Spring Break Fling

Chapter 14

14

NIKKO

I pulled up to the curb of Hannah’s hotel in my Toyota Supra. The valet, who couldn’t have been older than twenty, gave me a onceover like he couldn’t decide if I belonged there. I was used to it.

I ignored him, leaning casually on the hood of my car while I waited for Hannah. I knew there was a chance she might not show up. She might want to play hard to get.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored that too. All my attention was focused on the entrance. If she didn’t show up, I was going to knock on her room door.

She was going to learn I wasn’t the type to give up so easily.

“Sir, you need?—”

I held up my hand to stop the valet’s demand I move. My attention was completely on Hannah.

Holy hell.

She looked like she’d walked straight out of my fantasies and into reality—curves poured into a black dress that somehow managed to be both classy and sinful at the same time. Strappy black heels showed off legs that made my mouth dry, and the cropped jacket gave her an edge I hadn’t seen before .

“Damn,” I said as she approached, because that was about all my brain could manage.

She arched an eyebrow, amused. “If I’d known you’d clean up this well, I might have dressed up a little.”

She was giving me shit. We both knew she was dressed to the nines. And she looked fucking hot.

“Oh, I clean up just fine,” I said, opening the car door for her. She slid in gracefully. I took a second to collect myself before getting in on my side.

I almost regretted not putting just a little more effort into what I was wearing. I put on my good black jeans. The ones I only wore when I was trying to be fancy. My good black ankle boots and a black button-up that I knew fit me just right. It wasn’t much, but it was the best version of me dressing up.

I started the car and glanced over at her for a second look. The delicate aroma of her perfume filled the space. It was subtle yet intoxicating—just like her.

“Not on the bike tonight?” she teased as I merged into traffic.

“You didn’t seem like you enjoyed it much the first time.”

She laughed, fiddling with the edge of her jacket. “I was terrified for my life, but that’s beside the point.”

I smirked. “So, you’re welcome.”

“I was fully prepared to tell you I couldn’t come tonight because I was wearing a dress,” she said. “I wasn’t about to get on that bike wearing this.”

“Why not?”

“Um, besides the obvious.”

“My body would be in front of you, blocking the view of things.”

She giggled softly. “There is that, but I’m just not sure that’s a look I want for myself.”

“I’d pay money to see it.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, tugging at the hem of her dress.

I fought the urge to reach over and hike it up again. I wanted to see all that sexy expanse of thigh.

“I already told you. ”

“You’re seriously taking me to a gallery opening?”

“Yes. You don’t believe me?”

“I just don’t see you as the kind of guy that goes to art galleries,” she said.

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I would say so.”

“So, how many times did you think about not coming?” I asked.

She flashed a coy smile. “What makes you think I did?”

“Because I’m smart like that,” I said.

She sighed. “Initially, I wasn’t going to come.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

She turned to look out the window. “Because I realized that maybe I had you all wrong. Maybe there is more to you than tattoos and motorcycles. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to find out if I was right.”

“And if you are right?”

She shrugged. “Then I was right.”

We arrived at the gallery, which was probably not what she was expecting. It wasn’t one of those uppity Manhattan galleries. It was a converted warehouse with string lights crisscrossing the exterior.

I ran around to open her door and offered my hand to help her out of the car. Soft music drifted out the doors. The place was buzzing with the kind of energy that came from creative chaos—a mix of suits, bohemians, and everything in between.

Even a few guys like me. The typical artsy crowd with lots of blue hair and various piercings.

“This is not what I expected,” she said as I held the door open for her.

“Good,” I replied, steering her inside with a hand in the small of her back.

She was about to be surprised once again. The gallery was filled with tattoo-inspired art, larger than life pieces that practically pulsed with emotion. There were traditional designs blown up on massive canvases, abstract takes on tribal patterns, and multimedia installations that looked like someone’s heartbreak had been splashed against a wall.

It wasn’t Monet or Picasso or any of that kind of art. I glanced over at her to gauge her reaction.

I had shocked her again.

“This is wild.” She picked up one of the flyers and opened it.

“I told you I’m going to keep you guessing.”

“‘From Skin to Canvas: The Evolution of Ink.’ Interesting.”

Her eyes wandered across the room, taking in the art. Hannah wandered through the space, her heels clicking softly against the concrete floor. I stayed close, watching the way her eyes flitted over each piece, her brows furrowing slightly as she analyzed the stories they told. She tilted her head to one side and then the other.

“What do you think?” I asked, stopping beside her as she stared at a particularly dark piece—a chaotic blend of sharp tribal lines and what looked like fragments of a shattered motorcycle.

She tilted her head once again, considering it. “I think you’re keeping secrets.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Secrets?”

She gestured to me. “Like the fact that you know how to dress for an art gallery. That’s a nice shirt under the leather jacket, by the way.”

I chuckled. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

We moved through the gallery, weaving between other patrons, my hand brushing against her back whenever the crowd got tight. I couldn’t help noticing the way people looked at us—like they couldn’t believe a woman like her would be with a guy like me. Their problem, not mine.

I liked touching her. Obviously, I would like to do a lot more, but the whole subtle touching thing was good, too.

Hannah paused in front of a watercolor design. “The color is fascinating,” she said, more to herself than me. “I love that it plays with negative space in a way that practically screams tension.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “It’s not just about the ink. It’s about what’s left unsaid. ”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “Sounds like you’re talking about more than just art.”

She glanced at me, a sly smile curving her lips. “Maybe I am.”

“I didn’t know you liked art.”

“I don’t know if I do,” she said. “I like this.”

“Yeah?”

She turned to look at me. “So, where’s your stuff? Or am I supposed to guess?”

I chuckled. “What makes you think I have stuff here?”

She gave me a look saying she knew better. And then she walked away. I watched as she scanned several of the pictures.

“Found it,” she said.

She was good.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I guess you’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”

“Maybe not,” I said.

I watched her stop closer, really studying the image. I remembered the tattoo very well.

“I love how tattoos can capture a person’s story in a way that nothing else can,” I said.

“What is this tattoo about?” she asked. “It’s not obvious, but I’m guessing there’s more to it.”

“My goal is to do ink that tells a story,” I said. “Which is why I hate the fucking Spring Breaker tattoos. This one was on a Marine veteran. He had some ideas about what he wanted but wanted me to just do what felt right. We went and got a beer and I talked to him a bit. We were probably together maybe thirty minutes and I knew what it should be. He didn’t want anything obvious. He didn’t want the standard military stuff. But he told me about his battle buddy. He had a rough time and didn’t make it after they got back. Every line of the tattoo was a moment of survival.” I pointed to one of the short lines. “That’s his friend. This one over here is one of his buddies that died over there.”

She listened—not the kind of fake listening most people did while waiting for their turn to talk. No, she listened. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I like that it isn’t obvious. It’s his private story. I imagine only a few people will ever get to know it.”

We both turned back to look at the image once again. I could see her understanding it a bit better.

“Not exactly the corporate presentation you’re used to,” I said, my tone light but laced with a challenge.

“Some of the best stories aren’t PowerPoint slides,” she replied. “Sometimes they’re in the details most people miss.”

She was different tonight. Guarded, yes, but not in the way she’d been before. She wasn’t just hiding—she was playing. Every time I thought I was getting close to peeling back one of her layers, she’d deflect, throwing me a curveball or a cryptic comment that left me spinning.

“You’re good at this,” I said as we walked to the coffee bar.

We got two cups. I watched as she stirred sugar into hers. The silver bracelet on her wrist caught the light.

“At what?”

“Keeping people at arm’s length.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she smiled faintly, swirling the spoon in her cup. “In my world, information is currency. You don’t just give it away.”

“Smart,” I said. “But exhausting.”

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I thought she might actually let her guard down. But then she flashed a smile that was a tease. She knew what she was doing.

“Show me more of your art,” she said. “I happen to know someone that needs a tattoo fixed. I’d like to see what it is you can do.”

I chuckled. “Come on.” I gestured toward another section of the gallery, where a few more of my pieces were hung. The lighting here was dimmer, somehow more intimate, allowing each tattoo on display to tell its own somber or vibrant story.

I stopped in front of a large black-and-white photograph that captured one of my earlier works—a phoenix rising from ashes. “This one was for a woman who had survived a house fire. She lost everything, including her beloved dog.”

“I see the paw print.” She smiled.

I nodded. “When she sat in my chair, she wanted just the paw prints. Then she told me what happened to her dog. She had just bought a new house and put a deposit down with a breeder for a new dog. I saw her as a phoenix. Which weirdly enough, I’ve done a lot of phoenix tattoos. Just did one the other day. People are constantly renewing themselves.”

“Is it the same tattoo?”

“Absolutely not,” I said with a shake of my head. “I tailor it to their story.”

“Very cool.”

We moved along to look at more art, but I saw her looking back at mine on several occasions.

The tension between us was almost unbearable. Every word, every glance, every touch had built up into something electric and unspoken.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I might be in over my head. And damn, did I like it.