8. Cole
COLE
Ilike closing shifts.
By this hour, the shop’s practically empty. The last of the bookings are long gone and everyone else has already left for the night. Flash was out the door the second his last client left, and the others weren’t far behind.
No surprise there. Walk-ins this late are a long shot. Everyone had already wrapped their pieces, and nobody likes hanging around for nothing.
I didn’t grow up thinking this would be my life.
Kids talk about becoming cops or detectives or firefighters.
Nobody’s out there at ten years old dreaming about tattooing for a living.
But the first time I put a pen to my skin and started to doodle, something in me clicked into place in a way nothing else ever had.
When I’m working, there’s no room for distraction. Either I focus, or I mess it up, and if that happens, somebody carries it forever.
That matters to me.
I chew down on my gum as I wipe down the counter, stacking everything back where it belongs before I close up.
I can still remember the first piece I ever did here.
My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it, too stubborn to let anyone see I was nervous as hell.
Spent the whole thing convinced I’d fuck it up so badly they’d never let me touch a needle again.
Somehow, it came out clean. Better than I’d hoped. Healed perfect too.
Tony still comes in every couple of months, like clockwork. I never told him how much I was sweating that first time, or that I kept a photo of the piece on my phone, but I look at it sometimes anyway. Just to remind myself.
The sun’s already setting, and for a second, I let myself think I might actually get out of here on time for once. I’m halfway through lining up the caps on my tray when the bell over the door rings.
The sound cuts through the shop and immediately pisses me off, mostly because I was already halfway out the door in my head. We close in five minutes. The sign says it. The hours are posted. I don’t know why people still act shocked every single time I have to turn them away.
I head out the back, already preparing to tell whoever it is to come back tomorrow, but the words die in my throat the second I see her.
Christ. Is there anywhere on this campus she doesn’t turn up?
My jaw locks on instinct. My eyes dip before I can stop them, catching on the short skirt she’s somehow wearing when it’s cold as hell outside, and I drag my gaze back up, folding my arms across my chest.
“We’re closed.”
She’s quiet for a second. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Considering we don’t talk, that’s not exactly surprising,” I say dryly. “What are you doing here, Prescott?”
She shrugs and steps farther into the shop, her eyes drifting over the flash designs on the walls. “I want a tattoo.”
A short laugh leaves me, already shaking my head. “Not fucking happening. Go somewhere else.”
She shoots me a glare and steps up to the counter instead of leaving. She digs her phone out of her pocket and slides it across to me. “Don’t be a dick. This place has the best reviews. I just want this piece.”
I look down despite myself.
It’s a big floral piece, starting high on her thigh and climbing into her hip, soft petals and fine lines with enough shading to make it a pain in the ass. At least three hours if she sits well. Longer if she doesn’t.
My jaw goes tight, grinding my teeth down on my gum.
Three hours with her leg under my hands. Three hours of her in my chair, trusting me not to fuck up something that’s going to live on her skin forever. Three hours of trying not to think about how that same skin looked under club lights.
Yeah. No.
I straighten and shove the phone back toward her. “I’m not giving you your first tattoo.”
Her head jerks up, those blue eyes flashing. “How the hell would you know it’s my first?”
I hold her gaze, letting my eyes drag over her once before I bring them back to her face. “I saw every inch of you at the club,” I remind her. “You’ve got virgin skin, and I’ve got no interest in being the one to break it.”
Her throat works when she swallows, but a second later she’s rolling her eyes. “Congratulations, you got an eyeful. Doesn’t mean you get to make decisions for me.”
My jaw tightens, that night flashing back.
When I don’t answer, she lets out a sigh. “I don’t have all day. You gonna do it or not?”
“You don’t want me doing it,” I say, shaking my head. “Trust me.”
Her mouth curves into that infuriating little smirk. “Why? Are you scared you can’t handle it?”
She’s baiting me, and goddamn if it doesn’t work. My jaw locks, which only makes her eyes sharpen with satisfaction. I hate how easy it is for her to get a rise out of me.
“I thought you didn’t want me,” she says, tilting her head.
“I don’t,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Then what’s the problem?” she asks. “I’m happy to book for another day.”
I drag a hand down my face, already wishing I’d locked the door five minutes early. I could tell her to leave again. I should. That’s the smart move. Probably the only smart move. Nothing about this is a good idea.
But she’s still standing there with her chin tipped up like she’s already decided whatever I say doesn’t matter.
And I know exactly how this goes either way.
If I turn her down, she’ll mouth off about it, find someone else, and somehow it’ll still piss me off.
If I say yes, I’m handing her an in. Letting her get exactly what she wants. Letting her under my skin again.
There’s no winning with Aurora. There never has been.
I let out a slow breath and jerk my head toward the back. “Come on.”
“Now?” Her brows pull together. “Aren’t you closed?”
I look back at her over my shoulder. “Do you want the tattoo or not?”
Her mouth presses into a line and she follows me down the hall to my room. I shove the door open, step inside, and hold out my hand.
“Phone.”
She takes her sweet ass time sitting down before handing me her phone. I take it to my desk, drop onto my stool, grab my tablet, and start sketching it out.
Fuck. I was so ready to go home. This shit will take hours, but at least I’ll be done with it—done with her.
What happened at the club was a fluke. Having her grinding on me like that scrambled my head for a second, that’s all. It doesn’t change who she is. Doesn’t change what she did.
And having my hands on her thighs won’t magically change that we can’t stand each other.
She stays quiet while I work, which somehow gets under my skin more than if she were talking. I can feel her there anyway, looking at the framed designs on the walls, at the stacks of sketchbooks on the shelf, at all the shit I’d rather she not touch.
Once I’ve got the design down, I resize it, run the stencil through the printer, and pull on a pair of gloves before I turn around.
She’s looking up at the designs on the wall, one leg crossed over the other.
“Need to see your thigh,” I say, dropping to my chair.
Her eyes flick to the stencil in my hand, then back to me, and she shifts forward to the edge of the chair, her thighs parting, and when I roll my stool in, they end up brushing either side of my legs.
She slides her fingers down her thighs as she lifts her skirt slowly, inch by inch. My eyes catch for half a second on the blue cotton of her panties before I drag them back to the stencil.
She leans back and braces her hands on either side of the seat while I line the paper up against her skin. I set one hand on her leg to angle it properly, my thumb firm against the inside of her thigh, my fingers spread along the outside to keep her steady.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb and I try my hardest to ignore it, biting down harder on my gum.
“Don’t move,” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer, but I can feel the weight of her attention on me, crawling along my shoulders.
At the club, it had been easy enough to blame the reaction on everything else. The crowd. The music. The way the whole place felt turned up too high. In here, there’s none of that. No bass. No noise. Just the sound of my gum grinding between my teeth and her breathing way too close.
I snap out of it and glance back at the reference. The flower she wants starts high on the thigh and curves up toward the hip bone. It has to follow the line of her muscle or it’ll look wrong every time she moves.
“It’s gonna take at least three hours,” I tell her. “Probably closer to four once I get into the shading.”
“I can handle it.”
I scoff and shake my head. “You’re inkless. You have no clue what you can handle.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve dealt with you for four years. I’m pretty sure I can survive a little needle.”
I arch a brow and shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I shift her leg slightly to check the curve, sliding my hand a little higher so I can picture how the petals will sit against her body.
Her breath catches when my hand practically cups her ass, and my focus splinters. Before I can stop it, I’m right back in that club, with her on my lap, the music hammering through my head and my body betraying me all over again.
I glance up and find her already looking at me, the usual attitude gone. Her throat moves when she swallows, and I know she’s thinking about it too.
My hand is still on her ass, and all I can think about is how easy it would be for this to go somewhere it shouldn’t. Three hours of this—her in my chair, me trying not to react, her catching every slip, every crack in the control I’m barely hanging on to.
Fuck that.
I’m not giving her that.
I stand, tear off my gloves, and toss them in the bin.
“I’m not doing this.”
Her head snaps up. “What? Why?”
Because you’re already too far under my skin, and I’m not about to sit here for the next three hours pretending otherwise. Because I remember every second of that night, and I hate what it does to me. Because if I keep my hands on you, I’m going to lose every ounce of control I have left.
Because you ruined my life and I’ll never forget it.
I drag my tongue over my teeth. “We’re closed. And this isn’t some tiny ankle tattoo I can knock out in forty minutes.”
She swings her legs off the chair and yanks her skirt back down. “I told you I wanted to make a booking.”
“Not happening. Either go somewhere else or come back when I’m not here. I don’t tattoo snakes.”
She goes quiet. I’ve got no idea what kind of look she’s giving me, because I’m doing everything I can not to lift my head and find out.
A few seconds later, the chair scrapes against the floor, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch her snatching her jacket off the counter and dragging it toward her.
“You’re such an asshole.”
She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall until I hear the bell at the front of the shop clang when she yanks the door open. It slams shut behind her and then it’s quiet again.
Too quiet.
I stare at the empty chair like an idiot for way too long before I drag a hand down my face, chewing my gum hard enough to crack a tooth.
Fuck, I can’t stand her.
I hate that she barely even blinked before lifting her skirt. Hate that she remembers that night just as clearly as I do, no matter how hard she tries to act like she doesn’t.
But what I hate most is that the thought of three hours with my hands on her didn’t turn my stomach.
It should have.
After everything she’s said, everything she’s done, after years of the two of us turning every room we step into a war zone, I should want nothing to do with her.
Instead, all I can think about is getting my hands on her again.
And I hate myself for it.