"You know, I never wanted a tattoo," I say.
"Yeah, I know. That's why you never got an appointment."
I release a breath. "I just wanted a chance to talk to you."
"Well, you got it. Or your girlfriend did. Either way, I'm here, you're here. Go."
"Okay." I bite my lip. It felt so easy a second ago. Now my brain doesn't want to cooperate. "It's just...there's a lot of people here..."
"And?"
"And I know it's kind of loud in here, but are you cool with someone, I don't know, in the front row maybe, hearing how I feel about you? How what I did five years ago is tearing me up? How every time someone touches me or kisses me I wish it was you?"
The sound of the tattoo machine dies, and Rush's eyes cut to mine. They're like twin daggers, and I can't tell if he's turned on or pissed off. Either way, my heart leaps hardcore into my throat. He looks up, gestures-no doubt to Ms. Pin-Up-and in seconds, I'm cleaned off and something warm is rubbed into my back. His jaw tight, Rush places a cloth over my tattoo and tapes around it, then re-clasps my bra.
"You can sit up now and put on your shirt," he tells me coolly, ripping off his gloves.
I'm confused. Not by his tone-that I was expecting-but by the quick work. I always assumed tats took a few hours. "That's it?"
"For now," he says.
For now? As in, there's more? "What the hell, Rush?"
He's tossing his gloves in the trash, but as soon as they hit the rim, he rounds on me and places a hand on either side of my hip, locking me into his vibrantly tattooed airspace. The breath leaves my body as my gaze travels over his collarbone, which sports a skull interwoven with the letters of his last name. As I sit there in my boring bra and my even more boring skirt, his face closes in on mine, and I swear if I lean forward an inch I can press my lips to his. Does he taste the same? I wonder. Feel the same?
"You want to talk to me," he says, his warm breath moving over my skin, making me shiver. "You want to finish this tat? We'll do it my way."
His way. Oh, god, I used to love doing things his way. I contemplate sticking my tongue out and lapping at the air, seeing if I can taste him that way.
"Be at my shop at eleven tonight," he says. "Alone."
I nod dumbly and mumble a raspy, "Okay."
But instead of leaning closer, giving me what I think he knows I want, he releases me, pushes away. I instantly want him back.
Sound familiar, Addison?
My shirt is shoved into my hands by Ms. Pin-Up, and I stand up and get busy putting it on, buttoning it up. My heart is still knocking against my ribs and my insides feel almost as liquid as certain parts of my outsides. I don't care about the dissolving crowd or how Lisa's on her way over to me with a look of utter horror. All I care about is tonight, and seeing him again. Explaining things, asking for forgiveness.
Getting his hands on me again.
"And Addison," he calls.
I turn so easily, almost involuntarily, toward the sound of his voice, like it controls me now.
He slips on a black knit cap, his eyes flashing emerald fire my way. "Don't look at it. If you take off the bandage, I'll know."
Chapter 4
Rush
I'm home. Outside of Vegas, near the Red Rocks where I belong, where I can breathe. Inside my shop, Wicked Ink, the buzz of three tattoo machines rends the air. Vincent, Jane and I are all working on our final clients. Well, V and Janie are anyway. I got one last piece coming in at eleven.
"You're quiet tonight, man."
"Just focusing, brother," I say, adjusting my hand pressure. This cover-up on my old friend, Cory, is a monster-a bullshit tribal with heavy black ink and some scarring-and I want to make sure I get it right before he heads back to L.A. and whatever movie he's making.
"You had that convention today, right?" he asks me.
I pull my needle back and dilute the color in some water. "Never doing one of those again. Not my scene."
"Even with all the hot chicks?"
I grin at him. "Even then."
He sighs, drops his head back against the chair. "Chicks with tattoos rock my world. And if they have a few piercings in some very private places, even better."
I shake my head. The guy pretends to be such a cupcake on the red carpet. "Sounds like you need to hit the convention next time."
As he laughs, Vincent sticks his head in the room. The guy's black hair has just been recently skull-shaved. Between that, his black eyes and the nearly full body art, he looks like one of the death rockers Jane loves to ink. Except for the face. Boy's got a fucking Hollywood face.
"Hey, Rush, man," he says. "There's someone here for you, and she's not on the books."
I feel the announcement of her presence in my gut. It sits there and grinds away, pain and pleasure all at the same time. Sure, I'd given her Wicked's address, and her ink wasn't close to being done, but I'd seriously wondered if she'd show. Wondered if she'd run again.
Like a pussy, I'd even thought about sending a car for her. Or picking her up on my bike. But my pride found its way back to my balls.
I glance up at Vincent again. "Tell her to have a seat."
"Sure thing." He grins real wide at me, his eyebrows going up and down.
"What are you doing, idiot?"
"Or I could take her. You know," he shrugs. "I have a softer touch than you do with the iron."
"Yeah, but women don't want a softer touch," I say. "Especially when you're using your iron."
Cory laughs, and I grin. We're all such fucking infants sometimes. Thank god we have Janie in the shop. That cool-as-ice pin-up balances us all out. And by 'balances' I mean she tells us we're complete knuckleheads, and that if we don't grow the hell up, she's outta there.
And that ain't happening. We can't do without our Janie. Girl's the shit. Eight month waiting list tells the truth of it: every rocker, rapper and reggae artist on the West Coast wants a tattoo from her. Plus, she's cool. She'd really helped me out today, with the asshats at the convention, and with Addison. No judgment.
"You suddenly have time on your hands?" I say to V. "I thought you were booked all day."
"I was. Am." He drops his chin, gives me the innocent look. "I'm done for the night. I could help you out."