Chapter 2 - Canvas
I'm fucked.
Completely, professionally, absolutely fucked.
I've tattooed hundreds of thighs in my career. Maybe thousands if I count the smaller pieces. I've worked on bodies of every shape and size, kept it professional every single time, never once let my focus slip. It's art. It's work. It's not personal.
Except right now, with Eden Cross half-naked in my chair, talking about Sanderson like she's reading my goddamn diary, my cock is so hard I'm grateful for the way my black jeans hide everything.
This has never happened before. Not once. Not even a flicker.
I adjust my position on the stool, trying to find an angle that doesn't make me feel like a complete piece of shit.
She trusted me. She's been sitting here for over two hours, vulnerable and comfortable, and I'm supposed to be a professional.
Instead, I'm fighting the urge to run my hand higher up her thigh just to see what sound she'd make.
The dragon is almost finished: just the final details on the tail, some highlighting on the scales, cleaning up the edges. It's some of my best work. The way it curves around her thigh, the muscle definition underneath affecting how the design sits, it's perfect. She's perfect.
And she's wearing black lace panties that are absolutely destroying my concentration.
I noticed them the second she took off her jeans, tried not to notice them, failed completely.
They're not trashy or trying too hard, just pretty, feminine, the kind of thing a woman wears when she wants to feel good about herself.
And they're right there, inches from where I'm working, a constant reminder that Eden Cross has curves in all the right places and I'm running out of professional excuses to keep touching her.
"How much longer?" she asks, and her voice is slightly breathless from the pain.
I clear my throat. "Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Just finishing the detail work."
"Take your time." She shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable, and the movement makes those panties shift too. I look away. Focus on the scales. "I'm not in a rush."
We've been talking for two and a half hours. About books, about art, about life in Millhaven. She's funny, genuinely funny, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you laugh before you can stop yourself. She's smart. Confident. Flirty in a way that feels natural, like she can't help it.
And she has an eyebrow piercing that matches mine exactly, which shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
I've dated. Hooked up. Had a string of women over the years who were interested in the tattoos, the MC cut, the bad boy aesthetic I apparently project.
But nothing stuck. Nothing felt like more than surface-level attraction and decent sex.
I told myself I was fine with that, that I didn't need more.
But Eden talks about fantasy novels like they matter, asks questions about my art like she actually cares about the answers, and laughs at my stupid jokes about asymmetrical phoenix feathers.
And I'm realizing that maybe I've been settling for surface-level because I didn't know what depth looked like.
Now I do, and she's sitting in my chair in her underwear, completely oblivious to the crisis I'm having.
I add the final highlights to the dragon's scales, each line precise despite the chaos in my head.
The piece is done. Objectively, it's gorgeous.
Subjectively, I don't want this session to end because it means she'll leave and I'll have to figure out if I'm brave enough to ask for her number or if that crosses too many lines.
"Alright," I say, sitting back. "That's it. You're done."
Eden leans forward to look, and her face lights up. Actually lights up, like Christmas morning, like someone handed her the best gift she's ever received. "Oh my god. Canvas. It's perfect."
"Yeah?" I'm already cleaning the area, trying to stay focused on the aftercare instead of the way her smile is doing things to my chest.
"It's better than perfect. It's—" She touches the skin around it, examining every detail. "This is exactly what I wanted. Exactly. How did you do that?"
"You picked a good design. And you sit well." I'm applying the protective film now, trying not to think about how soft her skin is, how good she smells. "Some people move too much, makes it hard to get the lines right. You didn't move at all."
"Military-grade pain tolerance." She's still staring at the dragon, running her fingers along the film. "From dealing with impossible patients and twelve-hour shifts."
I finish the aftercare and peel off my gloves. My shoulder twinges, old injury from a bike accident that never quite healed right, and I roll it.
"You okay?" Eden asks, already in nurse mode.
"Fine. Old injury. Acts up sometimes." I stand to grab the instruction sheet from the counter. "Keep it covered for the first few hours, then you can remove the film and wash it gently. No soaking, no direct sunlight, moisturize twice a day."
"I know the drill." She's still in the chair, admiring the dragon from different angles. "Thank you. Seriously. This is incredible work."
"My pleasure." And I mean it. Despite the uncomfortable hard-on and the internal crisis, tattooing her was the best part of my week. Maybe my month.
Everything is perfect when…
The first gunshot cuts through the air.
Then the second.
Then the front windows explode.
I'm moving before my brain catches up. Pure instinct. I cross the distance to Eden in two strides, grab her around the waist, and pull her off the chair as glass shatters in the front room. We hit the floor hard, me twisting so I take the impact, my body covering hers completely.
She's frozen beneath me, her breath coming in short gasps against my chest. I can feel every inch of her: soft curves, skin’s warmth, the way she's trembling. She's still half-naked, vulnerable, and all I can think is *keep her safe, keep her safe, keep her safe*.
More gunshots. The sound is deafening, violent. Bullets tearing through what's left of my studio. The display case explodes. Something heavy crashes to the floor, probably the shelving unit with all my ink bottles.
I press Eden flatter against the concrete, making myself as much of a shield as possible. The back room has no windows, but bullets don't care about walls. One could punch through the drywall at any second.
"Canvas—" Her voice is muffled against my chest, shaking.
"Stay down. Don't move." I keep my voice low, calm, even though my heart is trying to break out of my ribcage.
More shots. Sustained fire now. They're destroying everything, and I can't do a goddamn thing about it except cover this woman and pray we both make it out alive.
Eden's hands are fisted in my shirt, holding onto me like I'm the only solid thing in the world. I can feel her heart racing against mine, can feel how scared she is even though she's trying to stay quiet.
I want to tell her it's okay, that we're safe, but I don't know if that's true. I don't know who's out there or what they want. Could be the Vipers. Could be someone else. Could be random violence that picked the wrong target.
The gunfire continues for what feels like hours but is probably less than a minute. Then, suddenly, it stops.
Engines rev outside. Motorcycles, multiple bikes. Then the sound fades, moving away down the street.
Silence.
I stay frozen for another ten seconds, listening, making sure they're really gone. My body is still covering Eden's, my arms caged around her head, protecting her from debris and bullets and whatever the hell just happened.
"Canvas?" Her voice is small, scared in a way that makes my chest hurt. "Are they gone?"
"I think so." I start to push myself up and that's when I feel it.
Warmth spreading down my left shoulder. Not sweat. Not adrenaline.
Blood.
I look down and see the dark stain spreading across my black t-shirt, soaking through the fabric. One of their bullets must have caught me while I was covering her. I was so focused on keeping her safe, I didn't even feel it hit.
"Oh my god." Eden sees it the same moment I do. "You're bleeding. Canvas, you're bleeding."
I roll off her, sitting back against the base of the tattoo chair. The room tilts slightly. There's more blood than I expected, running down my arm in dark rivulets.
"You're shot." Eden is on her knees beside me, her hands already moving toward my shoulder. She's still in just her t-shirt and those black lace panties, her long dark hair falling around her face, and even bleeding out I notice how beautiful she is. "Let me see. I need to see it."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're shot." Her nurse voice is back, loud and commanding. "Do you have medical supplies here? First aid kit, anything?"
"Cabinet. Under the sink. Back corner." The words come out slightly slurred. When did that happen?
She's across the room in seconds, yanking open the cabinet, pulling out the kit I keep for exactly this kind of emergency. Then she's back, dropping to her knees beside me, already opening packages.
"I need to see the wound. Your shirt has to come off." Her hands are on the hem of my shirt, and they're shaking just slightly despite her training.
I try to help her pull it over my head, but my left arm isn't cooperating. Everything feels distant, like I'm watching this happen to someone else. Eden has to peel the shirt away from my shoulder where the blood has made the fabric stick to skin. I hiss at the pain.
"Sorry, sorry." She gets the shirt off and immediately applies pressure with gauze from the kit. "Okay. Entry wound, posterior shoulder. I need to check for exit."
She moves around me, her fingers gentle but probing against my chest. "There. Exit wound, anterior. The bullet went straight through. That's good, means nothing's lodged inside."
"How bad?" My voice sounds wrong. Weak.
"Bad enough." She's opening more gauze packages. "You're bleeding heavily from both wounds. This needs a hospital, Canvas. Gunshot wounds need surgical attention, imaging to check for arterial damage—"
"Can't." I catch her wrist with my good hand. "Can't go to a hospital with something this serious. You know that. Gunshot means police, questions."
"I don't care about questions right now. You're losing blood."
"MC has a guy. Saint. Handles this stuff." I fumble for my phone in my pocket, nearly drop it. "Just need to call Phoenix, our president."
Eden takes the phone from my shaking hand. "Unlock it. Now."
I give her the code. She scrolls through my contacts, finds Phoenix's number, and dials. Puts it on speaker while she works on packing my wounds with gauze.
Phoenix answers on the second ring. "Canvas? You good?"
"This is Eden Cross. I'm with Canvas at his tattoo studio. Someone just shot the place up. I don't know who, multiple shooters on motorcycles. Canvas is hit. Gunshot wound through his shoulder, entry and exit, heavy bleeding. He refuses to go to a hospital and says you have someone who can help."
There's a pause, then Phoenix's rugged voice: "How bad is the bleeding?"
"Significant. I've applied pressure and I'm packing the wounds now, but he needs proper medical care." Eden's voice is steady, professional, even as her hands work quickly over my shoulder. "Soon."
"Saint's our medic but he's out on a run. He'll be twenty, maybe thirty minutes getting back to the clubhouse."
"Thirty minutes?" Eden's eyes flash to mine, and I can see the calculation happening: how much blood I can lose in thirty minutes, whether I'll make it that long. "Is there anyone closer?"
"No. Saint's the only one with the training." Phoenix's voice is grim. "Can you keep him stable until then?"
"I can try. But I'm a nurse, not a surgeon, and this is a gunshot wound. If he starts showing signs of serious shock or if the bleeding doesn't slow—"
"Do what you can. I'll make sure Saint gets there as fast as possible."
The call ends. Eden sets the phone aside and grabs an elastic bandage from the kit, wrapping my shoulder.
"Who were they?" she asks, taping the bandage in place. "Do you know?"
"No idea." It's not exactly a lie. I don't know for certain it was the Vipers, even if every instinct says it was. "Could be anyone."
"Anyone with multiple motorcycles and automatic weapons who decided to shoot up a tattoo studio in the middle of the afternoon?" She's not buying it, but she doesn't push. "You need to stay conscious. Can you do that?"
"Yeah." Probably. Maybe.
She grabs the blanket from the back of the chair and drapes it over my shoulders. "You're going into shock. This will help with the temperature regulation. Just breathe. Stay with me."
I'm trying. The room keeps wanting to tilt sideways, and there's a ringing in my ears that won't stop. Eden's face swims in and out of focus: those bright blue eyes, the eyebrow piercing that matches mine, the streak of my blood on her cheek that she doesn't seem to notice.
"Talk to me," she says, crouching in front of me, her hands on my knees. "Stay focused. Tell me something. Anything."
"You're still in your underwear," I manage.
She laughs. "Yeah, well. Wasn't exactly time to get dressed while people were shooting at us."
The words are getting harder to form. Everything's getting harder. "You should've run. When it started. Should've—"
"Shut up." Her hand cups my face, forcing me to look at her. "You covered me. You used your body as a shield. You took that bullet for me."
"Instinct."
"Bullshit." Her thumb brushes my cheekbone, and even through the pain and the shock, I feel it. "You could have grabbed your gun, shot back. I'm sure you have one hidden somewhere here. But you covered me instead. Why?"
*Because I couldn't let anything happen to you. Because in the two and a half hours I spent tattooing your thigh, I started falling for you, and I didn't want to admit it to myself until bullets were flying.*
"Couldn't let you get hurt," I say instead, "You're still a client that might come back for another tattoo"
"Well, I'm not letting you die. So, we're even."