“Are you going to tell me what you’re tattooing on me now?” I ask.
“You’ll see for yourself when it’s done.”
“How about a hint? Like if it’s something gross or pornographic or just really, really mean.”
I see the corners of his mouth twitch. God, he’s so sexy. Forget Ms. Pin-Up. He probably has a hundred girlfriends. All on speed dial. All waiting with bated breath for him to call.
I know I would be.
“It’s not a portrait of me flipping you off or anything,” he says.
“Okay, good.” I make a face. “That’s a relief.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t get cute with me, okay? You’ve wanted to get under my needle for what…two years now?”
I sober a little at his combative mood. “I think it’s going on three. Didn’t realize your wait list was that long.”
“It’s not.” Once again, he lifts the needle off my skin, gives me a look so dead sexy my breasts tingle against the table.
“You know, I never wanted a tattoo,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. That’s why you never got an appointment.”
I release a breath. “I just wanted a chance to talk to you.”
“Well, you got it. Or your girlfriend did. Either way, I’m here, you’re here. Go.”
“Okay.” I bite my lip. It felt so easy a second ago. Now my brain doesn’t want to cooperate. “It’s just…there’s a lot of people here…”
“And?”
“And I know it’s kind of loud in here, but are you cool with someone, I don’t know, in the front row maybe, hearing how I feel about you? How what I did five years ago is tearing me up? How every time someone touches me or kisses me I wish it was you?”
The sound of the tattoo machine dies, and Rush’s eyes cut to mine. They’re like twin daggers, and I can’t tell if he’s turned on or pissed off. Either way, my heart leaps hardcore into my throat. He looks up, gestures—no doubt to Ms. Pin-Up—and in seconds, I’m cleaned off and something warm is rubbed into my back. His jaw tight, Rush places a cloth over my tattoo and tapes around it, then re-clasps my bra.
“You can sit up now and put on your shirt,” he tells me coolly, ripping off his gloves.
I’m confused. Not by his tone—that I was expecting—but by the quick work. I always assumed tats took a few hours. “That’s it?”
“For now,” he says.
For now? As in, there’s more? “What the hell, Rush?”
He’s tossing his gloves in the trash, but as soon as they hit the rim, he rounds on me and places a hand on either side of my hip, locking me into his vibrantly tattooed airspace. The breath leaves my body as my gaze travels over his collarbone, which sports a skull interwoven with the letters of his last name. As I sit there in my boring bra and my even more boring skirt, his face closes in on mine, and I swear if I lean forward an inch I can press my lips to his. Does he taste the same? I wonder. Feel the same?
“You want to talk to me,” he says, his warm breath moving over my skin, making me shiver. “You want to finish this tat? We’ll do it my way.”
His way. Oh, god, I used to love doing things his way. I contemplate sticking my tongue out and lapping at the air, seeing if I can taste him that way.
“Be at my shop at eleven tonight,” he says. “Alone.”
I nod dumbly and mumble a raspy, “Okay.”
But instead of leaning closer, giving me what I think he knows I want, he releases me, pushes away. I instantly want him back.
Sound familiar, Addison?
My shirt is shoved into my hands by Ms. Pin-Up, and I stand up and get busy putting it on, buttoning it up. My heart is still knocking against my ribs and my insides feel almost as liquid as certain parts of my outsides. I don’t care about the dissolving crowd or how Lisa’s on her way over to me with a look of utter horror. All I care about is tonight, and seeing him again. Explaining things, asking for forgiveness.
Getting his hands on me again.
“And Addison,” he calls.
I turn so easily, almost involuntarily, toward the sound of his voice, like it controls me now.
He slips on a black knit cap, his eyes flashing emerald fire my way. “Don’t look at it. If you take off the bandage, I’ll know.”
Rush
I’m home. Outside of Vegas, near the Red Rocks where I belong, where I can breathe. Inside my shop, Wicked Ink, the buzz of three tattoo machines rends the air. Vincent, Jane and I are all working on our final clients. Well, V and Janie are anyway. I got one last piece coming in at eleven.
“You’re quiet tonight, man.”
“Just focusing, brother,” I say, adjusting my hand pressure. This cover-up on my old friend, Cory, is a monster—a bullshit tribal with heavy black ink and some scarring—and I want to make sure I get it right before he heads back to L.A. and whatever movie he’s making.
“You had that convention today, right?” he asks me.
I pull my needle back and dilute the color in some water. “Never doing one of those again. Not my scene.”
“Even with all the hot chicks?”
I grin at him. “Even then.”
He sighs, drops his head back against the chair. “Chicks with tattoos rock my world. And if they have a few piercings in some very private places, even better.”
I shake my head. The guy pretends to be such a cupcake on the red carpet. “Sounds like you need to hit the convention next time.”
As he laughs, Vincent sticks his head in the room. The guy’s black hair has just been recently skull-shaved. Between that, his black eyes and the nearly full body art, he looks like one of the death rockers Jane loves to ink. Except for the face. Boy’s got a fucking Hollywood face.
“Hey, Rush, man,” he says. “There’s someone here for you, and she’s not on the books.”
I feel the announcement of her presence in my gut. It sits there and grinds away, pain and pleasure all at the same time. Sure, I’d given her Wicked’s address, and her ink wasn’t close to being done, but I’d seriously wondered if she’d show. Wondered if she’d run again.
Like a pussy, I’d even thought about sending a car for her. Or picking her up on my bike. But my pride found its way back to my balls.
I glance up at Vincent again. “Tell her to have a seat.”
“Sure thing.” He grins real wide at me, his eyebrows going up and down.
“What are you doing, idiot?”
“Or I could take her. You know,” he shrugs. “I have a softer touch than you do with the iron.”
“Yeah, but women don’t want a softer touch,” I say. “Especially when you’re using your iron.”
Cory laughs, and I grin. We’re all such fucking infants sometimes. Thank god we have Janie in the shop. That cool-as-ice pin-up balances us all out. And by ‘balances’ I mean she tells us we’re complete knuckleheads, and that if we don’t grow the hell up, she’s outta there.
And that ain’t happening. We can’t do without our Janie. Girl’s the shit. Eight month waiting list tells the truth of it: every rocker, rapper and reggae artist on the West Coast wants a tattoo from her. Plus, she’s cool. She’d really helped me out today, with the asshats at the convention, and with Addison. No judgment.
“You suddenly have time on your hands?” I say to V. “I thought you were booked all day.”
“I was. Am.” He drops his chin, gives me the innocent look. “I’m done for the night. I could help you out.”
And I give him a fuck off grin. “I got it, V. Thanks for having my back though.”
“Anytime, man.” He pushes away from the door. “And by anytime I mean when a girl’s as smoking hot as this one.”
My gut twists up again like a fucking piece of licorice. Something inside of me doesn’t like hearing another guy talk about Addison that way. Granted, it’s true. She is smoking hot. But the caveman inside me wants to drag Vincent out back behind the dumpsters and kick the crap out of his Hollywood ass just for noticing.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, rubbing some goo into Cory’s finished piece before wrapping it up. I’m not going here again. Not letting myself go here again. Finish Addison’s tat, let her say her piece, get her off my ass and back where she belongs.
“Meet someone at the convention, brother?” Cory asks me as he unfolds from the chair.
“Just an old friend,” I tell him.
“Doesn’t sound old,” he says as I walk him out the door.
First thing we both see is Addison in the waiting area. She’s sitting on the black leather couch, the brick wall at her back, flipping through my book. It’s nuts how hard it makes me just watching her look at my artwork. She’s changed her clothes. No more garden party downstairs, no more pillowcase up top. Instead she has on a white wifebeater tank and a pair of pretty tight-fitting faded jeans. She looks casual and sexy, and I can see why Vincent was ready to give up his Saturday night for a few hours of working on her skin.
She looks up from the book then, and her eyes find mine and lock into place. They’re worried, they’re hungry, and they make me deliriously happy by not even flickering in Cory’s direction. The dude is a movie star, for chrissakes.
“Doesn’t sound old,” Cory says again, this time under his breath as he shakes my hand. “And definitely doesn’t look like a friend.”
“Nice to see you again, man.” I knock my chin at the glass door leading to the parking lot. “Good luck on the film.”
Cory gets the hint loud and clear, and with a wry grin, and a quick look at Addison, he takes a hike.
Once we’re alone in the waiting room, aka the rec room, I give her a nod. “Hey there.”
“Sorry I’m early.” She shrugs, her sexy, tanned shoulders lifting and lowering. “I’m happy to hang out for a while if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready,” I say too damn quickly. “Come on in.”
She follows me into my den. When I built this place, I wanted to make sure there were private rooms as well as open ones, and it was a good thing too, because several of our more famous clients really appreciate it.
As she takes in the space, I close the door and lock it without thinking. Or, fuck me, maybe I am thinking. Maybe I’m thinking that I don’t want V or Janie interrupting us.
“This is so you.”
Her words, and the familiar warmth she coats them in, bring my head around. She’s checking out my home away from home, her back to me, offering up one hella spectacular view of her long legs, tight ass, sexy shoulders and thick, straight hair.
“Brick and leather,” she muses. “Concrete floors.”
She walks over to the one wall that isn’t brick. The wall that used to be just plain white plaster but as time went by has been taken over by my busy hand. She reaches out and runs her fingers over my shit; the paintings, the sketches, even the tags. It’s like she’s running her hands over me when she does it, and I actually need to focus on breathing right.
“You did these,” she says, her fingers tracing a large portrait of a man and his kid, both with skull faces. It’s not a question.
I come up behind her. She smells way too good to be in a locked room with me. “Every tat I create’s got to go up on the wall first.”
She turns around, her back brushing up against the wall. I think about easing off her, telling her to get in my chair and let’s get this show on the road. Fuck, let’s get this show over and done.
But do I move?
Hell, no.
“Every tat?” she asks. “Even mine?”
A piece of her hair’s escaped its pack, and I reach out to rescue it. My fingers brush her cheek and she breaths in, all quick and affected.
“No,” I say. “Not yours.”
Her eyes, those nutty, amazing eyes that I always begged her to keep on mine when we kissed or fucked, or hell, just shared a gallon of flat-assed coke after school at my house, flashed with gloom.
“Well, it’s amazing, Rush,” she says in a soft voice. “What you’ve done here. You should be really proud of yourself.”
What I should be is naked, her in my arms, my mouth going to work on all those pretty parts I know make her wild. But that’s off limits unless I want to suffer for all eternity.
“Come on,” I say instead, backing up, feeling the heat of her roll off my body and die away. “Let’s get started.”
Like a moron—like the guy who just wants that heat back again—I reach for her hand and lead her over to my chair. “So, how’s it feeling? Any irritation?”
She shakes her head. “Not bad. Frankly, my curiosity is irritating me more.”
I laugh softly. “Let’s have a look.” I gesture to the chair.
“Should I take off…” She touches the bottom of her tank.
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