CHAPTER 18
Another day.
The same day.
It's been five days of this shit.
Two days of ignoring him completely, then three pretending like nothing happened right to his face.
He was right.
He’s always fucking right.
Carey Novak, the golden child, can do no wrong.
It may have been five nights since the alley, but I can still feel his hands on my body.
Every time I close my eyes I see him looking up at me with my cock poised at his lips.
I can’t take a single step anywhere without reliving the way he pulled away from me at the end.
The look he gave me as he glanced back over his shoulder was fifty percent pride of conquest, and fifty percent grief for what he knew would never happen.
And like an angel, he accepted it. No fight.
No discussion. He just showed up at work, and within thirty seconds he figured out where he stood, and just fell into line.
He hasn’t joked with me, or pushed one conversation past the bare minimum.
He smiles at every client, even the ones who rarely look up from their phones, and somehow, by the time they leave, they're smiling back at him. If only he’d put up a fight, or act even a little bit like that night mattered to him, then maybe I could find it in me to—
Fuck, I hate myself.
Nothing else can ever happen between us.
I need his brother to come back. With Eden here it’ll be different.
They’ll probably bicker so much that Carey will quit, then I can get my life back.
I need him out of sight to get him out of my mind, but I’m too weak.
Just having him in the same room brings my body a level of peace I’ve not known for so long, but it's costing me my sanity.
I've not been eating right for weeks, and last night a walk-in client kept me in the shop till well past midnight.
Too drained to drive home, I passed out in my van, the exhaustion leaving no room for the guilt to seep in.
At the time it was serendipity, but now I'm running on fumes and there's a tremor in my hand.
I wipe away the last of the excess black ink from my client’s thigh. “It looks great,” he says, and I force a smile.
“It’s ninety-nine percent of the way there.” I really should just finish. It doesn’t need the grey highlights, but I’m already squeezing the ink into the cup.
Considering how tiny of a portion I need, I spill a crazy amount of it.
The tremor is getting worse.
I look at Carey to see if he saw. He’s leaning on the desk with his elbows, not flirting, just talking with my next client—Liv, the girl from weeks ago who got the Ouroboros-tailed cats.
Mid-sentence, his eyes meet mine and I almost jump out of my skin.
He stares, expressionless, but I know what he's thinking; what a fucking child.
I tell myself he hasn't seen me shaking otherwise he would have said something, so I reach for the paper towel, and take a deep, grounding breath. I move slow and steady as I clean up the spilled ink, but slow is where the fantasies live, and as clear as day I see Carey crawling to me until he’s on all-fours between my legs.
I toss the paper towel in the trash and keep my head down.
I need to grow some balls and just tell him that he's fired and needs to leave, but I’m a selfish coward.
I need him to be here.
I don’t want anyone else…
My client continues his story about a trip to Alaska. Something about fishing with his brother—I’m not really listening. It’s taking everything I have left in me to keep my hand steady as the needle drones on.
In a few minutes the highlights are done and I switch off the gun. It's the best work I've done all month. The lines are perfect and the colors are crisp, but the longer I study it the more that perfection blurs until it's swirling across his thigh.
I close my eyes and count to ten.
I set the gun down on the table and it shakes against the metal. I search for the off switch with my thumb but… I already turned it off.
My client puts his hand on my shoulder. “You alright boss?”
“I’m fine.” I blink again, but the spinning doesn’t stop.
“You don’t look fine.”
I try to laugh it off but my mouth is so dry nothing comes out.
I force my hands to obey.
I pick up the clean rag but I pour too much green soap on it.
“Why don’t you stop for a second," my client suggests. “Have some water, or…”
I return the soaked rag to my tray and insist, “I’m fine.” Yet when I go to stand, everything tilts, and my vision compresses to a pin point. I try to steady myself on the edge of the tattoo table, but miss.
Carey is there before I even realize I'm falling.
He catches me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist.
Trying to stay strong, I push against him, but he refuses to let me go, instead leading me to the reclining tattoo chair where he forces me to sit.
My client stares with lines of worry etched on his forehead. "Where the hell did this come from? If I'd known I—"
"He just needs a minute," Carey cuts him off then gestures for him to get back on the table so he can inspect the tattoo. "It's perfect," he says, and his disbelief pisses me the fuck off.
"I wouldn't put a needle to anyone's skin if I—"
Carey whips his body around, his finger pointed squarely in my direction. "Pipe the fuck down, old man. You've lost the privilege of making your own decisions for the time being."
There's a surge of electricity in my chest.
Carey turns back to my client. He puts on a fresh pair of gloves, applies a thin layer of ointment, and wraps it like a pro.
After apologizing, he goes through the aftercare spiel, takes his payment, gives him a discount, and apologizes again as he walks out the door.
All while I sit here paralyzed, barely able to keep my breathing under control.
My vision is still a little fuzzy, and I have to grip the arms of the chair to keep my hands from shaking.
As soon as the door is closed, Carey lets out a lamenting sigh and scuffs his way to the mini-fridge in the corner. "Drink this," he says, thrusting a bottle of water at my chest.
Without saying anything more, he wheels my stool over and takes a seat by my side. Taking my closest hand he removes the glove and holds it between both of his as he looks at me—stares really—studying my face and eyes.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay.
He already knows the answer.
I try to stand, but he pushes me back down. Not hard, but firm enough that there's no way I'm moving unless he wants me to. It's a level of humiliation I didn't know I'd like so much. It's bigger and heavier than the tremor in my hands or the knot in my guts.
I want to yell at him to back off, but I'm too scared that if I open my mouth I'll just beg for him to hold me.
He reaches for my other hand, and I let go of the arm rest and give it to him freely. After removing its glove too, he squeezes it, but the tremor is there as well.
This is the closest he's been to me since we crossed that line.
He runs his thumb along the back of my hand. "You're done for the day." It's not a question.
I try to protest; "I've got one more," but my voice is weak.
He shakes his head. "No. You're done."
"I'm not."
He leans in so close I can smell the beach and feel his warmth against my cheek. "If you defy me, I'll drag your ass out of here by the hair. Do you understand?"
The intensity in his eyes is a physical force, and my knee-jerk reaction is to want to fight. But this is Carey Novak, and it takes less than a second for my fight reflex to go from taking the power back, to wanting to push him so he makes good on his threat.
"I just need a minute," I whisper.
He puts his hand just above my knee, and squeezes, the dominance sending a spike of heat up my thigh. "You need to stop."
There's a pause, almost like the world has stopped spinning, and I think that perhaps I should just accept defeat. Maybe I can have him and everything I’ve built with his brother won’t come crumbling down.
Maybe admitting that I have genuine feelings for him is what will finally kill the ache in my chest. But I don’t deserve either of those things.
One hook up can be pushed aside, Eden will never need to know.
But having Carey in the way I know will heal me will break apart every other facet of my life.
So, just like I always do, I put everyone else first, force my happiness down even further, and hope that it doesn’t fester into poison and eat me alive from the inside out.
A quiet cough comes from the other side of me.
We both shift our gaze towards Liv. Her face is caught in an expression of wide-eyed wonderment having just witnessed this damn saga play out in real time.
Carey stands, and goes to sit beside her. “I’m really sorry, but he’s just not gonna be able to keep going.”
Her eyes meet mine, and whilst there is clearly a level of frustration, she gets it.
“I’ll refund your deposit and put in the system that you get a discount when you re-book.”
“Don’t worry about the deposit, just keep it on file… I don’t suppose you have any openings between now and New Years?”
“Ahh…” Carey combs his fingers through his hair, stopping midway to scratch his scalp. “It’s kind of a shit show at the moment.”
“Goddamn it, Tek.” With a sigh, Liv stands and approaches me. “You’re lucky I like you so much.” She bends down just enough to look at me properly. I try to stay focused but I can feel my eyeballs twitching. “My god, you really do look like shit. Listen to your secretary and take a break."
I look at him and he raises his eyebrows.
“He’s still not my secretary,” I say, but I can’t drag my eyes away from his face.
As she steps backwards towards the door, Liv shrugs; “But he's still better to look at than any secretary I've ever seen,” then quickly slinks out like she knows she’s stirring shit up.
“The woman’s got good taste.” There’s no emotion detectable in Carey's tone. “Do you think you can walk?”
“My legs aren’t broken.”
His head falls back. “For the love of fuck.” He snatches the—now mostly empty—water bottle from me. “Why does everything have to be such a fucking battle?”