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I'm not letting him get to me.
I'm not taking any of his bullshit.
Chapter Three
Dean
I roll my shoulders back. Focus on the neat line of black ink. This is almost done and it's fucking badass.
For a moment, my limbs fill with nervous energy. There's a thrill to marking someone's body. One that never gets old.
My eyes fix on the back piece.
This is it.
The end of a twelve hour, three session piece of art.
"You gonna miss me?" I ask.
"Not even a little." Randy squeezes the teal vinyl. He squirms, knocking his sandals together, turning his head to one side.
"You're brave." I turn the gun on. It hums. Vibrates against my gloved hand. "I could still fuck it up."
"Your ego won't let you."
"That's my favorite subject." I lower my stool. Lean closer. Until I'm out of direct sunlight. Why aren't the shades down? It's too fucking bright in here.
"I thought it was whoever you had last night."
I chuckle. Randy is, well, randy. He always fishes for details on my latest fuck.
Usually, I oblige.
Gladly.
Shooting the shit with customers is half the fun of the job.
I attract a certain type of client—guys who want to get crude or women who want to flirt. It works for me. Skin is skin. Doesn't matter if it's a middle-aged programmer like Randy or an eighteen-year-old model.
I kick ass, every time.
Truth be told, I went home last night. After leg day, I was dead tired. Crashed with takeout and TV.
But that isn't what he wants to hear.
I try to reach for an old story, one sure to please, but my brain is blocked.
Chloe is at the counter. Her almond eyes are fixed on me. Her short hair is sticking to her cheeks. Her black nails are tapping the counter.
Same as always. Impatient. Annoyed. Interested.
There's something about her that gets right under my
skin.
Thinking about another woman is impossible.
My head is flush with thoughts of her. Those black jeans at her ankles. The shy smile when I wrapped my fingers around her cotton panties (black, of course). She was worried they weren't sexy. But they were.
