Chapter Seven
Ryker
“
O wwwww!” Theo yelps, his forehead glistening with sweat as I finish up the last bit of his tattoo.
“You’re fine,” I tell him, wiping away the residual ink. I press the needle back into his skin, the buzzing sound providing me with a sense of peace.
“You didn’t tell me this shit hurts, man.” Theo half chuckles, half squeals.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to be such a baby about it,” I mutter.
“This is my first and last tattoo. If I come to you in two months saying differently, remind me of this, please.”
“How’s your nephew doing?” I ask to get his mind off the needle.
“He’s good, just learning how to walk. Naturally, my sister and her husband are stressed because he’s getting into everything at the farm. He also loves helping my dad feed the goats.”
“If that kid is anything like you, he will try to get his hands into everything at that farm. ”
He rolls his eyes, his fingers working with the fidget in his hand. “I just have a lot of energy. Sue me.”
Ever since we were kids, he always needed to keep his hands occupied and now uses a small fidget cube to keep for that.
“How’s it going with Camille and the team?” he asks, nearly making me fuck up his tattoo.
“It’s only been a few days, and there isn’t much to do since it’s spring training, so I haven’t seen her at all.” Which is true. I haven’t seen her since that night in the gym where I said more than I should’ve.
I couldn’t help it. Seeing her in that little sports bra and shorts, her skin glistening while she pounded the bag, made it hard not to. It should be a fucking crime to wear that and look that good in public. It pissed me off and made me say shit I shouldn’t have, like admitting I wanted her to be in my space and that my favorite color was the exact shade of her little outfit.
“I know she’s working hard on some things for y’all to do for social media.”
“Yeah, I won’t be doing any of that,” I scoff. I play baseball. That’s it.
“If you want to be drafted, you will. Organizations eat that shit up now. They want a player they can market and make money off of. Someone who will do silly videos and attract sponsors,” he continues to explain my worst nightmare.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I have to.”
I finish up the last part, wiping it down once more before putting a layer of petroleum jelly over it. I give him the rundown on aftercare instructions when I hear the shop’s bell chime. It must be the owner, Otto’s, last client of the night.
“Hey there, sweetheart, what can I do for you?” Otto says, greeting whoever just walked in. I instantly know it’s not the client in the books .
“I can get a tattoo here, right?” Camille’s French lilt hits my ears like a freight train.
What is she doing here? Since when does she want a tattoo?
Theo bolts out of the room, and I’m right behind him.
“Millie Moo,” he exclaims as he approaches and wraps her up in a one-arm hug because of his shoulder that’s wrapped up.
“Hey, Theo. I forgot you were doing that today. How did it turn out?” she asks, inspecting his new tattoo as he peels back the covering to show her.
“Wow, that’s beautiful,” she murmurs, her eyes tracking every intricate line.
“It hurt like a bitch,” he admits, putting the covering back over it.
“He whined the whole time,” I speak up, making Camille’s eyes dart to me. Her silvery blues lock on mine, and in that moment, I wish time could be stopped. Just so I could inspect and capture the fine details of every hue as they work together to make the color that captures me every time I look at her.
Otto breaks the moment, pulling her attention back to him. “You wanted a tattoo, sweetheart? I could probably fit you in before my next client. What are you looking for?”
She smiles shyly. “I want a bouquet of flowers.”
“Sounds easy enough.” Otto eyes her, making me want to gauge his eyes out.
Over my dead body is he tattooing her. Not after what I saw at the club that night.
As if luck shows up on my side, another client walks in.
“Otto, take the new one. I got her,” I tell him, tilting my head toward Camille.
He glares at me, probably not wanting to start an argument in front of them, and I glare back harder. I don’t give a fuck if he fires me later. He’s not going anywhere near her .
“I didn’t even know you wanted a tattoo. You’re a badass!” Theo laughs, giving her a fist bump. “See you later, Ryker. Thanks again.”
“No problem,” I call out to him, then motion for Camille to follow me to my room at the back. “I just need a few minutes to clean up from Theo’s session. You can sit on the chair once I wipe it down.”
Camille nods, taking in the space around her with inquisitive eyes. It’s a typical tattoo artist’s room—a black leather chair in the middle, a station with all of my stuff, and artwork on the walls that I made.
Baseball is everything to me, but tattooing is a different kind of outlet. It’s fun, soothing, and easy for me. Baseball is fun too, but there’s also more pressure.
Camille sits on the chair once I’m done cleaning it while I continue to prepare my station.
“Since when did you want a tattoo, princess?” I ask her.
I don’t miss the way her cheeks redden whenever I call her that. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m still calling her that, to be honest.
“For a while, but I was never allowed to before.” She pauses, her eyes casting a faraway look.
“And now?” I ask as I bring up my design app and begin sketching out a design for her.
“I finally found something I wanted,” she answers, smiling at me.
“Why flowers?” I have no right to ask. As a professional, I know that, but I don’t care much right now. She intrigues me.
“I’ve always loved to garden. I guess I’ve been missing being able to garden since I came here for school and can’t exactly plant a garden in my apartment.”
“I like that. You’re less likely to regret a tattoo if it means something to you. ”
Camille eyes me cautiously. “You’re oddly talkative. I thought we weren’t friends?”
“And I thought you wanted to be?” I fire back at her, unsure why I am suddenly talkative.
“I do,” she speaks slowly, unsure. “But why the sudden change on your end? Why did you insist on tattooing me?”
I groan at having to explain it. The truth is, I knew there was no stopping her being around me, nor was there any stopping the pull she has on me.
“We’re going to see each other around a lot, and considering I’m about to spend the next hour tattooing you, we may as well get to know each other now.”
Camille nods, then waves her hand for me to go on since I didn’t tell her why I’m insisting on tattooing her.
I roll my eyes at her. “Because I saw how you reacted at the club when that guy touched you. I didn’t want someone else to make you uncomfortable.”
My room goes silent at my confession as her doe eyes stare at me intently.
“I don’t have an aversion to people touching me in general… just unwarranted ones.”
My fingers clench around the Apple pencil I’m using as images pop in my head about what happened to her, but I don’t press her to tell me.
“I still appreciate you doing that for me. That’s actually why I came here. I was kinda hoping you’d be the one to do it. I probably should’ve just called and booked an actual appointment to be safe. Sorry about that,” she rambles, chuckling to herself at the realization.
I hate that I think it’s cute as hell when she does that. I hate that her upbeat personality is pulling me in like a moth to a flame.
“Don’t be sorry. Why me?” I ask, not looking up at her. I keep my eyes on my iPad because I don’t trust myself not to say something stupid.
“Because I somewhat know you. Theo showed me some of your work and I thought it was beautiful. I’d feel weird letting a complete stranger mark my body like that,” she admits.
My lips stay sealed in a scowl as I finish off her design, unable to respond because the image of strangers touching her body is tempting to ignite the protective part of me. She also called my work beautiful. No one has ever done that. Sure, they liked their tattoos, but no one said it with as much awe as she did.
I liked it too much.
“What song is this?” Camille asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“‘Crazy Love’ by Van Morrison.”
“I like it.” Her voice is soft, the admiration in it clear. “Not what I expected you to listen to. It’s so… romantic.”
I shrug my shoulders. “My usual go-to is rock music, but this song has a nice melody.”
“Or a secret meaning?” she counters.
“Not in the slightest,” I murmur.
If she’s hinting that I have some girl I’m crazy about like the artist in the song sings about, she’s wrong. Sure, I’ve had random hookups over the years, but I never had a serious relationship. Not only did I not have time, but I was afraid of the risk that came with it.
To me, the benefits weren’t worth the cost of losing it.
Camille doesn’t respond, letting the silence sit comfortably in the space between us.
Once I’m done, I pass her my iPad, noting the nerves churning in my gut. “Tell me what you think. If you hate it, I’ll make a new one.”
Her eyes widen, her hand slamming over her mouth as she begins to nod enthusiastically. She’s wearing her every thought and emotion over every inch of her face, and it turns me the fuck on. Someone being this transparent with their emotions, so freely and easily like that isn’t easy.
“I love it.” She beams, staring at the screen in admiration. “How’d you know I love lavender?”
I drew a bouquet of lavender mixed in with wildflowers because I had a feeling that’s what she is. Someone who’s trying to bloom on her own.
“Just a feeling. So you’re good with it?” I ask, needing confirmation.
“Yes. The size is perfect too.”
“All right, I’ll print it and we can try out different placements,” I tell her, sending the design to the printer system. “Where would you like it?”
“On my rib, close to my heart.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Take your bra off,” I order so I can have better access.
Her mouth pops open, and it’s then that I realize how it could’ve been taken the wrong way. It’s her first tattoo, and she probably didn’t expect this part.
“I have to slide your shirt up to give me enough room to work with. I have to hold your skin to keep it taut for the needle. A bra is harder to slide up than a shirt is,” I explain, my voice threatening to drop with lust.
I’ve tattooed many women before. I need to get it together. The last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable. It’s with that in mind that I push the thoughts away and get ready.
She smiles, shrugging her shoulders. “Oh, okay, that makes sense.” Before I can move, she moves her hands under her cropped sweatshirt and flings her lacey black bra off.
“Done, what’s next?” She perks up, seemingly more excited now, but I can’t take my eyes off the nipple piercings I saw poking through the fabric of her top .
God help me.
I turn and get her design out of the printer, taking a moment to gather myself before I start.
“Lie on your right side,” I tell her, not looking over my shoulder as she gets situated.
Once I have the design cut out and ready, I sit on my chair and turn to face her. “Is it okay if I lift your sweater a bit more? I’ll put a paper towel there so I won’t see anything nor will the ink stain your clothes,” I ask, my throat growing tight.
“No problem,” she agrees, lifting her sweater up with one hand, a sliver of underboob showing.
I quickly avert my eyes and do my job, folding the paper towel under her sweater, careful not to touch her anywhere I shouldn’t. “I have to shave the area first,” I inform her, wanting her to be aware of every step.
She nods and stays still while I do that. Then I place the design on her skin, not exactly over her heart because the placement would be off, but to her side.
I grab the mirror off my station and position it so she can see. “Do you like the positioning? If not, I can wipe it off and print another one.”
Camille nods. “It’s perfect. I love it already.”
“Good,” is all I manage to say because every second near her is a test to my control.
I turn on my tattoo gun, the buzzing sound as relaxing as a wave in the ocean. I look at Camille, gun in hand, and that’s when I see the excitement brimming in her eyes, but also a tinge of fear.
“Hey,” I say softly, turning the gun off. “We don’t have to do this. You can come back when you’re ready.”
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “I’ll be okay. I want this, please.”
I learn in that moment that I would do anything this girl asked me, especially when she looks so pretty begging for it .
I turn the gun back on and set myself up, leaning my body over the side of hers to get the right angle. That’s when I’m hit with a waft of something sweet, almost like cotton candy. Why does it not surprise me that this girl also smells like the sweetness she exudes?
“This may hurt. Rib tattoos are no joke.”
“I can take it,” she replies confidently.
I press the needle into her skin at that moment, not giving my brain enough time to expand on her words. Camille winces, her eyes shutting tightly.
“Squeeze my forearm,” I order, nudging her with my arm that’s holding her skin and not tattooing her.
Her dainty fingers with nails painted purple wrap around my tattooed arm, squeezing tightly.
“You okay?” I ask her, feeling sick at the fact that I’m hurting her. I’ve made grown men cry before in this chair and never cared. But fuck, if seeing her in pain doesn’t do something else to me.
“Yes, keep going.” She smiles, her eyes studying my face. I don’t particularly love chatting with clients, but if it’ll keep her mind off the pain, so be it.
“Where are you from?” I ask, trying to keep her attention averted.
“Paris.”
Her one-word response is unlike her, but I let it go and ask her another question. “What made you want to come to America for school?”
Her nails dig into my forearm in response, but I don’t flinch.
“I wanted to get away from my parents because they… they expect a lot from me. I needed to grow on my own terms. Experience life on my own for once.” Her voice hitches at the end when the needle hits a tender spot.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Don’t be. Tell me something about you.” Her nails release their vice grip on my forearm as I take a second to wipe away the extra ink.
“I play baseball.”
She laughs, her laughter sounding as sweet as she smells. Everything about this girl is, but something tells me that may not entirely be true.
“Something I don’t know already.”
I pick the gun back up and get to work while I think over what to say. I don’t like to share things about myself, but like I’ve said, whatever Camille asks, I’ll give to her.
“My mom and I have weekly movie nights on Tuesdays.” My lips twitch, a smile threatening to take over my face. What can I say, I love my mother and whenever I think about her, it puts a smile on my face.
“It’s so nice that you and your mom are close. What do you guys like to watch?” she inquires, her fingers gently caressing my forearm, her nails dusting across my skin. It sends a shiver up my spine, making me lift my hand away from her body.
What the hell is that shit about?
I shake my head and get back to work. “Whenever my mom picks, it’s a Disney film. She’s a sucker for them. Whereas when I get to pick, it’s a thriller.”
“Your mom sounds like a dreamer,” she points out.
“Yeah, I guess she is,” I said, continuing to draw the design on her ribs.
I never thought of it that way until now, but my mom never gave up on her dreams. She got pregnant with me during her last year of school and still managed to finish with honors.
“Do you have any siblings?” she asks next.
“What is this? An interview?” I nearly chuckle, but it comes out more like a grunt .
“We’re becoming friends, remember? A friend should know these things.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “I don’t. But when my mom gets married this summer, I’ll have two step siblings, Nate and Aurora.”
“Oh, right, that’s exciting.” She smiles widely, but it quickly fades as I press the needle into her skin. She whimpers and squeezes my arm once more.
“Almost done,” I say, trying to comfort her.
“Are you excited for the trip next weekend?” she asks, switching topics.
“To play baseball for the first time since last year? Yeah, I am.” My tone brightens at the thought of being able to play again so soon.
She gives me a small smile. “I’m excited too. It’ll be busy for me, but fun nonetheless.” She proceeds to tell me about the various social media activities she has planned for the team to do, and I grunt at each of them.
Noah and Cuddy will eat that shit up, but I’d rather be on the field doing what I do best instead of fucking around for the camera like they will take pleasure in doing.
Despite my preference in staying away from the cameras, her ideas are really good. It’s going to bring a lot of attention to our team and attract sponsors that we need to keep our program running the way it does.
I enjoy listening to her come alive as she talks about baseball in general, how she wants to do this for a living.
Once I finish her tattoo, I wipe her skin one last time and admire my work. It looks pretty damn good if I say so myself.
“Let me know what you think,” I tell her.
Camille stands and walks over to the mirror on the wall, holding her sweater up and turning to her side .
“Ryker the biker!” she exclaims. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you so much.”
I inwardly groan at the nickname she’s given me, but her pure joy draws my attention more. God, she’s fucking beautiful. It’s then that I catch myself in the mirror, looking at her with the same adoration she’s looking at her own tattoo.
Fuck .
I avert my gaze, keeping my hands and mind busy as I clean my station up.
“How much do I owe you?” she asks, but it feels wrong to take money from her. I don’t know why. It just does.
“Let’s do it this way. You don’t owe me anything, and in return, you don’t make me do stupid videos for social media,” I propose, folding my arms across my chest.
Camille’s eyes flash with hurt, but she covers it up quickly with a fake smile. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“I didn’t mean that your ideas are stupid, Camille. I—”
“Don’t, I get it,” she cuts me off, her voice twinged with insecurity, and I hate that I put it there. I go to step toward her, but she straightens her spine, standing tall as she leaves my room.
“Camille,” I call, following her.
“Thanks for the tattoo. Have a good night.” She turns around briefly and attempts to smile, but it falls flat. She throws two bills on the counter, but before I can say something, she’s already out the door.
Part of me itches to chase after her, but I already upset her enough. I don’t want to make it worse. I grab the two one hundred-dollar bills she left behind, then proceed to slam my fist on the desk hard enough to rattle the pens off of it.
Not only did I hurt her with my comment, but she paid me even though I told her not to. It feels wrong to take it, but I do it anyway because if not, Otto will .
I pocket it with plans of returning it to her somehow along with apologizing to her because despite the fact that I can’t give her anything more than friendship, a lousy one at that apparently, I don’t want her to hate me.
It’s the first time I’ve ever cared about the way someone feels about me, and I have a feeling it’s not going anywhere, anytime soon.