Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
N ola waved at Rayna and walked slowly toward Nan Diner’s front door. When Rayna’s work van turned left off of Main Street and disappeared, Nola turned abruptly and hurried down the sidewalk to the Walgreens. She stepped into the warm store and walked down the first aisle, staring blankly at the shelves.
While she was grateful for the plumber’s kindness in giving her a ride downtown, it did mean she was nearly forty-five minutes early for her appointment. She supposed she could grab a quick bite at the diner, but it seemed like a pointless waste of her limited funds when she’d quickly eaten a sandwich at her desk just an hour earlier.
She’d had to eat it while keeping one eye on her father’s office. If he’d seen her eating a sandwich, her whole cover story about lunch and helping Sarah paint the nursery would have been blown.
Her nerves, already frayed to begin with, tightened another notch at being reminded of her blatant lie to her father. It was a dangerous lie, one easily discoverable by her father if he happened to mention it to Sarah at church on Sunday. But she’d had no choice. There were a limited number of people her father approved of her spending time with, and she’d chosen to involve Sarah in her lie because she was just as timid, if not more timid, than Nola. If her father did happen to mention Nola painting the nursery with her, Sarah was so intimidated by the Reverend Norwood that the odds of her just meekly agreeing to whatever he said were high.
Still, Nola couldn’t just wander the Walgreens or any of the shops along Main Street for the next forty-five minutes. What if someone from the church saw her and happened to mention it to her father?
Her stomach clenched tight, the sandwich she’d eaten churning unpleasantly in her guts. She glanced furtively around the store, suddenly convinced that one of the church members would come marching into the aisle at any moment, demanding to know why Nola wasn’t at her desk at the church and did her father know she was here?
Her stomach still churning, she hurried out of the store. Her breath catching in her throat at the cold wind, she walked purposefully across the street and stopped in front of the bright red door. She looked to her left and to her right, saw no one she knew, and, her hand trembling, pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The tattoo shop was not at all what she expected. She’d expected something small and dark and maybe even a little grungy. Instead, it was an ample bright space with gleaming floors, and the air smelled of disinfectant. To the left of the door was a reception counter with a glass display of jewelry. A spinning rack of Crimson Door Tattoo keychains sat on top of the counter, along with a small laptop and a tablet. A pile of Crimson Door Tattoo t-shirts sat in a box on the floor just in front of the counter.
She stared at the big sign taped to the front of the counter that said, “Please remove wet footwear!” and took off her winter boots, leaving them on the big mat by the door and slipping her feet into a pair of the cheap rubber slippers provided.
To the right was a seating area with a large leather couch and a coffee table with a few black binders displayed. A mini-fridge and a small table with a Keurig coffee machine, mugs, and sugar sat against the wall near the couch.
The shop was empty of people, and she drummed her fingers on the gleaming surface of the counter, unsure of what to do. She studied the three tattooing stations, chewing anxiously at her bottom lip. They were completely open to anyone who walked into the shop. What if someone from the church came in and saw her being tattooed?
She would have to take the chance, she decided. It had taken her forever even to work up the nerve to book the appointment, and then she’d had to wait over three months for it. If she cancelled now, she knew in her heart that she would never have the courage to rebook the appointment. It would be a waste of the money she’d spent at the silent auction way back in the spring.
There were three doors at the back of the shop, all of them closed, and she studied them for a few seconds before loudly clearing her throat. The doors didn’t magically open, and she finally decided to sit on the couch and wait.
She hung her coat on the coat tree near the door, stuffing her hat and mittens into the pockets before sinking gracefully onto the couch. She tugged at her cardigan and then her long skirt before readjusting her thick tights. She was reaching for the closest black binder when one of the three doors opened, and a giant of a man with thick dark hair stepped out. She recognized him, of course. They might not have traveled in the same social circles, but she didn’t think there was anyone in town who didn’t know the owner of Crimson Door Tattoo.
Preacher.
She had no idea what his real name was or even his last name. She suspected that not many people did. But it didn’t matter. Everyone knew who he was. Even someone like her, sheltered from the town gossip and unaware of almost everything that went on, knew who he was.
If his size, tattoos, and intimidating manner weren’t enough to make a name for himself in town, his incredible tattooing talent - a talent that, according to Nola’s Googling, had him on more than one top ten list of best tattooists in the country - was more than enough.
She knew damn well how lucky she’d been to win the silent auction bid for a tattoo by Preacher.
She stood up, her nervous smile fading when Preacher stared silently at her. “Hi, I’m, um, Nola. I have an appointment with you.”
“You’re early,” Preacher said.
“Yes, I thought I had to take the bus, but then I was given a ride, so I didn’t… that is… sorry.” She knew her cheeks were bright red, and Preacher was staring at her like she was a fool, and she really wished she wasn’t so awkward and inept around people.
She tensed when Preacher walked over, her anxiety nearly getting the best of her when she realized how big he really was. He reminded her of another man, that one just as broad shouldered and covered in tattoos as well.
Nix.
His image was flash-fried into her brain despite her best efforts to forget all about him. Only an inch or two shorter than Preacher, with dark hair and the most gorgeous blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes. A broad chest and muscular arms covered entirely in tattoos from his wrists up to where his t-shirt sleeves had started mid-bicep. The tattoos would go all the way up to his shoulders. She was sure of it. Heck, Nix’s entire body was probably covered in ink.
The muscles in her lower belly tightened, and her core ached with an unfamiliar pulse. She took a deep breath. She might have been on the naive side about sex, but she knew what she was feeling. Lust. One of the seven deadly sins her father was always going on and on about from his pulpit.
She lusted after a man she’d only met for a few minutes, and how terrible did that make her? She was in a relationship with a good, solid Christian man, but it was a tattooed atheist who occupied her fantasies.
But could God really blame her? Nix was basically a hero. He’d not only given her his jacket when she was ministering to the less fortunate in the cold, but he’d saved her from some very unsavoury characters not even twenty minutes later. If he hadn’t been there…
She shivered at the memory. If he hadn’t been there, she would have been kidnapped and raped. She could try to sugarcoat what happened that day, try to pretend that her father hadn’t put her in terrible danger by forcing her to minister alone in a dangerous section of the south side, but she was only lying to herself. If it hadn’t been for Nix, she…
“Lady? Hello? Are you even listening to me?”
Preacher’s exasperated tone jerked her neatly from her memories. She stared at him, her cheeks flaming red again before another apology tumbled from her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I was, um… sorry.”
“Right,” Preacher said. “So, you understand that the silent auction prize is for one of my flash designs, yes? Not a custom design?”
“Yes,” Nola said.
“And that the auction prize is for a two-hour tattoo maximum? I won’t be doing a full sleeve tattoo or anything super elaborate.”
“I understand,” Nola said.
“Then we’re good to go.” Preacher pointed to the closest black binder on the coffee table. “Look through the binder and choose a tattoo.”
“Right, okay,” she said.
Preacher walked away, stepping behind the counter and picking up the tablet next to the laptop. Nola grabbed the binder and sank onto the couch, flipping through it page by page as she studied each tattoo. She had already decided she wanted a bird, and when she turned to a page that had various bird designs, she studied them with excitement.
The excitement dimmed when she couldn’t imagine any of them on her body for the rest of her life. She turned the last page in the binder and, with a glance at Preacher who was still absorbed with the tablet, set it down and reached for a second binder. She wondered if maybe she needed to re-evaluate what kind of tattoo she was getting. She had her heart set on a bird, but the tattoo was permanent, and she wanted to love the bird she chose. Because she was getting a tattoo even if her father would lose his mind over it. And, yeah, maybe this was a sad act of rebellion for a twenty-five-year-old, but she’d wanted one since she was eighteen.
Besides, her father would never know because he would never see it.
She flipped idly through the pages, scanning each tattoo. She needed to stay open to a tattoo other than a dove. She couldn’t afford a custom tattoo, at least not from someone of Preacher’s talents. She’d lucked out in winning the silent auction bid, but it had cost her a ridiculous amount of money, and it had been silly for her to think that she would find her perfect tattoo from a book of pre-drawn…
Her breath caught in her throat, and she leaned forward eagerly, her nose nearly touching the page as she studied the dove tattoo at the bottom of the page. It was a fairly simplistic tattoo, she supposed. Just a black and white drawing of a dove with its wings stretched out in flight. But it was its simplicity that drew her in, and she studied each carefully drawn line, tracing the wings with the tip of her finger.
“You’re the one,” she murmured, smiling a little at the sheer delight she could hear in her voice. “You’re perfect.”
The bell above the door jingled, and a blast of cold air swept through the shop. She glanced toward the door as Nix - the very man who occupied way too many of her thoughts - walked into the shop.
He carried a Nan’s Diner bag in one tattooed hand, and his nose and the tips of his ears were red from the cold.
“Christ, it’s colder than a fucking -”
He abruptly stopped when he caught sight of Nola, and for absolutely no reason at all, she turned scarlet. There were nearly thirty seconds of silence before Nola, her brain screaming at her to say something, stood and said, “Oh, um, hello. It’s nice to see you again. Nix, right?”
He nodded, glancing at Preacher, before turning back to her. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m getting a tattoo,” she said.
“You’re getting a tattoo,” he said.
“That’s right. A bird. Back in the spring, Preacher offered a tattoo for a silent auction prize, and I, um, won the bid. So, here I am. Are you here to get a tattoo also?” Her gaze flickered to his arms. They were covered by a leather jacket - the same one she’d worn for a brief, glorious half hour that night he’d saved her life. The coat had smelled so good - like sandalwood and amber. Later that night, in her bedroom, she had pressed her cardigan to her face and, like a teenager in the throes of her first crush, repeatedly inhaled the faint scent of his cologne that lingered on the fabric.
“I work here,” he said.
“Oh, uh, right, I knew that. You mentioned that… before… when we first met,” she said.
How could she have forgotten that?
Because you’re too busy wondering what it would be like to have his face buried between -
She cut that thought off quickly, but it was too late. She could practically feel the heat burning her face to a crisp.
Preacher joined her in the seating area as Nix continued to stand by the door with a look she couldn’t decipher.
“You find one you like?” Preacher asked.
“I did,” she said and showed him the dove. “I’d like this one, please.”
Annoyance flickered across his face. “That’s not my binder.”
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“That binder isn’t mine. I told you to look through that one.” He pointed to the other one.
“Oh, I did, but I didn’t see one I liked, so I thought…”
“That’s Nix’s book,” Preacher said. “His tattoos.”
“Oh… um,” her gaze flickered to Nix and then back to Preacher. “Could you still tattoo this one, though?”
“I never tattoo another artist’s work,” Preacher said, his tone suggesting she had just insulted him in the worst way. “Pick one from the book I showed you.”
She stared at the dove tattoo before taking a deep breath. “Could I book with Nix instead?”
“You paid money for Preacher to tattoo you. He’s a better artist than I am, and you should get what you paid for,” Nix said quickly.
“I want this tattoo, and I want you,” she said.
There was an awkward silence, and oh God, why did she say that? She studied the door, wondering if there was any way she could gracefully run by Nix in her rubber slippers and out the door, never to think or speak of this humiliating moment again.
Her cheeks were back to a bright, fiery red, and she realized with confusion that Nix’s cheeks were a bit red, too.
Amusement tinged the annoyance in Preacher’s voice. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just as good of an artist as I am, so if you want Nix to do the tattoo, I’m fine with it.”
“I do,” she said firmly, even though a part of her still wanted to flee the shop and never look back.
“You’ll have to book for a different day. Nix is just starting his lunch break, and he has another tattoo this afternoon,” Preacher said.
Disappointment washed over her, along with trepidation at having to come up with another lie to tell her father, but it was worth the risk to get the perfect tattoo. “Okay, I can rebook.”
Nix studied her for a few seconds. “I can do the tattoo now.”
“Really?” She sounded like an excited little kid.
A small grin crossed Nix’s face, and Nola’s heart went into overdrive. She’d thought him handsome before, but now… now, she could barely breathe in his presence.
“Just give me five minutes,” he said.