Chapter Fourteen
Dominic
My heart thuds in my chest as I step inside my tattoo room. It’s sterile, like a doctor’s office. Everything is clean, new, and sanitary, and smells like rubbing alcohol.
When I first looked for a tattoo parlor to work for, I didn’t stop anywhere else. Twisted Ink is known for its impeccable reputation, and it’s where I had my work done. I never applied anywhere else, even though I had to wait eight months for an opening, but it’s been worth it.
Bella stands in the middle of the room. Her eyes dart from one design to another, settling on a silhouette of a woman sitting on the edge of a chair. My mouth dries as she steps closer.
“That’s amazing.”
“Yes, it is.” It’s her, but I’m hoping she doesn’t realize it. None of the guys ever have, but that’s likely because they’ve never seen her the way I do. Unless Xavier does. Please, he’s only looking for a piece of ass. He doesn’t see her like I do at all.
Crap. I’m supposed to say thank you, not brag about my work. “Thank you.”
She twists her head around and smiles. “No ego in you, is there?”
“I am proud of my work.”
“You should be.” She clasps her hands together as some of her bravado disappears from her expression. We’re down to the real thing. She’s not a daredevil and never has been.
“Are all of these your drawings?”
“Yes.” I shove my hands into my pockets. Now, I’m the one under the spotlight. No wonder I’ve never put in for an art exhibit. Having everyone stare at my work makes me nauseous.
She walks to each one and stares at them intently. No. It’s her. I want her to appreciate them. I’m not some guy pushing a pen in a bank. Or clicking a mouse behind a massive desk. So, I’m already at a disadvantage. Good girls want to bang the tattoo artist in their fantasies, not marry them.
“You’re very good. I’m glad I came here.” She wipes her hands on her shorts. “How do we do this?”
“How do we do what?” The world around me goes blank except for her, wearing a shirt that leaves little to the imagination even though mine is running overtime and legs that I want wrapped around me.
As she stares at me expectantly, I blink. The tattoo. Right. She’s not talking about what sex position you want her in. I clear my throat and straighten my back. “First, we need to establish the design and then where you want it drawn.”
“I told you where I wanted it. Don’t let my brother’s overprotective attitude scare you off. That’s where I want it.” Her eyes flash with heat, and the tension in the room ramps up another notch. I’m already on edge and about to snap.
Then the woman expects me to sit next to her exposed skin, inches from her sex, and not lose my mind? I yank my hand out of my pockets and inhale, trying to get my head on straight. I’ve never had this issue before. Every other tattoo I’ve drawn was impersonal and business–this is the farthest thing from that.
“Right.” I rotate my neck and shoulders, trying to ease the tension in my body. “What do you want?”
She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Wildflowers.”
My mind drifts to the day we all met for a picnic at Schrader’s Garden after Bella’s graduation. There were wildflowers everywhere. But none of them were as beautiful as she was.
That was the day I realized puppy love was for kids, and I was in over my head. The sun shone down on her as she, Ruby, and Emily ran through the flowers, laughing and singing. They had the time of their lives, and I went straight to hell. Because that was a boundary I couldn’t violate. I still can’t.
“Okay. What size and style?” I’ve done 100s of wildflowers. At least, that won’t be an issue. “Realistic ones? Or cartoon?”
“Realistic.” After she describes the specifics of what she’s looking for, she arches an eyebrow. “Is that doable?”
“Yes.” Sweat pops out on my forehead. I’ve completed small, minimalist tattoos before, but this is Bella. It must be perfect. “I can do that.”
“Good.” She unbuttons her shorts, and the loud sound of the zipper sends my blood buzzing.
“How far down?” She looks at me under her lashes with cheeks that are tinged pink.
Son of a bitch. Anger surges through me. Life is unfair, and then she has to come in here and fuck with my head. My jaw tightens as I flip the switch to business mode.
“All the way unzipped, shorts and panties dragged down so they’re out of the way. Flip the side over that you want the tattoo on, lay back on the chair, and I’ll get my supplies.” I spin on my heel and ignore her as I prepare my gear.
My gun is state-of-the-art, lightweight, and fits my hand perfectly. But first, my favorite sketching pen.
As the seconds pass, the tension leaves my shoulders. This is my career. This is my passion. And letting my feelings get involved is a mistake.
The sound of her shifting her clothing is combined with the noises of her climbing onto the tattoo chair. I’ve heard the same sounds hundreds of times. She’s just another client giving me the opportunity to use their body as a canvas. I need to respect that privilege.
“Rissa is nice.”
“Yes, she is. She’s a great boss.” I pop my neck and rotate my shoulders, loosening up before hunching over to work on her tattoo.
“I didn’t know she was married.”
“Yeah.” I spin to face her but never look above her waist or a centimeter below where the tattoo will be inked. “She’s been married for years. She met her husband while giving him a tattoo.”
“That’s cool.” She shifts higher on the seat. “Have they been together since then?”
“More or less.” I arrange my instruments and supplies on the tray and hook my foot on the bottom shelf of my stool, dragging it over to the chair. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She nods as I hover over her.
“This might be cold.” I zip open the end of a sterile pad. The second I touch her, she gasps and shifts her hips away from me. Jesus. She’s so responsive. I groan but luckily manage to do it inside my head and not aloud. “I told you it would be cold.”
How the hell am I going to do this? She eases back into the chair. Rip it off like a Band-Aid. I slide on a pair of gloves, grab my favorite pen, and start outlining. “They were together after a few weeks. He had to convince her to give him a shot because she wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
Her jean shorts are open, exposing her pink underwear and the tiny piece of elastic that leads to her thigh and covered hip. See…. It’s no big deal. You’ve pierced a woman’s vulva six times in one sitting before. This is nothing.
“Really?” The surprise in her voice ruins my concentration, drawing my attention to her enormous green eyes.
What would she do if I told her I’d been in love with her since that day at the park? Laugh? Cry? Scream?
I clear my throat. “She wouldn’t date a client.”
The silence in the room is deafening if you don’t count my heartbeat, which is thudding in my ears.
“Do you?”
“No. I don’t date clients.” I don’t date anyone.
“I see.” She smiles weakly, grabs the edge of her underwear, and tugs them farther down so I can keep working on the drawing. “Let’s do this.”
“Right.” For several minutes, we’re silent as I etch out the design. I’ve used stencils before, but I prefer to work by hand. I ease back into the chair. It’s a good piece. It’ll look beautiful on her, but I don’t want her to do anything she’ll regret. I set the pen down on my table. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Her jaw is tight as she stares up at the ceiling. I should put one of those kitten or puppy pictures above my chair like they do in the doctor’s offices.
I steel my nerves and grab the gun. Stop shaking. One second. Two. Three. By the time I get to ten, I’m no longer shaking like I’m an 80-year-old man.
As I work, I block out her scent and focus solely on the artwork. With each line I draw, the canvas comes to life. First, the black of the outline. The curves of the petals accentuate the solid lines of the stems.
It’s time to add the colors. The blues, purples, yellows, and then the greens of the stems and leaves. The colors are stunning on her skin. The detail of the piece fills in stroke by stroke until my hand cramps, and I wipe away the last remnants of blood.
It’s perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything this intricate before in my life. I lean back in my chair, drop the gun on the table, and drag my hand through my hair as the room returns to focus. What time is it? 8 o’clock. Shit.
She leans up, and her mouth drops open. The gasp catches in her throat. “It’s beautiful.” She curls upright to get a better look. “Dominic….” She stares at me in awe. “That’s amazing. You’re amazing. Wow. I….” She snaps her mouth shut as she fumbles for words. My hands shake as she looks at me with eyes that shine. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Th–”
“You should put your work into a national contest.” She talks over me, not letting me get a word in. “One of those places that showcases your artwork. Or even get a showing somewhere like New York, or Boston, or wherever they do that kind of stuff.” She waves her hands in the air. “I don’t know where they do those types of things, but you’re that good. Better than good.”
With each sentence, my heart grows bigger with pride and longing. I want to draw her to me and hold her. Touch her. Show her that she’s the reason I’m this good. To prove I’m worthy of her. But I’m her tattoo artist, not her lover.
“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.” I stand and straighten my supplies. “Let me clean up everything and put some antibacterial ointment on your tattoo. You’ll want to keep it covered for a few hours before cleaning the area.”
“Yes, give me the cleaning instructions so I can get out of here.” She leans back. “I didn’t realize it was this late, and I’ve got somewhere I need to be tonight.”
“Where?” Son of a bitch. If Xavier sees this. Or that quarterback, dude. Or anyone else, for that matter.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, now, is it?” Her jaw tightens as she closes her eyes.
No, no, it’s not. I bandage her skin, recite the instructions in a robotic manner that sounds foreign to my ears, and take her money. A business transaction. That’s all this was.