jacked Up? I mean, your talent is remarkable. Why not do this full time?”
I carefully finish out the letter I’m drawing before I answer. I can tell she’s antsy for my explanation, but I’m not sure how to tell her I’m a total fuck-up who abandoned his siblings when they needed him the most and the only way his grouchy old aunt will let him around them is by forcing him to hold a “normal” job. That makes me sounds like a jerk and like I don’t appreciate working for my best friend when I do. I love my job at Jacked Up. I love cars. Hell, I love them almost as much as I love inking people. But, nothing compares to creating something from scratch like I do with the designs I make. It’s a feeling I want to have for all of my days, not just seventy-two measly hours a year.
“Gaige?” she prompts.
“I can’t,” I simply say.
She barely moves her head to look over her shoulder, meeting my eyes. “You promised you’danswermy questions, not brush them off.”
“Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “I am…requiredto have a real job.”
