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Rick looks between us. Arches a brow, angling for a story. He's eager for dirt. He's practically oblivious to the needle on his arm.
Dean is good at this.
"How'd you get from there to doing ink?" Rick asks.
"Ryan started apprenticing around then. Once he was a full-time artist, I guilt tripped him into getting me a gig at his studio."
"No wonder he's hesitant to teach anyone," I say.
Dean laughs. "Fucked that up for everyone. Sorry." He winks.
I don't know how to take it, so I focus on the work. The outline takes shape. A woman sitting on an anchor, her back arched, her lips parted, her chest in the air.
Classic.
He finishes the black. "Red."
I grab the pad, open it, place it on the tray.
Dean stops the gun. Switches needles. He's careful. Focused. Intent.
That other Dean. The one I don't understand.
Then he's back to the troublemaker. "My turn."
"Yeah," I say.
He turns on the gun. Draws the first line of red—the sailor girl's lips. "Chloe, what color panties are you wearing?"
Rick's cheeks flush. He barely notices the needle.
But that doesn't soothe my temper.
My eyes narrow. My fingers curl into fists.
"Black, I bet," Dean says.
Calm down, Chloe. He's helping the client. Look how calm he is. He's practically floating.
So what, if he's right about your panties?
That's an easy guess.
It doesn't mean he's thinking about your panties.
It doesn't mean he wants you out of them.
For forty-five minutes, I swallow my anger. I play along with Dean's game. Answer his question. Ask my own. Watch the tattoo take form.
Dean takes me through the after-care.
Has me check out Rick and walk him to the door.
Bright light floods the shop as I pull it open. It swings shut. Blocking the beautiful afternoon.
Keeping out the heat.
Breaking the dam holding back my frustration.
