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“I like this time of day,” said Scotland, struggling to keep his eyes on the road as he picked up speed. “It’s still early enough that most people are asleep, their houses dark and seemingly vacant. It’s quiet.”
The highway was nearly empty, which was a good thing when the man of his dreams was so focused on distracting him from the passenger seat.
He’d been fighting to keep his gaze off Clint for days. A promise was a promise, and he was bloody well keeping to it, despite how much it hurt him not to touch.
His heart had broken right along with Clint’s as he’d held him, listening to dozens of stories of Ross. The way Clint had sounded, and the look on his face had made it so clear. That was love. Not what was between them.
I never had a chance.
But that didn’t stop him from wanting and fighting the pull that haunted him. He dreaded leaving for work in the morning, looking toward the cabin and wondering if Clint had slept and if he would wake up in time to find the breakfast Scotland had left him, still warm on its tray just inside the door.
Things had become so quiet. Clint would sit on one of the chairs by the fire pit, the wood still stacked and begging to be lit. Scotland would join him, not saying a thing as they rested in comfortable silence. The walks they’d taken on the game trails through the forest had been the same, except for the few curses when the bugs managed to find their way past the bug spray and bite him.
The days were dwindling as the night turned colder, the sun disappearing for a little longer with each sunset.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” said Scotland, clenching his hands on the steering wheel to keep from reaching out and placing a soothing hand on Clint’s thigh. It would only lead his thoughts down a path of no good if he gave in.
“Maddy won’t stop texting and asking me if I’ve seen your studio yet,” said Clint, letting out a yawn before he squinted out of the window. “I can’t figure out if that’s supposed to be a euphemism or if he’s serious.”
Chuckling, Scotland flicked on his turn signal as they hit the edge of the city, before merging onto the main drag. The traffic thickened with every second, the first horn blaring somewhere in the distance. “Maddy is a different kind of guy. He’s cute, but intense. And I don’t really get his sense of humor.”
“No one does,” said Clint, shaking his head. “Except Derreck. That kid was new to life when I first met him at the bar. He was so innocent and naïve, with the weight of his life on his shoulders. He surprised the hell out of me, too. I didn’t think much of him, to be honest, but he proved me wrong pretty quick.”
That sounded just about right from what he knew about Maddy. He acted more like a teenager than a forty-something-year-old man. Scotland had been shocked to find out his age from Nav, another kinkster who frequented the community with his Dom Trick.
“This is it,” he said, peering up at his building as he pulled into the reserved parking space. “I know it doesn’t look like much.” That was an understatement. It had used to be a bungalow before someone had converted it into a business. He’d gotten it three owners later after it had been passed along too many times by unsuccessful businessmen. Each of them had done some sort of renovation, leaving a haphazard and mismatched façade on the outside.
He hadn’t thought to fix it up, focusing more on the interior than bothering with the outside.
“Huh.” Clint let himself out of the car before staring at the building with a frown. “It’s nicer than I imagined. I was thinking about a tattoo parlor with all the tacky signs on the windows and the bars to keep thieves out. This looks almost domesticated.”
Scotland snorted. He’d never heard his work called that before. “I have a few mothers who would disagree with you.”
He never touched anyone underage with a needle, but he’d had a few parents call him in a rage when they saw the new ink on their twenty-something-year-old son or daughter.
Most of the time, it wasn’t what the tattoo was about or what it symbolized, but the fact that they now had an irremovable stamp of art etched into their skin.
Turning the key in the lock, he opened the door and let out an instant sigh of relief. Everything was where it was supposed to be and exactly where he’d left it. It was almost as good as coming home, with his artwork on the walls and his taste in every inch. The smell sank into him, the fresh inkiness of it soaking deep like it always did.
Clint whistled under his breath, toeing off his shoes and strolling to one of the paintings. It was something of a bestial devil, with curled horns and a devious face in shadow. The color was vibrant and clear, every brush stroke placed with utmost care and patience.
“Who did this one?” asked Clint with obvious awe, his fingers hovering over the canvas. “It’s so pretty.”
“I did that maybe four or five years ago,” said Scotland, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I was still at the old place, my day stacked with clients and my idiot boss always breathing down my neck. I was pissed at him for rushing clients and not giving me the time I needed to do my best work. I poured every bit of that into the painting.”
“Really? You did this?” Clint’s eyes went wide. “That’s unbelievable.” He paused, his mouth dropping wide as he looked around the room. “Did you do all these?” He motioned to the walls.
“Uh—yeah.” There was a lot, and some of them were from his darkest times. There were bright ones, too, but they often lay unfinished, the passion fizzling away a little too quickly. “Art has always been my way of coping.” It was more than that, really.
“Scotland.” Clint turned to him, pinning him with his serious gaze. “This stuff should be in museums. I thought you were just a tattoo artist.”
“Just.” Scotland shook his head, even as he grinned. It was amazing how people never made the connection between a tattoo and art. They were one and the same, just with a different canvas. “I don’t paint much anymore. On weekends sometimes maybe, or I’ve got a bit of a break. I’d much rather poke someone with something shiny.”
Clint broke out in a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “The perfect job for a sadist. I never thought of it like that.”
Scrunching his nose, Scotland picked up his tattoo machine. It was fully charged and small enough that it could easily fit in his hand. “It’s really not like that.”
He trailed his fingers over his computer keys, typing his password in with his free hand. An image he’d been working on popped up on the screen, the twisted vines and snake before him in vivid detail.
