"Get the fuck out of here, dude," he says with absolute calm.
The guy sniffs. He's probably somewhere in his mid-thirties, and nearly the same height as Rush, but thicker around the middle. "I just want to watch, man. What's the big deal? Shit."
"Big deal is you don't talk to a lady like that. It's not cool, and it's not tolerated."
"Fuck you," the guy says, then gives Rush a shove.
Rush sends his fist into the guy's gut, then grabs him by the back of the head and slams his knee into the man's stunned face.
"I really hate these conventions," I hear Rush say.
As I watch dumbfounded, the guy goes down on his knees and remains there, intermittently wheezing and moaning. As the crowd falls quiet, Rush gestures to someone near the back, and in seconds two guys dressed in black haul Mr. Charming away.
Eyes as cool as twin emeralds, Rush heads back my way, pulling off his gloves. The knuckles on his right hand are bleeding. "Keep your bra on, baby. No one'll see a thing."
I turn, my eyes following him, my heart pounding fast and sick. He's such a frighteningly, deliciously volatile creature, and I just want to know what it feels like to be taken over by him again.
As he washes up in the sink, I unbutton my shirt. My fingers shake as I work off each small, silver circle like it's a puzzle piece. My brain isn't working right. It wants to work out other answers to other puzzles like, why did he do that? Why did he challenge that guy? Knock him down when he hates me so much?
Rush slips on a clean pair of gloves, then looks up, locks eyes with me. He motions for me to come to him. My skin instantly reacts to the command by going hot and tight. I walk over, shrug out of my shirt and place it on the back of an empty chair. Cool air moves over my hot skin, but it's Rush's gaze moving over my skin that truly brings out the goose bumps. It's hungry and dark, and I can't help but get a little thrill that I still affect him in some way.
"Lie down," he says, his tone as tight as his jaw.
I climb onto the table and stretch out, rest my cheek on my hands so I can watch him. Rush pushes his black swivel stool close to my shoulder blades and checks his materials all set out on a metal table by Ms. Pin-Up. Then he looks down at me.
"You okay?" he asks.
I take a deep breath and wonder again why I'm doing this. This-as in, letting him permanently ink my skin with a design of his own choosing. Is it just to get him to talk to me? Listen to me? Or is there more? Do I want him to touch me? Be forced to touch me?
"I don't like pain," I say.
His eyes flash as he reaches across my back to unhook my bra. "No one does, baby. No one does."
As I try not to obsess over his words and their obvious meaning, I watch him pick up a razor from the table and lean over me. I feel his hard stomach press against my arm as he runs the thing over my upper back a few times. Next, I feel a cool, wet cloth dragging gently across my skin. Then what feels like paper, about the size of an orange, pressing firmly into the area, then lifting away.
He reappears in my eyeline and asks, "Ready?"
My mouth is so damn dry I just nod, then brace myself.
As the needle touches my skin, and Rush draws the first line of whatever image he's chosen, I close my eyes and breathe. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as I thought it would, but I know it's going to be a long process and I have to prepare myself for what's coming.
Over the next ten minutes, I let the sound of the machine lull me into a strange sense of calm. As I continue to rest my cheek on my hands, I vacillate between eyes closed and eyes open, and trying to figure out what he's drawing by the movements of the needle. But so far, I've got nothing.
From what I can see, Rush is concentrating really hard, his eyes pinned to my skin, his face tight with tension. It's incredibly hot, and I wish I had a better view.
"Rush," I say in a quiet voice, not wanting to jolt him from his focus. "Can I talk while you work?"
"Depends on what you have to say."
"Just...thanks."
His nostrils flare, but his hand is shockingly steady. "You can thank me after you see it."
"No," I correct him. "I mean for the asshole in the crowd."
The bite of the needle is gone momentarily. And I realize he's lifted it off my skin. His eyes flicker to mine. "It's nothing."
Then he returns to his work. I settle in to watching him again, completely unaware of the crowd, of Lisa, of everyone but him. It was always like that back when we were together. He was addictive. Like sugar. Like horror movies. Sometimes after we'd have sex I'd just lie there and stare at him, tell myself over and over that he was mine. That this gorgeous, talented boy belonged to me, wanted me, loved me. I saw us together, sharing an apartment as we went to college.
And then I got moved from my aunt's house into a foster home, and then another foster home, and then a group home, and eventually everything I wanted and hoped for and believed in got crushed. Not by anyone I knew. God, that would've been so much easier to forgive. But by me.
"Is it starting to hurt?" Rush asks me, lifting the needle again, cocking his head to the side, his eyes finding mine. "You're tensing up."
"No," I assure him. "Just thinking."
He doesn't ask. Instead his eyes return to my back. When the needle makes contact again, my mind tries to follow the lines it's making. I sense a diamond shape, but I can't figure it out.
"Are you going to tell me what you're tattooing on me now?" I ask.
"You'll see for yourself when it's done."
"How about a hint? Like if it's something gross or pornographic or just really, really mean."
I see the corners of his mouth twitch. God, he's so sexy. Forget Ms. Pin-Up. He probably has a hundred girlfriends. All on speed dial. All waiting with bated breath for him to call.
I know I would be.
"It's not a portrait of me flipping you off or anything," he says.
"Okay, good." I make a face. "That's a relief."
His eyes darken. "Don't get cute with me, okay? You've wanted to get under my needle for what...two years now?"
I sober a little at his combative mood. "I think it's going on three. Didn't realize your wait list was that long."
"It's not." Once again, he lifts the needle off my skin, gives me a look so dead sexy my breasts tingle against the table.