CHAPTER 11
LARA
I have a few hours, a bikini in my purse, and a lot of gumption working in my favor right now as I step into Ridge Tattoos. I’m not just nervous. I’m beyond nervous; what I’m feeling right now borders on panic.
That feeling has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with being afraid of pain.
It has everything to do with how close I’m going to be to Playboy. For hours.
I’m in so much trouble.
But I’m the one who asked him when I could get on his schedule. It’s not like I could take it back.
At the time, I wasn’t even aware those words were going to come out of my mouth. Not until they were already out there and I couldn’t change it.
The man moved fast. I don’t know if he had to move anyone’s appointment around or if he’s working outside of the hours that he normally would, but he eagerly made my availability work for him.
I’m resentful as fuck about the feeling his eagerness had rushing through me. It is nothing short of intoxicating.
Playboy is standing next to his tattoo chair like I just caught him trying to figure out what to do with his hands while waiting for me and coming up empty. A smile lifts his lips that is almost boyish. It makes me wonder what it was like growing up with him or any of the club brats.
They must have looked out for each other. I’m not going to lie, the thought of it makes me a little jealous.
I grew up with my sister always playing games and manipulating the people around me. There were years when I was never able to relax.
“Hey,” his voice is hesitant and it reminds me of playgrounds and skinned knees for some reason. “You ready for today?”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.” I decide to be honest because today, no matter what else he has been, he’s a tattoo artist who is about to put in work and permanently etch his art into my skin.
“That’s normal,” he assures me and my shoulders relax a fraction.
Just a fraction.
Because no matter where we start with this tattoo, Playboy is going to be all up on me. Very close. Too close.
Touching my skin.
Breathing on my skin.
Looking at my skin.
For hours.
“First,” he beckons me toward his tattoo chair, “we get the paperwork out of the way. I’m not charging you, but I have to make sure everything is above board.”
He hands me a clipboard filled with normal legal jargon including that if I sign, I’m stating that I have eaten within the last few hours, am sober, and am getting tattooed of my own free will. My eyebrows pull together when I read the line about not being impaired by alcohol.
“Do you a lot of people get tattooed drunk?” I can’t help but ask the question, my curiosity momentarily overtaking my worry about this whole set-up.
“They try,” Playboy teases. When he smirks, it goes straight to my damn clit.
Which is a problem. “I won’t say that I’ve never tattooed a drunk person,” he shakes his head with a look of wry amusement on his face, “since I have a kit at the clubhouse. Drunk people come up with horrible tattoo ideas, but I have standards.”
When he says that he puffs up his chest slightly. I can’t help but giggle. He’s ridiculous.
I can just picture him in the clubhouse trying to talk someone out of getting a penis tattooed somewhere on them. I’m not sure why it’s where my mind goes first, but I have zero doubt that it’s accurate.
“Let me guess—dicks?”
“Yes,” Playboy exclaims, his hands flying up in the air, “so many dicks.” He shakes his head, the move full of chagrin.
His voice holds a hint of tender fondness which has me tilting my head to study him.
“I had to talk Diesel out of getting a dick with hairy balls wearing chaps, a sombrero, and a poncho. I think there was a mustache involved too.”
He shivers slightly as if the memory is just as repulsive as living through it the first time. I’m not sure if I should be offended, curious, or shocked by what Diesel wanted tattooed.
“The man should not drink moonshine, which is a shame with our own moonshine distillery and all,” he fills in, even though I didn’t ask.
After signing my name and handing him back the clipboard, he looks it over. It makes me wonder if he’s a little nervous too.
“I can drink moonshine just fine,” he assures me and my eyebrows furrow together. He’s rambling. I shouldn’t find it adorable.
“Did you ever get your cake?” I’m not sure where the question comes from or why I ask it at all.
Playboy’s eyes light up even as he pouts. “I forgot it on the table that day,” he admits and I remember rushing out of Dolly’s. Oops. “I was thinking about going and grabbing a slice after this. Would you be interested in joining me?”
My lips part in surprise and I’m momentarily thrown. He folded that in so damn smoothly. I’m kind of impressed.
“How about you think about that,” he offers, giving me an out even though he doesn’t need to.
It feels like he’s taking a metaphysical step back and I find myself taking a deep breath.
“We’ll break each section of the tattoo up.
I’d like to do the middle section last. It’ll require me to draw directly on your skin for much of it. ”
He swallows hard and clears his throat. Something heated flashes in his eyes, but it’s there and gone so quickly I’m not entirely sure it was there at all.
“Draw on me?” The question comes out a little shaky.
“Yeah, I’ll use a marker to draw directly on your skin and use those lines to fill in the vines there.
” He points toward the framed art on his wall, and I can see now why the simple vines and leaves would need to be a little more organic.
“I’ve created the stencil from the original drawing, but if there are colors you’d prefer to highlight or leave out, I can easily adjust those.
” He shakes his head slightly and grins.
“If you wanted me to rework the stencil, I could do that too.”
“No,” I’m quick to insist, “I like it just the way it is. I love the mix of colors and the balance between what is old and what is being taken over by what is coming back to life.”
His face smooths out and awe fills his eyes. When he leans toward me, for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I freeze and my heart starts to race.
“You know,” his voice is a low husky sound I want to wrap around me, “most people look at it and see something dying, not coming back to life.”
“Huh,” I huff and take another look at the framed art. “I guess I can see it, but I prefer to look at it like spring, not winter, ya know?”
He chuckles softly and nods. His hands land on his thighs and the moment is broken. “The big question is whether you want to start on your arm and shoulder or on your leg.”
“I think you should call it my flank.” I shift in the chair a little and rub my hand over my hip and the top of my outer thigh.
His eyes track the movement, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip in a move that has my nipples going hard. Shit.
“I’m not calling it your,” he gasps slightly before grunting, “your flank.”
My lower lip comes out in a pout as I whine softly. “No fun.”
I’ve debated this very question with myself many times. My leg is very close to parts of me that his hands shouldn’t be anywhere near, for obvious reasons. However, my arm is a lot closer to my face which means all of him will be front and center.
This is exactly why I’ve been flip flopping about which one to choose. Ultimately, I left it up to this moment and I’m completely flummoxed for about three seconds.
“Leg,” slips past my lips as I go with my gut.
“Okay.” He accepts my answer and doesn’t try to push me in another direction.
That simple act eases a little bit of my worry. Damn it; he just earned a sliver of my trust.
He’s sneaky.
Playboy looks away quickly when he notices the way my nose scrunches slightly. Yeah, he should look away.
I stand up and reach for the button of my jeans and he screeches, “What are you doing?”
Startled, I freeze for a second before hissing, “Use your inside voice, Playboy.” The grimace on his face speaks volumes, even though we’re alone right now.
“I have bikini bottoms on under my jeans,” I explain.
“I’m not like wearing lace or a thong or something,” I sound just as exasperated as my eye roll makes me look.
“Not gonna lie,” he says and rolls back a little on his stool, “I find that a little disappointing.”
“Of course you do,” I deadpan.
“Lace and thongs? If that’s the norm for you, Cupcake,” his voice is pure fucking sin, “I wouldn’t complain at all.”
“I’m a mother,” I scoff.
“A sexy one,” he lobs right back at me with no hesitation.
I can only shake my head as I peel my jeans off and hand my body over to this man. For so long all I knew about him was that he hated me because of Lola’s unique way of seeing the world. Now I’m about to let him mark my skin permanently with his art.
The world is funny sometimes. Honestly, I should be angrier or more resentful. But I’m finding it difficult to hold onto those emotions.
Maybe it’s because I know how Lola is. Maybe it’s because, so far, he’s been steady in proving to me he’s different from the man he showed himself to be before.
Lola taught me that people don’t change. I’ve held onto that for so long because it’s what was proven to be true.
Perhaps it’s time for me to allow a little room to give the chance for a person to change.
It’s not easy to give even that much grace.
Playboy walks me through every step of preparing my skin and placing the stencil.
He has me look at it in the mirror and while I know I’m only looking at the stencil, which is barely a shadow of what it will be, I can almost see the finished tattoo on my body.
A testament of beauty, delicate at times but supported with strength, and the balance between what was and what will be.
My mouth goes dry as I look at it in the mirror. Playboy is watching me closely. At first, I think he’s examining the placement, but when I meet his eyes in the full-length mirror, he’s studying my face.
The only thing I can do is ignore it completely. Especially because of how tender the look is.
I might be willing to let him see me half naked and tattoo me, but tenderness? Nope, that’s too far.
After clearing my throat, I awkwardly climb onto the tattoo chair, following his directions for how he wants me positioned. It feels like I’m on display for him a little bit, but I push that feeling away as I glance up at the drawing on the wall.
He rolls his tray closer and starts to sanitize everything.
“Normally, I do a lot of this stuff beforehand and am completely set up with everything ready to go, but I wanted to walk you through the complete process. You need to be comfortable with what is happening, not only with how we protect our clients and put their health and safety first, but with me as your artist.”
My heart fucking flutters. I’m not sure that I like it at all.
When I give a little nod, he walks me through every step of him setting up his tray. He even talks to me about his tattoo gun and how the machine works.
“You know a lot about how it works,” I marvel.
He grins, his gaze staying on his work as he finishes getting everything ready.
“When I asked my dad for a tattoo gun, I was far too young to be asking for something like that. Still, he knew I was drawing all the time and that some brothers had used my designs for their tattoos. He didn’t buy me some ready to go machine.
” His words are full of the amusement of a good memory, “He handed me a box full of parts and told me everything in it would make a tattoo gun; no more, no less.”
“You had to put it together,” I gasp and stare harder at the machine he’s picked up in his hand.
“Not this one,” he says it like he’s assuring me. “Snake’s first tattoo, the snake, was done with it.”
My eyes widen and somehow the grin on my face grows even wider. When the hell did this man start making me smile?
“Okay,” he takes a deep breath like he’s the one about to have an inked needled dragged across his skin, “are you ready?”
I nod and settle deeper against the chair, letting my body relax. “I’m good.”
“Tell me if you need a break at any time,” he implores me and starts up the machine.
The buzzing fills the air and then he begins. Even though it does hurt, there’s something meditative about it. I don’t notice it at first, but it lulls me into some sort of dreamscape.
Even though I’ve been fortifying my walls against him, the man is trouble. I don’t open up much, but more than I thought I would when I walked in. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to.
Everything is surface level topics, but I can practically feel him filing away every fact he learns about me like he’s putting together a capital case.
I’m not sure how I feel about it.
When I stand up hours later, I’m stunned at what has started to form on my body, a piece of something that will, eventually, be whole. It’s not complete, far from it.
But it’s a start.
The small smile on Playboy’s face when I leave, without waving and barely saying goodbye, makes me wonder if he sees it as a start too. But what, exactly, are we beginning?