CHAPTER 29
Iback into the lot behind Teken Ink, and pull up closer to the door than I typically would.
It's a lot easier driving Tek's truck than the cumbersome van.
To think, he had a whole other vehicle I could have borrowed when I asked for help with the furniture I'd bought from Harry's Hut, just sitting there unused in his garage.
What a prick, I smirk to myself as I make my way to the tailgate. Releasing it, I pull the two boxes of frames from my most recent trip to Harry's to the back of the tray, then carry the first one inside.
"For a second I got excited that you didn't work here anymore."
"What nice friends you keep," I say, refusing to look over at Tek, or Brooklyn at his station. But after I put the box down by the desk, I catch her out of the corner of my eye, and jealousy gets the better of me.
Sprawled out on the tattoo table, she's wearing a pair of banana-yellow athletic bike shorts. The ones girls wear that are so short they end up rolling to sit beneath the crease of their ass. It annoys me that Brooklyn is so competitive, and I really hate that she's so fucking good at it.
Tek's face is practically in her crotch as he leans over to work on her upper thigh; her other leg bent out to the side like she's inviting him in. Wriggling her hips, she pretends it hurts more than it does, and my eyes lock in on his.
I'm not sure how long I watch him for; it's tragic either way.
I know he's coming home with me.
I know my tongue was in his mouth half an hour ago, before her appointment. Before I escaped to Harry's so I wouldn't have to be here when she arrived.
When Tek stops to re-ink—his eyes never having strayed once from his work—I force myself back out to the truck to collect the second box.
After hanging up my jacket, I return to the desk. "I filled up the truck," I say, tossing the keys in the drawer.
"Did you get rid of the van?" Brooklyn asks Tek. Not me. Not the one who was talking.
"Never," he says flatly, his head not moving.
"It's in the shop." I answer for him. "Getting a hot water tank installed. Some better storage under the bed. A few solar panels…"
She glances over her shoulder. "Why are you talking like it's yours?"
'Cause he's fucking me and not you, bitch.
I shrug. "Maybe 'cause we're best friends now."
Brooklyn rolls her eyes and turns back to Tek. "In the summer, it'd be fun to have a weekend away in it, don't you think?"
"Yep."
"Somewhere down the coast. Or maybe up into Canada."
Tek's eyes rise, but they bypass Brooklyn and focus on me. "That's the plan."
My stomach flips, but it's not enough. It's only the second week back, and being hidden is already annoying the ever-loving fuck out of me. We're not at his parent's house anymore. We shouldn't still be talking in innuendos and double-meanings.
I stare back at Tek, telepathically begging him to tell her that we're together; that he's taken; that she doesn't stand a fucking chance. But he doesn't. He gives me the hint of a smirk, then goes back to his work.
Annoyed, I huff into the break room and let out a silent scream as I punch the air in the direction of Brooklyn and Tek like a frustrated toddler doing Karate.
After I've composed myself, I make an espresso shot and down it in one go.
With the coffee still bitter on my tongue, I grab a rag and the Windex, and throw myself back into the fray just as Brooklyn is stretching her leg out and twisting so her perfect ass is on display.
Touché, Brooklyn. Touché.
Tek catches my eyes, and I raise my brows right back at him then abruptly turn away. I can't keep watching this. I need to distract myself. That's what this project was all about.
Starting with the box closest to me, I take out all the frames and divide them into piles by their size on the floor behind the desk.
Taking five smaller ones, I clean and polish them, then set them on the bench where the flash design folders typically sit.
After doing the same with the medium sized frames, I have roughly twenty lining the benchtop.
Next, I take the full sketchbook from the desk drawer—the one with the sketch of me in it—and carefully cut out the best sketches before, one by one, laying them on the frames.
I change some around, trim the edges of others, until almost all of the frames are full and arranged on the tiles on the empty side of the shop floor.
Taking the hammer and nails I bought from Watersons', I grab the first frame and climb onto the bench.
"You're the one who's gonna be spackling all those holes," I hear Tek say after I've hung the first sketch. "Wait… The fuck?" With tattoo gun in hand, he stands and walks over to my ground display. "These aren't for displaying."
I give him a lofty, cheesy grin. "I beg to differ."
"Some of them are dog shit."
"I don't think so." Jumping down, I pick up the next one in line. "I don't think anything you do is shit." I glance over his shoulder to Brooklyn, who is, of course, looking right at me, then straight back to Tek. "Nothing you draw, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I shrug, and jump back onto the counter.
I can feel Tek looking up at me as I position the frame against the dark grey wall.
A little to the right.
Down two inches.
Once I'm happy, I mark it with the pencil from my back pocket.
Brooklyn calls Tek back, and I listen as his slippers scuff along the tiles. The ones I cleaned and gave back to him. Then I wait until Brooklyn starts to talk again, and begin hammering the new nail.
She pauses for me to finish, and I pretend I got it in the wrong spot.
She speaks again, and I start hammering.
"Do you have to do that now?" she calls out over the noise.
Spiteful glee tugs at my mouth. "Am I bothering you?"
"It's a lot… I mean, getting tattooed isn't exactly the most fun of experiences to start with."
"You seem to be enjoying yourself," I mutter under my breath as I climb back down.
"What did you say?"
I squat and stack three frames on top of each other. "I said, when else would you like me to do it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe when the shop is shut."
"Can't." I shrug. "I've got my hands full when the doors are locked."
Tek snickers, but it doesn't fill the hole.
Brooklyn sighs. "Could you please ask him to stop? At least until I'm gone."
"Carey—"
"Come on. It's gonna look shit with just two up there."
"Just quit the hammering… Please."
My nostrils flare, and I grit my teeth. "Fine," I force out, and catch the smug look on Brooklyn's face.
"Hey Brooke," I say harshly—not giving a flying fuck if she likes being called that—as I march back to the desk to grab the sketchbook. "D'you think this would be good for one of the bigger frames?"
Flipping through the remaining pages, I find the sketch of me, and hold it in front of her.
Her eyes squint as she double takes the features.
"I guess," she says, looking off to the side, but then she's straight back on Tek. "Hey, I could model for you."
"He only works from memory."
"Then imagine how much better they would be if the real thing was right in front of him."
"Who says it isn't?"
Brooklyn glances down at herself and Tek's hands on her thigh.
She bounces her free leg and looks back up at me. "I guess it already is."
I grip the sketchbook tight because of how badly I want to grab Tek's jaw, wrench up his chin, and suck his indifference right out of his body.
I step back because I don't trust myself.
When Tek re-inks, Brooklyn twists her hips, rolling onto her other leg and pushing her ass out. "Do ya think we should continue the design around to the back of my thigh?"
Tek looks, blinks a few times, but doesn't say anything.
She lifts the side of her bike shorts, hiking them further up her leg. "Or maybe up here instead?"
I step between him and her. "Hey, old man. I saw this in the shower this morning, d'you think it looks weird?" Raising my shirt, I watch Tek's eyes widen as I bare my stomach. There's nothing there, just the same mole by my left hip that's always been there.
"You…" He falters. "You have spent a lot of time in the sun."
"Think I should get it checked out?"
I watch Tek's tongue push into his cheek as he looks at me. Then I can tell he's rolling it around inside his mouth.
He wants my fingers.
I want his mouth.
I want Brooklyn to take the fucking hint.
"Let me see," she asks, but I tug my shirt down and back away.
I toss the sketchbook on the desk and slide open the back room door.
"I think something's broken," I say, stepping inside.
I don't hear Tek moving, but he doesn't have an option in this.
Slapping my hands on either side of the door frame, I stick my head out. "The autoclave isn't cycling properly. I need you to look at it now."
Rolling his chair back, Tek takes off his gloves and stands. He says something to Brooklyn, but I don't hear it. Then he walks to the back of the staff room, and I close the door behind him.