2. Axel
2
AXEL
I press fingers into my temples, kneading none-too-gently, willing the growing tension headache to fuck off.
Another cancellation.
“Everything all right boss man?” Leeann, my cousin and one of the artists who rents space from me, asks as she shoulders her purse.
“Fine.”
“Doesn’t look fine,” she fires back.
“Cancellation,” I grumble.
“Shit. Another one?”
“Yeah.” I scrub a hand through my hair, trying not to stress out. It was a gamble opening a tattoo shop in a small town. Leeann warned me of all the risks, despite her willingness to take the leap and move to Daisy Hills with me. It takes time for a new business to find its way into the green and stay there. But knowing the reality doesn’t make the journey there any less stressful. “You headed out to pick up Keigh from school?”
“He aced his spelling test,” she says proudly. “I’m taking him out for ice cream.”
“Sugaring him up before sending him off with his dad for the weekend?”
A devilish gleam twinkles in her eyes. “You know me so well.”
“Get him a double scoop on me.”
Leeann gives me a mock salute, heading out the door and leaving me with a quiet shop. Though we’ve had a semi steady stream of business since opening a couple of months ago, it’s not near what I’d hoped. Which means I need to strategize ways to bring in more clients.
I reach for my navy blue Moleskin notebook and flip until I find a blank page near the back. The damn thing looks like it’s been run over a few times, but I refuse to buy a new one until every last page is filled. And even then, I won’t get rid of it. It contains every idea I’ve ever had about Get Inked .
I’m in the middle of scribbling down a promotional idea when I hear the bells jingle overhead. “You forget something?” I ask without looking up.
“Probably my sanity, but I’m here anyway.”
I look up, locking eyes with a woman leaning her elbows on my counter. She’s…gorgeous. Honey blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, amber eyes that twinkle with mischief, and a smile that has me fucking speechless. Her shoulders are bare, and the soft pink tank top dips lower than I should notice. I force my gaze up to her eyes.
“I’d like to get a tattoo.”
“A tattoo?”
“That’s what you do here, right?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow in question.
“Yeah. Yes.” I reach toward the tray that holds our consent forms and find it empty. “Have you done a consult yet?”
“No. What’s a consult?”
Christ. She’s a newbie. Probably wants some cutesy butterfly or something small. But beggars can’t be fucking choosers. A client is a client. And she might become a repeat customer or convince her friends to schedule work in the future. Best I keep her happy. “We can do one now if you have time.”
“What’s a consult?” she asks again.
“It’s where we sit down and discuss the work you’d like done. The design and all the elements. Where you want it. How big or small. The cost. When I can fit you in.”
“Oh.” Her cheerful expression falls. “I was really hoping you could fit me in today. But if not, that’s okay. Just need something in the next two weeks.”
“Why two weeks?”
“Because I’m moving.”
The confession shouldn’t have any effect on me. I don’t know this woman. Hell, I don’t even know her name. Yet, there’s a new twist of turmoil churning inside me at the thought of this curvy beauty leaving town, never to be seen again. Fuck, I need another cup of coffee. And probably three days to catch up on sleep. I’m losing my goddamned mind.
“Let’s start with the consult and see what we can figure out.” After a couple of failed attempts, I finally get the printer to cooperate. “I’ll need you to fill out this new client form first.” I walk her through the basics, explaining the disclaimers. Each one seems to conjure at least one or two questions. The way she thinks about each answer, processing it and seemingly tucking it away, has me curious.
“Now what?” she asks after signing it.
“Now you tell me what you’d like to get.”
“A sunflower,” she says, pulling a piece of paper from her purse. “This sunflower. This size.”
The simple design is small. Something I could finish in two hours today if she wants it shaded. I tell her as much.
She considers my words for a moment and then nods, more to herself than to me. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Where do you want it?”
She lifts the hem of her shirt, exposing soft, creamy skin above the waist of her leggings. “Right here,” she says, patting a couple of fingers against her side just above her hip. I gulp a swallow, willing any and all inappropriate thoughts to take a fucking hike so I don’t get sued for harassment. “Is that possible?”
“Possible, yes,” I admit. “But it’ll hurt like hell. You sure that’s where you want it?”
“You think I’m not tough?” she fires back, a mischievous twinkle in her amber eyes that threatens to be my undoing. It’s been a long time since I’ve been affected by a woman like this. Maybe I’ve never been affected by a woman like this. Because there’s a growing desire. A burning need to keep her and claim her for my own.
Christ. I sound like a fucking caveman.
“I suspect you’re plenty tough,” I finally answer back. “But since it’s your first tattoo, maybe you want to try somewhere a little less painful? Like your shoulder or your back.”
“No, my mind’s made up,” she says with a firm smile.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Just came from Daisy’s Diner. I’m all sugared up and ready to go.”
I’m both impressed and skeptical. “I’m getting the candy bag, just in case.”
“You keep a bag of candy on hand?”
“Always.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Hi-Chews.”
She pulls out a notebook from her purse. It’s a Moleskin, same as mine except with a blush-colored cover. Looks almost as tattered, too. I watch her scribble a few things down, restraining my curiosity until she tucks it away.
“Making a grocery list?”
“What?” She glances down at her oversized purse. “Oh, no!”
Her soft laughter does something to me, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. Hell, I’m not even sure to describe it. I’m suddenly wishing Keigh had failed his spelling test so I had an excuse to call Leeann back to the shop. Having her around always keeps me grounded. Right now, I feel like I’ve detached from my body. The risk of making a stupid decision is alarmingly high when it comes to this angelic stranger.
“I’m taking notes,” she explains.
“Notes?”
“I’m an author,” she adds, as though that explains everything.
“Writing an article about tattoos?”
“Writing a book about a woman getting her first tattoo.”
“What kind of book?”
She locks her amber gaze with mine, and with every ounce of confidence, says, “A romance novel.”