Chapter 6
RIGGS
Smith was not, in fact, good or ready. He was, apparently, stubborn and silent, making it through to the very end before sweat began to bead on his temple.
Even through the gloves, I noticed a change in his body temperature, and I scooted back to set down my machine and get a better look at him.
His lightly tanned skin looked desperately pale and clammy, his lips pressed together.
“You’re gonna pass out,” I told him seconds before his eyes gave a roll and he slid off the chair.
Surging forward, I managed to grab him before he hit the floor, but the force of his fall took us both down, and I cursed myself for not noticing the signs earlier.
I knew a whole forearm piece was ambitious for a first-timer, but I didn’t really foresee any issues getting through the linework and the black shading.
I’d tattooed chests and ribs as first-time tattoos before and hadn’t had issues.
There was only so much hovering and parenting I could do over my clients because, at the end of the day, their bodies were their responsibility.
It wasn’t like Rapture, wasn’t like the way I’d lived my life before when I had more ownership and directive over the body of my partner.
I was a tattooer here, not a dominant, and certainly not the caretaker of every stranger that walked through my door.
But as Smith came to in my arms, a long-forgotten sense of ownership sparked to life at the base of my spine, and I quickly smothered it with a muttered curse.
“Oh, God,” Smith groaned, rolling into my chest before pushing himself out of my arms entirely. “Did I just pass out?”
I scrambled to my feet and helped him up off the floor. He sat down on the edge of the chair, feet hanging over the side and stared down at his lap like someone had just kicked his dog.
“That’s so embarrassing,” he said.
“You’re far from the first person to get lightheaded during a tattoo,” I assured him, thinking I should have made him eat a better lunch—
No.
Not my responsibility.
Not my problem.
Clearing my throat, I snapped off my gloves and replaced them with a clean pair, then I wet down a towel and took his wrist into my hand so I could clean his arm off.
He grumbled something I couldn’t make sense of but let me clean him up and bandage him.
We’d made it through the line work but not the shading.
That would have to wait until another day, which was probably a better call anyway.
“Let me get you some orange juice.”
Before he could argue, I grabbed him a juice from the fridge, staring at the color returning to his face with every swallow. Smith was covered in an actual sheen of sweat by the time he emptied the carton, and I took it from him to toss it in the trash under my station.
“I’ll clean up while you regulate,” I told him, turning my attention to my work.
The monotony and the familiarity of setup and teardown was the only thing keeping me grounded in those moments because the vulnerability rolled off Smith in waves.
I didn’t even need to look at him to feel his embarrassment, his nerves, his own disappointment.
After I finished cleaning up, I sat back down on my stool and shrugged out of my hoodie, tossing it onto the seat beside Smith’s thigh.
He swallowed hard and fingered the cuff of one of the arm holes before taking the whole thing and shrugging it over his head.
I definitely hadn’t been offering the hoodie to him, but if he was cold after the come down of his adrenaline crash, I….
I wanted him to be warm. So, I didn’t say anything.
“Are you feeling better now?” I asked, sliding the stool away from the chair so I could stretch out my legs. I didn’t miss the way Smith dragged his stare from my boots up to my thighs, so I assumed before he confirmed it that the answer to my question was yes.
“Will the embarrassment ever fade?” he asked with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“No one was here to see it but the two of us, and your secret’s safe with me.” I drew an X over my heart and Smith’s eyes tracked the movement like a hawk.
“I should pay you and go,” he muttered, standing slowly.
He tested his balance with his hands curled around the edge of the chair before righting himself fully and letting go.
My hoodie hung off of him like he’d stolen it from a giant, and while I knew I was a lot taller than him, I didn’t realize just how different our sizes were until I saw how swamped Smith was in my clothes.
Well, in clothes that weren’t his.
Shit.
Shit.
I wanted my hoodie back, but his shoulders looked so breathtakingly narrow beneath the faded black fabric, the ask for its return died in the back of my throat right alongside the explanation of why he couldn’t take it with him.
“How much do I owe you for today?” he asked, snapping me back to the moment, into the reality that I was a tattooer and he was my client.
It didn’t matter he was the first person to spark even the slightest interest from my body in over three years. It would have been wrong to imply, to take advantage in any way.
“Six-fifty for today,” I said.
Smith fished out his walled and pulled out eight brand new hundred-dollar bills.
“Plus a tax,” he offered. “For passing out on your floor.”
“You passed out in my arms,” I corrected, biting the inside of my cheek and shoving his money into my pocket before I could say something else stupid.
“I did,” he agreed quietly. “I think my body temperature has regulated so let me get out of your hoodie and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Do you want to make an appointment for the rest of it?”
I reached for my schedule below the counter and flipped it open to the next month, desperately wanting to make sure Smith had enough time to heal fully before I opened his arm back up for more ink.
There were plenty of people who got tattoos finished two weeks after their first appointment, but that had never been me, and I’d never encouraged my clients to rush the process either.
Tattoos were a lifetime commitment, two extra weeks between appointments wasn’t going to be the end of the world.
“I’m shocked you’ll finish it,” he said.
“I can’t have you walking around with half a tattoo.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Only half?”
“You’re in the home stretch.”
Smith rubbed beneath his eye, fingers barely visible past the worn cuff of my hoodie. “I normally have dinner with my brothers on Friday night, and I work during the day, so if I need to take time off to come in the morning, I’ve just got to plan for it.”
“We can probably finish you up after work next month,” I said.
It was one thing to start from scratch at six pm, another to deal with shading between already established lines.
“You tell me when then,” he said.
Smith had his phone in hand, calendar app open.
“Fridays are my busiest day anyway. Then and weekends, so do you want to do four Wednesdays from next? A month out?”
As a general rule, the shop was closed on Monday and Tuesday, but considering I lived right upstairs and had annoying friends, I worked more often than not.
But I definitely was not going to open that schedule up for a man who was too young for me that looked too good in a hoodie that didn’t belong to him.
It was a curious feeling, I thought, the interest in another person, even though it wasn’t necessarily layered with attraction or with intent.
“That works.” Smith tapped the date into his phone and glanced up at me. “What time?”
“Six.”
He nodded and we both put the date and time into our schedules. I closed my book and returned it to its home beneath the counter, and Smith awkwardly returned his phone to his pocket. His color was absolutely back to normal, if not a little flushed.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “See you then.”
And just like that, he spun and all but ran out the door. The bells jingled behind him and the outside air wafted in, sending a shiver up my spine. That was when I realized he’d never given me back my hoodie.
Shit.
I should have said something to him as soon as he lifted it up off the chair, but I hadn’t been thinking clearly, obviously as dazed by his crash out as he was.
And I should have been more aggressive and told him I needed it back after he paid, but instead I let him get distracted and walk off with it.
With a quick duck, I darted out from behind the counter and jogged to the door.
I shoved it open and looked both ways down the block, but Smith was nowhere to be found.
He either set off at a full sprint as soon as he’d gotten out of sight, or he was the fastest driver known to man.
I didn’t even remember hearing a car turn on.
“It’s fine,” I told myself, shuffling back into the shop.
I didn’t have an appointment for another two hours, so I locked the door and trudged up the steps to my second-floor apartment.
The fifth and the eighth stair creaked their protest under my weight, but as always, I ignored them.
The structure of the building was sound; I was sure of it.
The inspections when I’d bought the place had been more than thorough, ensuring everything was retrofit and able to withstand much more than just my weight.
Back in the familiar safety of my home, I closed the door that separated my private space from the shop downstairs and banged by head against the solid wood.
I forced myself to look at my living room, the inlaid wood floors and the plastered ceiling.
My green velvet couch tucked into a corner and the window seat overflowing with potted plants.
They loved being together and they loved the light.
I loved being able to sit on the couch and see them, even if I was focused on the TV mounted on the opposite wall over the fireplace.
The kitchen and dining room were to the left and the bathroom and bedrooms were to the right.
I’d been adamant about keeping as much of the original charm of the house as I could, at first because it was what Evander would have wanted, but eventually because I grew to like the features myself.
The bathroom was a work of art on its own, with the yellow tile and the shower arch, the bedrooms simpler and more understated.
The inlaid wood floors from the living room carried into the bedroom, the geometric art deco design blocking out the space for every room.
I toed off my boots in the doorway and followed the straight oak borders down the hallway and into my bedroom.
There wasn’t much in there, just a bed and two nightstands, a matching dresser, some more plants.
I had a lamp on the side of the bed I slept on, a stack of books ranging from tattoo art to fantasy messily arranged beside a half-empty glass of water, a photo frame turned on its face, and an open bottle of melatonin.
My body desperately wanted to lay down and rest because I was also experiencing a fitful adrenaline crash, but I worried if I sank down into the warm pillows of my bed, I wouldn’t get back up in time for my next appointment.
With plenty of regret, I trudged into the kitchen where I grabbed a slice of cold pepperoni pizza from the fridge.
I’d managed to eat almost the whole thing by the time I made it to the couch, which was nicer to look at than it was to sit on.
Ev had loved it, though.
I finished my snack and turned my attention to the window, and I found myself wondering if Smith had made it home okay.
I had his cell phone number from when he’d sent me the inspiration for his tattoo.
There surely wouldn’t be any harm in me reaching out to check on him.
I was a professional and he was a client, and he’d passed out on my floor—in my arms—and it would be reasonable for me to make sure he had gotten home safely.
It was good business.
It had nothing to do with anything else.
At least, that’s what I told myself when I fired off the text message.