The Confidant

Chapter One

Adelaide

I’m ready to close up shop when he comes in. It’s been a slow day and not really worth having the lights on. I want to turn him away to come back tomorrow, but business first. I can’t afford to miss an opportunity anymore.

He’s tall and wearing a lot of baggy clothes. All in black. Wavy black hair hangs over his face to hide his features. There are hints of a maroon color in it that reflect in the light. A good dye job? He stares at the floor as he comes in.

If he’s an introvert, he’s trying a little too hard to be incognito. Despite his apparent need to hide, his walk is casual and confident.

He’s odd enough that I’m intrigued. I wonder what secrets he’ll tell me while I tattoo whatever it is he wants. Or if he’ll talk at all.

“Hello. How can I help you?” I say in the slow drawl I love. Despite everyone else in the family conforming to toss away the accent, I revel in mine. I haven’t been in Louisiana for years, and I’ve still got it.

He doesn’t respond as his attention goes to the flash on the walls.

Meh, some are like that. I’m a little disappointed, though. He’s a fine specimen, and I was looking forward to hearing him speak. You can tell so much about a person by their accent and tone.

Why I want to immediately take apart all his little puzzle pieces at first sight, I don’t know. It’s kind of weird. I’m usually more business-minded when people walk in. Somehow, that went out the window as soon as he walked in. I need that mindset back, pronto.

I try to zone out while he browses. It’s obvious he’s here for a look at the art, not a conversation. I’d rather focus on the magazine than pout.

Sometime later, his hands settle on the counter, forcing me to look up.

His eyes are green with light blue around the edges. I’ve never seen eyes so clear before. There’s a force of personality in his gaze that captures my attention like a snap.

A sensation shivers through me, raising goosebumps along my forearms. There’s a reaction in my chest when our eyes meet that feels like an insistent tug toward him.

I want to draw him. The sharp cheekbones and a lush lower lip that soften his face.

“Do you have a portfolio?” He asks in a low tone. The murmur makes it feel more intimate. We’re alone in here, but he’s speaking like he’s telling me a secret.

This guy has me intrigued all over. Good thing he wasn’t ten minutes later, or I would have missed this. That would have been a damn shame.

He seems like a man who doesn’t need words, so I lean forward, pulling the album in front of him. If he has the patience to look all the way through, it'll be a while.

To my surprise, he has the patience for it. He studies each picture with an attention to detail that proves he gives that intense focus to everything. I’m a little jealous of my portfolio for taking that away from me.

His fingers move over the images as if they’re braille, and he wants to read every single letter. A light touch that lingers over specific colors and designs that show me what he likes without him saying a word. He has a pinky that’s been broken before. The knuckle is stiff, like it healed a little wrong. He has calluses over his knuckles, too. He has to have some muscle under there if he’s got those. A fighter.

He just gets better and better. The more I watch, the more I want.

He reaches the last few pages and spends a very long time studying them. My eyes move to his face instead of his hands to see what he thinks. His expression, while focused, is closed to me. I want to unravel his mystery, and he’s giving me nothing.

I know without looking which pictures he’s pausing over. The freehand flowers I’ve done for reference with notes on their meanings. And my baby brother Asher’s flowers in full, vibrant color.

Most people assume the tattoos are on a woman, which I love telling Ash. The dirty looks he gives me are priceless.

I’ll never regret covering him up in them. It made him feel less ugly and untouchable with every single one. I’d give anything to help him banish the shadows our biological father left behind.

Though none of the photos I picked out for display show his scars, they’re still my best work over everything I’ve ever done. The colors are eye-catching enough to speak for themselves while hiding away the secret of his scars.

“Why flowers?”

I look at the page he’s on. Sure enough, he’s looking at Asher’s shoulder piece. A rhododendron. A flower that means beware, danger ahead, colored the lightest shade of purple with bright white accents. It says, “I may look sweet, but I’ll bite.”

Asher picked that one himself. I cackled the entire time he was on the table for it. I know he enjoys telling people I pick out the lamest tattoos for him, my guinea pig. It’s the subtlest joke with a lot of hilarity behind it. No one thinks to look deeper than that.

It’s always the same question when people see these images. Why flowers? Because flowers are beautiful, and they may not talk, but they scream a message if you know your stuff. I like tongue-in-cheek humor. Luckily, Asher feels the same.

“So he’d feel as beautiful as he is,” I answer with a smirk.

It startles me. I usually give a glib answer to that question. The raccoon-roll brush off about how my best work is in flowers.

This guy somehow gets the raw truth of it by saying two words. There’s something off about all this.

I feel his stare burning into me as I turn away to get myself a drink. Giving out raw truths is not my style. I need to keep my mouth busy with something other than talking. I have a lot of secrets locked up in my heart that will never get an audience. Most of them aren’t even mine.

I don’t like that he can pull stuff out of me so easily. I’ve never had this problem before.

“Boyfriend?”

That’s a personal question. I tend to brush those off, too. But my horrified expression as I spin back to him speaks volumes. He takes it in, and a hint of a smile hits his lips.

“My little brother,” I snap and slam the book closed. He barely has time to get his fingers out of the way.

My defensive reaction is weird, too. I’m the one who put those pictures in there. I wanted people to see the beauty in it so that Asher could get that secondhand glow-up from it. Now I have a problem with it? What’s got into me today?

I don’t know why this guy can push my buttons so hard. Maybe I should close after all. He seems bad for my mental health in all the right and wrong ways. He’s just browsing anyway.

Forget a possible sale. I’m ready to escort him out like he’s a squatter. I can vent to my coworker tomorrow about the weirdness that happened. Make a joke out of it.

“Did you freehand those? They’re different from the beginning of the portfolio.” He continues speaking as I start cleaning up in the hopes of leaving.

If I pretend to be busy, I don’t have to look at his pretty face and get distracted by my hormones. That has to be the problem.

“Yup,” I answer rudely, so he can get another hint to leave.

“I want one. Freehand.”

I glance over my shoulder at him with a frown. He sounds determined to get it done. A mark that will be on him for life. I’d think he’s getting ahead of himself, but the way he looked around so thoroughly, I’m not sure. He’s definitely a contradiction.

I waver on getting him to leave with one look at his eyes.

“That will take some time to design. Have you check it-”

“No,” he interrupts me and raises a brow. “Whatever you put on me, I’ll like. Flowers. And I don’t want to see it until it’s done.”

That’s ballsy. I could put whatever I wanted on there, and he wouldn’t have a clue until it was too late.

This whole interaction is escalating with weird vibes. My discomfort takes a backseat so my curiosity can take the helm.

Well, if he has the balls to go all in, so do I. I do need the money.

Meh, I’ll be honest with myself. I want him under the gun and squirming around just to see if he has something underneath that calm he’s maintaining.

His eyes are telling another story about him. One that contradicts everything he’s shown me so far.

“Where you thinking?” I raise an eyebrow back at him.

“Chest to lower stomach,” he tells me with a tilt to his head as if he’s testing me.

Considering the various places I’ve had to look at for hours on the human body, it’s a weak test. I need a better idea of the expanse I’m covering.

“Feel comfortable showing me?” I prop a fist on my hip.

“You? Yes.”

I blink at his firm words as he moves to the flimsy door separating the front from the back. He’s comfortable with my suddenly snarky attitude? Enough to take his shirt off for me. I’m not going to complain. In the end, I’m reaping all the rewards here.

He looks at the swinging door and then back at me without crossing.

“Come on back,” I smirk at his manners. A lot of people would just stomp back here as if they owned the place. Not this guy.

It’s nice to see a man with manners and handsome to boot.

I’m trying to set myself up in business mode, ready to see what he wants as I lead him behind one of the privacy curtains. He has other ideas.

As soon as we’re out of sight, he takes his shirt off. No hesitation or awkwardness. It surprises me. I would have pegged him as a show the bare minimum to be mysterious guy.

He holds the shirt in one hand and starts working on the button of his pants with the other. I have to swallow because the amount of drool that builds in my mouth might drown me.

He is roped with muscle. Even his chest hair has that maroon sheen I can’t describe. My eyes follow the happy trail of hair to its end as he pulls his pants open just enough to pique my interest at the well-trimmed hair there. This is a seduction I wasn’t ready for. I am so here for it, though.

That feeling dies a quick death when I see what he wants covered.

Looks like I’m getting another secret today. I don’t want this one. No wonder he’s trying to hide himself.

There are several scars along the left side of his torso in a haphazard crescent moon pattern. They start just above his pubic hair and pepper over him to his breastbone. The sight of them blows my mind. Whoever did this wanted him dead. That’s deep scarring, old, and there have to be over twenty of them. Someone looked at this beautiful man and decided he needed to leave in the most permanent way imaginable.

My brain jolts away from this trauma and moves to Asher’s. All I can see is the cigarette burns on Asher’s back while I cover them with the biggest fuck you meaning flowers I could find.

This man wants his trauma gone. Covered up.

I want that for him, too.

Someone put this hate all over his skin, and I’ll be damned if I leave it there. Seeing the scars has activated my usual secret-keeping mentality. Damon isn’t going to hear anything about this tomorrow.

It’s none of my business. I’m not asking, either. Despite his ease in undressing, this is something personal he’s showing me. I can tell by the way he’s fallen still, and his expression has shut down even harder. He’s waiting for questions and judgment.

It’s not coming. Not from me. Never.

If someone walked up to Asher, saw his scars, and started demanding to know what happened to him, I’d punch them in the face for the audacity.

You don’t ask a person minding their own business personal questions like that. You let them live. You don’t point out a trauma and wave it in their face because you’re curious.

“A cover or something else?” I double-check, just in case. Maybe I’m overlapping his life with Asher’s. Either way, I’m ticked off and trying not to let it show.

“Cover,” he replies, his voice tight now instead of calm.

“One piece or several?” I tilt my head to see his side. There’s nothing there, leaving the front as my only canvas. If I keep this as a business transaction, we’ll both make it through this without giving him more mental scars to agonize over.

His eyes narrow as he watches me. “One.”

“Do you have any ideas for color or a flower you like? I have a few in mind, but you might not like them.” I frown as I take it in, stepping closer to see if they’re rough or surgically smooth without touching him.

He hesitates and says, “No.”

My mind is already working his skin into art. It needs to be something that says strength. Endurance.

“You mind brighter colors?”

I want some subtle and a few vibrant as all get out. Whoever gets to see this needs to know there’s iron under all this quiet. You don’t live through something like this by being weak. People need to know that.

“No,” his voice drops lower.

I’m not paying attention to it now. My mind is filled with reds. Maybe violent purple. Something that says mess around and find out.

“This is going to hurt, cher ,” I mutter with a frown of concern. “Do you have any other tattoos? Piercings? A little experience with all this?”

“No.”

It seems like his favorite word. I’m not going to ask him about his pain tolerance flat-out. After seeing all this, that would be an insult.

He’s watching me look at the scars from different angles, trying to picture what belongs there instead of this mental anguish. I have a solid picture in my head, and I can’t wait to sketch it out on him.

I want it to look natural. Something that follows the scars loosely, so they aren’t the centerpiece. Maybe a tangled mess of flowers. Or a climbing vine.

“We can take our time with it then. Pace it out to keep-”

“No. I want it done in a single session.”

My eyes bounce to his with a raised brow. “You gonna let me finish a sentence? For a second there, I thought you had manners.”

A tiny splash of color hits his cheekbones, which amuses me. He’s cute, but he’s in my playground now, and he needs a little reminder.

“When you sit down on that table, we aren’t on your schedule so much anymore. You want to be stubborn and get yourself hurt; there’s the door.” I tilt my head to show him the way. “You want something personal from me? I’m in control.”

The color gets darker as he nods, watching me with a slight frown.

“That means there isn’t going to be any keep going when you’re at your limit. This will take as long as it takes. If I say more sessions, then there’s more sessions. If I say damn, my hand is hurting like hell, we’re stopping.”

His brows drop in a frown. “Then you don’t push it either.”

As if I needed him to tell me that. I give him a shrewd look that he returns with intensity and no apologies. He’ll learn better, one way or another.

“ Allons , cher ,” I laugh lightly. “You got some paperwork to fill out while I sketch.”

I have him sit on the table and hand him a tablet to fill out his personal information and sign a waiver about lawsuits—the standard stuff that people gloss over. He reads every line with the same intensity he gave me and all the photos. He has to relax at some point.

“You want to follow the line all the way down?” I glance at his open pants, and for a second, I feel less professional than I should. I look away and sip my water, wishing it were something a little stronger.

“Yes.”

Nothing like being tortured on a fine Saturday afternoon.

Who am I kidding? I’m going to love having my hands on him.

I don’t notice when he finishes the paperwork. Once I’m done laying lines down for ideas, I see him lying back, staring at the ceiling as if all the answers to the universe are up there.

“You don’t want to see?” I raise a brow as his eyes meet mine.

“No.”

“Alright then. You do whatever you need to entertain yourself. It looks like a few hours, just to start with. You need a break, you tell me. You feel faint, you tell me. Scars hurt, and this is gonna piss it off. No way around it.”

His eyes move over my face as if he’s searching for something. He gives me a nod when he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for.

I grab him a few bottles of water. I usually get so into my freehand that talking is a no-go. I want things set up so I won’t have too many distractions. Now that I have everything laid out, I can’t wait to get started.

For the first time in a while, I’m excited to see how it turns out. I’ve done too much flash lately. This is refreshing and a little weird. I love it.

“How much?”

Damn. I got so into it that I didn’t think about that. I look back at his skin and waffle back and forth before settling on a number.

“Fifteen hundred.” If he needs me to go over why the price is so high, I will. He might walk away without asking, but that’s fine with me. He wants a lot, so he pays for it.

Instead of asking questions, he pulls out a wallet and a wad of cash that raises my eyebrows. He patiently counts it out and hands it to me.

This is a first. Not so much with the smaller tattoos, but with this expense, I was thinking he would want to break it into sessions he could pay off. He came prepared.

I take it and slide it into a drawer with a frown.

“Put that away before someone sees it,” I scold him, which makes him smirk.

I don’t think it’s so funny. Paying this amount in cash and having a wad leftover like this is nothing? Drugs or something else illegal is my first guess, especially in this town. Sometimes, you start a terrible life with the best of intentions. Food isn’t cheap.

I feel disappointed in him, but I don’t know why. It’s not my business. I had the same reaction when Ash was stealing and hawking goods for food money. Luckily, he stopped before it got to be drug runs.

My disappointment must show on my face because his brows furrow as he watches me.

“I’m a photographer. It pays well.”

Should I believe him? Does it matter? I nod, keeping my thoughts to myself.

I get him situated with a pillow and get ready. Mask and new gloves once everything is set. He doesn’t talk or flinch when I start. It reminds me of Ash in a bad way.

My thoughts go dark as I work. He seems at ease with anything I do, making that mood a little worse. No matter how many times I ask if he’s ok, it’s always yes. After a while, I look up and find him sleeping. I can't help my wince. I’m near his breastbone with the lines, which is where a lot of people start second-guessing a tattoo. This guy has a faint smile while he snoozes.

I lose track of a lot of things. Not his physical comfort, which he doesn’t seem to have a problem with. Time means nothing while I’m consumed with colors and shading. The only things I’m thinking about are does that need a pop of color, and it needs another leaf to fill a space.

I add a little surprise hidden in the leaves. A camouflaged raccoon peeking from behind a leaf. If he finds it and wants it covered, I’ll do it. But he needs a little humor in his life. Hopefully, he gets it.

The bell over the door doesn’t ring while I work. That’s good for my concentration and bad for business. Foot traffic has gotten way too light since the new shop opened a mere block away from me. Now I’ve got some randoms, a few regulars, and the women Ash sends my way as a no thanks on the dating thing. It cracks me up how many wander in with the cards I had made specifically for him, so I’d know who has their eyes on my brother.

A little touch here, and I’m done.

I stretch my back with a grimace, wondering how long it’s been. He never said a word. I startle when I catch him watching me with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You ready for this?” I raise a brow. He can’t see my pleased grin behind my mask, but the shimmy that I give my shoulders says it all.

He gives me a sleepy smile that sends my heart fluttering. Instead of acting like a fool, I guide him through sitting up, care instructions, and clean up. He focuses on me instead of the brand-new tattoo, which surprises me. He makes it seem like he came in here for me instead of art.

All that stops when he stands to get a look at it in the mirror.

The stillness he gets. His hand hovering over it, tracing along the lines without touching. He looks so reverent as he stares.

Even Ash wasn’t this bad about the first one. He gave it a single glance and walked out, not wanting to see himself. That eased up over time.

This guy looks like a huge weight just dropped off his shoulders in the space of one afternoon. He seems lighter somehow, and his smile is quick and so pleased that it humbles me a bit.

I helped him achieve that, and I’m damn proud of it.

I didn’t pick a single stem of gladiolus. There are several overlapping with each other in various shades. Leaves fill in the blanks and cup along his abs, giving them more definition and highlighting his strength. I had to shave him, so his happy trail is gone, along with a bit of the top over his crotch. I can’t take my eyes away from it for a second before I blink back to awareness.

My eyes dart up and widen a little when I realize I just got busted checking him out without any professionalism involved. He’s watching me with no sign of his previous happiness and a lot more intensity than he had before.

Way to ruin it, Addie. He’s never coming back to have a pervert tattoo him.

“I want the other side too.”

I take my gloves off with a confused frown as he tries to lie back down.

“Slow down, cher .” The mask follows the gloves so that he can see my refusal up close. “Let’s see how this one heals up first. It’s your first, and a big piece. We might tweak it a little, too. Not to mention, you might wake up tomorrow and think, What the hell did I just do to myself?”

He doesn’t like it. I can see that right off. But his intimidating, narrow-eyed stare won’t work on me.

I raise my brow and point at what he’s sitting on. “Who is in charge of this table again? I forgot. Use your manners and remind me, would you, cher ?”

His eyes narrow further, but his lips curve up. Just the slightest tease of a smile. I hope I remember it just right for the sketch I’m going to do.

“Mmhmm,” I smugly smile back. “Now, pretend you’ve got some sense for a second while I go over this with you again. I don’t think you were listening before.”

I’m lying. I just don’t want him to leave.

His eyes wander over me while I go through his care instructions again. That concentration would be flattering if he didn’t give everything that same focus.

I turn and fiddle with my colors while he gets dressed again. As if I need to check they’re back in place. Getting caught peeping once was more than enough. It’s one thing to be flirty but another to be a perv.

The sun has dropped since he came in, and the lack of business is starting to depress me. I made a decent haul tonight, but things are beginning to turn.

I need to face the facts. I may have to close up shop and return to table hopping.

He walks toward the door, the back view just as good as the front.

“Night, cher . A pleasure doing business with you.” I can’t help how much teasing comes out in my tone. I’m coming to accept the fact that I’m a hussy for this man. I can’t help myself.

I’m going to fantasize about him for a while. I can already feel it. I’m already reaching for my sketchbook to draw him while the image is still fresh.

He pauses at the door and turns back to me with his fierce focus.

“I won’t regret any of this. I’ll be back for the next one.”

I don’t have a chance to respond as he walks out.