“Did I say anything weird last night?”
When he didn’t answer right away, I turned to face him. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest.
He’d shifted in his seat. He was leaning forward now, with his elbow on the table and his chin resting in his hand. He blinked, sweeping his long, dark eyelashes over his eyes for a brief moment as the corner of his mouth turned up just the tiniest bit.
“I didn’t think it was weird.”
It was the least enlightening or helpful statement possible. But the way he was looking at me, like I was the amusing result of some lab experiment, was freaking me out so I couldn’t stand for him to elaborate. After hurriedly pulling my combat boots up over my jeans, I fled toward the front door.
“Bye, Kieran.” His farewell statement, laced with something I could only interpret as smug and knowing, had my hand clenching on the door so hard my knuckles turned white.
After jamming the keys into the ignition of my old Chevy pickup, it rumbled to life around me. I twisted the knob on the radio, tuned to a classic rock station, cranking up the volume in hopes it would drown out my racing thoughts. Sucking in a deep breath, I yanked at the gearshift to pull out of the driveway and get as far away from him as reasonably possible.
HOURS LATER, ONCEI’d escaped the oppressive aura of Jordy’s strange behavior, I could convince myself I was just being paranoid. No matter how drunk I’d gotten, there was no way I’d say or do anything incriminating to him. I’d worked too hard to keep my feelings for him a secret. And for way too long to have screwed it all up in just one night.
“Keep this on for at least an hour or two,” I said, carefully adhering a Dri-Loc pad onto the arm of the woman I’d just finished tattooing. “It should soak up any blood or excess ink.”
I paused my instructional speech, the one I’d done hundreds of times to the point I could recite it in my sleep, to let her gush about the tattoo some more. It was a portrait of her beloved black lab puppy. Nothing particularly challenging, at least not for me. I wasn’t an expert in every art style yet, but I’d done a lot of portrait work.
I was young to be in the industry, but my drawing skills were phenomenal and I’d started my apprenticeship at 17. You know the weird, quiet kid in class that would always be in the back corner drawing instead of paying attention to the teacher? That kid was me.
“It looks even better than I imagined,” she said. I wasn’t surprised to hear her voice getting a little watery. Tattoos could be an emotional experience for some, especially when it was something meaningful.
“I’m glad it’s what you wanted,” I answered, pulling off my gloves and tossing them into the nearby trash can. It was a good thing to have a happy client, but excessive praise always made me feel a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to it. And I wasn’t all that great at socializing to begin with. “Once you take the pad off, wash the area with a gentle antibacterial soap.”
I made it through the rest of the speech, even though we had all the aftercare instructions printed on a sheet of paper we’d sent the clients out with. Just an extra precaution.
As I rang her up at the front counter, handing over the little device so she could choose her own tip, I dropped a card in front of her.
“And this is where you can reach me if you want to set up another session, or if you have any questions.” The card had my name along with the logo for the shop, Royal Ink, with my phone number, email and Instagram handle underneath. She picked it up, her eyebrow raising as she looked it over.
“Anyquestions?” She asked, leaning forward toward the counter flirtatiously. I wasn’t totally surprised by this tonal shift. She’d been tossing not-so-subtle hints that she found me attractive since I’d walked her back into my little area and put her in the chair. “Like if you’re single or not?”
I suppressed a sigh. I couldn’t afford to alienate any potentially returning clients, being that I wasn’t exactly a veteran artist. But this part was always so awkward. For one thing, I wasn’t attracted to women. For another, I didn’t hook up with betas. I didn’t have anything against them or alphas who did, but I just couldn’t get into it. Omegas were special. One omega in particular was the most special.
“Keep it tattoo related, please,” I requested, injecting my words with a huge dose of what I hoped was friendly and totally not personal rejection.
She sighed, thankfully not sounding offended. “I knew there was no way you’d be single.”
I forced an apologetic smile on my face, but didn’t correct her. She left the shop, giving me a little wave as she sailed through the door. Crisis averted.
Back in my little personal area, I grabbed some disinfecting wipes from the pop-up container and started wiping everything down. I’d barely started when I heard footsteps behind me.
Barbara Vinson, also known as Barbie, was my boss and mentor. Her name was ultra ironic, considering she was, withouta doubt, the least Barbie-like woman I knew. She’d taken me on as an apprentice, and I’d shadowed her for over a year before actually putting ink on anyone’s skin.
She was also an alpha. Not that I’d needed or wanted the birds and bees talk, but it was kind of nice to know at least one adult who shared my designation. My own parents were betas, and so was Chester, Jordy’s dad. They tried, but they didn’t have a clue of what it could be like for me.
“Pretty good one, kid,” she commented, leaning her hip against the jamb of the door. She had the annoying habit of calling me a kid but I usually let it slide because as far as she knew, I practically was one. But I hadn’t felt like a kid since the first time my father had knocked the shit out of me for accidentally spilling his beer when I was seven. “I wasn’t sure how it’d turn out considering you came in here looking like you got hit by a truck.”
I snorted. I might have been hungover, but I could still handle my machine.
“Thanks. I have another client coming in 30 but after that I can take walk-ins if I need to.”
“Probably won’t need to,” she answered, plopping down into a seat. She ran a hand through her short, spiky hair, currently dyed a radioactive shade of red. She had a very specific style, with lots of leather and piercings and dark makeup. Today, her vest was covered in vintage pins that said stuff likepunch nazisandresist to exist. And the shop was decorated in old school punk era signage. “Henry’s hanging around so he’ll take whoever comes in.”
“Okay.”
I kept cleaning and setting up my station for the next person coming in, but she didn’t say anything else or leave. I wasn’t surprised when, after a little bout of silence, she spoke again.
