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Is that sarcastic or earnest?
I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
This is a request from my boss. Not sass from my enemy.
I work with Dean.
I take orders from Dean.
Learning to do ink is worth dealing with a million obnoxious Deans.
There's a perfectly good temporary tattoo in the printer—Dean checked it a hundred times. Even so, I scan his drawing, hit print, wait for the machine to spit out the adhesive paper.
There. I snip it as small as I can and return to the main room.
The shop is still empty. There's no conversation, laughter, or grunting to drown them out.
I move close enough to eavesdrop.
"Come on. Be honest. You tapped that?" Rick asks.
Dean laughs. "Is she a PlayStation controller?"
"You know what I mean?"
"Is it the 90s? Is my hair rad?" He shakes his head, sending his long bangs flying in every direction. "Are my jeans fly?"
"Your hair is trapped in 2004. A little eyeliner and you'll be rocking the emo look," he says.
Dean chuckles. "You're brave, Rick. Braver than I am. But you know what they say—"
"Chicks dig guys with eyeliner?"
"Exactly." He laughs.
I'm not exactly opposed to the idea. Grey would suit Dean. Dark enough to line those baby blues but not dark enough to overpower them.
Shit.
This is…
It's just because I hit puberty when the emo look was popular.
It has nothing to do with that one time Dean dressed as some musician for Halloween. It has nothing to do with how badly I want to tug at his bangs and tear off his skinny jeans.
Besides, he's way too buff to look emo anyway.
This—
"Did you fuck her?" Rick asks.
"You gotta butter me up if you want juicy details like that."
"Girl like that. In those boots? Bet she's a tiny package of kink."
"Do you?"
