Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Darkened Dermis is still closed with no lights on when I arrive ten minutes early.
I’m nervous. It’s not about handling the customers. I’m confident I can do that. What makes me nervous is spending hours with Xander. I don’t know him, even though he has been nice to me the few times I’ve seen him.
I’ve gotten to know Clay a little, and I trust that he wouldn’t have a boyfriend who is an asshole, but still, I worry that things might get awkward or uncomfortable. Hopefully, Xander really will be occupied with his client the entire time.
I wait a few more minutes, peering into the windows and admiring the artwork on display. Xander’s talent is truly remarkable. Then, at nine fifteen, a black Ford, which I recognize as Xander’s, parks in the reserved spot in front of the shop.
He gets out, looking incredibly grumpy, and my stomach twists with anxiety.
Did Clay set me up? Did he arrange this without Xander’s consent? Fuck.
Xander mutters a brief “Morning” and opens the shop, quickly disappearing inside. I manage to slip through the door just before it closes on me.
He heads into the room on the right side of the shop, and I stand there, uncertain if I should take off my jacket.
“Fuck,” he growls out from the room, and I quickly make my way over, peeking inside.
He has taken off his jacket, and his tight white T-shirt is stained with blood on his left shoulder.
I drop my backpack and swiftly get out of my jacket, hurrying over to him. “What happened?” I ask, concern filling my voice.
“I was fixing stuff under the car and accidentally pulled out something sharp that fell on my shoulder,” he says, words strained.
“Do we need to get you to the hospital? Should I call Clay?” I ask, worried, but he shakes his head.
“No, it’s just a small cut. It hurts like hell, though,” he says.
“Show me,” I say, assuming he will just pull over the collar of his shirt to let me see the wound on his shoulder.
Instead, to my surprise, he pulls the shirt over his head, baring his chest and all his tattoos.
I find myself momentarily stunned, unable to tear my eyes away until I notice a small line of blood trickling from his shoulder.
“Do you have more light outside?” I ask, and he nods.
We make our way to the tattoo stool, and I bring my backpack.
“Sit down,” I instruct, assuming he will take a seat on the tattoo chair.
But he sits on the small stool with wheels he uses while tattooing.
This places us at eye level, and I notice he is even more beautiful from this angle.
I get my first-aid kit from my backpack and open it, grabbing the necessary items to clean the wound.
I stand in front of him, uncertain about how to do this, but he spreads his knees, inviting me to step between them so I can get closer to inspect the wound. His breath brushes against my neck, sending a shiver through my entire body.
The cut doesn’t appear deep, but the surrounding area is red and has a faint bluish sheen.
“It hit that spot with force,” I note, and he nods.
“This is going to suck balls. I’m sorry,” I apologize before preparing the solution to clean the wound.
As I clean it, he hisses and grips my upper arm tightly.
“I’m sorry, but this needs to be done so you don’t get an infection.
And you’ll need to hold onto something else, or I won’t be able to work here,” I tell him with a smile.
He nods, and his large hands move to the back of my thighs, gripping them.
The touch sends butterflies through me, but I try my best to appear unaffected as I continue disinfecting his wound.
He hisses again and tightens his grip, his fingers pressing firmly into my thighs.
I work as quickly as possible, not only to hurry this for him but to create some space between us.
When I think the wound is clean enough, I apply some gauze and lean back, still feeling his hands on me.
“I’ve cleaned it, but it will hurt for a while.
Do you want some pain meds?” I ask, glancing over at the first-aid kit resting on the nearby silver table and leaning in to grab the chocolate I keep there. “Or chocolate?” I suggest.
“Chocolate?” He huffs, sounding skeptical.
“Chocolate helps with pain. Or at least, I think so. I mean, chocolate helps with everything and makes everything better.”
Fuck, I’m rambling.
His mouth twists into a half-smile. “Pain meds would be great if you have it. I think I’ll need a bit more than chocolate to get through a whole day of tattooing.”
I nod, grabbing a tablet that melts on your tongue. “Open,” I say, and Xander obeys while giving me a look.
I place it on his tongue and wait a moment before he scrunches up his face.
“That is gross.”
I open the piece of chocolate and offer it to him, a smile on my face. “Open,” I say again, and he complies, humor sparking in his eyes while I feed him the chocolate.
“Smart.” His smirk mirrors mine. “Thank you,” he says, squeezing my thighs once more.
I need to look away, as his gray eyes have a way of flustering me.
So, I divert my gaze down to his chest, which isn’t any better.
His pecs are a masterpiece, with tattoos and pierced nipples.
On his left side, just over his heart, he has CLAY tattooed, and the letters look like they are illuminated, reminding me that Xander is a dream come true but not meant for me to dream about.
If only my body would take the hint. I have to swallow hard before stepping back and breaking free of his hold.
Then my eyes land on the black shading on his other pec.
It looks like a black hole amidst his other tattoos.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I blurt out, “Did you have to cover something up there?” I realize that it’s a personal question instantly and look at him with wide eyes.
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Did you know that in some cultures, they believe the left side of your chest is where your heart lies, and the right is where your soul lives?” he questions, his voice softening.
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know that. It’s beautiful to think about things like that. But what does it have to do with…” I pause as realization dawns on me. “You think your soul is black?”
“The abyss,” he responds, standing, causing me to tilt my head upward to meet his gaze. “I’m going to change real quick. My client for today should be coming in a few minutes, and I have to sanitize the space again.”
Carolina is in the final phase of sanitizing the tattoo station when I step out of my office, pulling on the spare black shirt I keep in there. She’s got gloves on and is doing a solid job.
“Did you learn to do that from watching me?” I ask, startling her as I stand behind her. “Sorry,” I quickly add, not meaning to scare her.
“I picked it up when you were doing mine.” She shrugs, but her attentiveness is impressive.
I glance at the clock, noting my client is due any minute. “Sorry, but we’ve gotta speed through the tasks I need you to handle before my appointment shows up,” I tell her.
“No problem.” She quickly removes her gloves, tossing them in the trash.
We get to the front, where I introduce her to the desktop computer.
“The password’s CC0818. This is my calendar.
If someone comes in looking for an appointment, you’ve gotta check here first to see if I’m free and then ask them what they want.
I usually only do small tattoos on Saturdays, while larger pieces are reserved for Tuesday through Friday.
Sundays and Mondays are my days off.” As I’m explaining, she fetches a notepad and pen from the counter to jot down notes.
“You know my style. If a design doesn’t match my aesthetic, I won’t tattoo it, and you can let them know right away.
All else, it’s just about setting up an appointment.
They have to send me their idea using the form on the website, and I’ll confirm the date and design later tonight after I’m done with my client. ”
She gives me a nod. “Okay, got it.”
“If you have any questions or need me, come and ask,” I tell her. “But try to keep it to a minimum, as I’ll need to focus on this design today.”
“Understood,” she says, her face serious.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. She’s definitely taking this seriously.
I can manage things on my own. I’ve done it for years, mainly because I’m not great with people hanging around.
They tend to bug me or get too loud for my liking.
I prefer working in peace or with music playing.
Yes, it’d be nice not to have to break my concentration to handle walk-ins or answer phone calls, but I’d take that any day over having someone who isn’t a client in my space.
When Clay mentioned the cream incident, I knew she’d never accept a free handout. I grew up poor and understand the feeling of having things just given to you. She wants to earn her way. I respect that. And the few times I’ve interacted with her, she’s been nice to be around.
The door dings, and my client comes in. He’s a big gym guy, almost as tall as me, and huge. His broad back will take hours to tattoo, and I’m pumped.
“Hey, X,” he greets, shaking my hand before pulling me into a hug and patting my back hard.
I have to hold my breath to stifle a grunt as pain flares up in my shoulder. Carolina did a good job patching me up, but it still stings.
I need my emotional support thighs.
“Ready?” I ask, but his gaze is locked on Carolina.
“Hey,” she greets, giving him a smile.
It’s not genuine, more like a courteous customer service facade.
“Hey there,” he replies, resting his elbows on the counter and bending toward her. “And who are you, shorty?”
His tone is a bit too flirty for my taste, so I give him a slap on the bicep. “Definitely not your next lay. Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”
He chuckles and gives her a wink before following me to the back.