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“No, you won’t,” Ashe says but goes to sit at his own station. “But if you do, and you’regoodfor once, I’ll start you a new tattoo.”
“That’s blackmail,” Ezra tells him, voice rising when Arlo starts tattooing me again.
“It’s coercion,” I tell him, my eyes closing. “Legally and technically, anyway.”
“A girl who knows the difference between blackmail and coercion?” Ashe whistles. “It’s like you’re after Arlo’s black heart over there. Careful, Ez.”
“I don’t need to be careful,” The brunette on the sofa shifts, making the leather complain. “Iliketo share.”
I don’t know how to respond to any of this, any of them, frankly, and I’m glad when Ashe and Ezra lapse into comfortable conversation with each other. I can finally justexist, though any time Arlo brushes a hand over my skin, I find myself hyper-aware once more.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never had a tattoo artist touch me as much as he does. And while it’s certainly not unpleasantat all,it’s definitely strange. It draws questions to my mind becausewhat is he doingthat he needs to touch me this much, with what feels like small, possessive brushes of his fingers around the tattoo coming together on the back of my neck.
The front door opens again, and I find myself hoping it’s someone else getting a tattoo instead of another one of Arlo’s friends. So far, they’ve all been a little on the creepy side, with Ezra really taking things up a notch with his…personality.
Footsteps sound, getting closer and closer, and by the sound of them, the person has been here many times before and knows exactly where to go.
But when the man steps into the room and is greeted warmly by Ezra, who only lounges more comfortably on the sofa, I’m not expecting what my eyes land on.
It’s the man from the shopping plaza. The one who’d come in here afterward, who I’d beenstaring atlike an idiot that day because of how much I liked looking at him.
I still like looking at him. Or, at least, I would if he wasn’thereand looking at me with a sneering grin on his face. “Am I late?” he asks as if he knows he isnotlate.
My heart sinks in my chest as Arlo pulls away, his chair clinking on the floor, and rubs a wet paper towel over the back of my neck one last time. “Nah, Cyril,” he chuckles. “You’re right on time. I’m done.”
He’s done? It’s only been an hour and a half, maybe, and I guess I expected it to take longer.
Not that I’m complaining. Now I can get out of here and stop hanging around boys who give me creepy vibes and weird looks.
Yeah, it’sdefinitelytime to go home.
“Where’s–” Ezra begins, but the new man, Cyril, cuts him off with a look.
“He’s not here,” the black-haired man says, and before I can get up, he comes over to presshishand between my shoulder blades, effectively keeping me in place as his eyes scan the tattoo just above his hand. “Nice job,” he compliments and pulls back as Arlo smiles.
“Can I…see?” I ask, my hands feeling clammy as I push myself into a seated position. I want toleavealmost more than I want toseewhat’s on the back of my neck, but I need to know how much I’m going to flip out if it’s not what I asked for.
Arlo shrugs and picks up two mirrors. One he holds in front of me, while the other he uses so that I can see the back of my neck by looking into the one in front of my face.
My heart sinks, and if I had been holding the mirror, I’m pretty sure I would’ve dropped it.
“What the hell?” I murmur because the black, fresh tattoo on the back of my neck isnot what we discussed.
A knife is tattooed between my shoulder blades, the blade impaling a raven’s skull that looks just as sharp and deadly. Flowers bloom behind it, and the whole tattoo is a mix of black, gray, and red. It’s gorgeous, but it’s notright. It’s not what Iagreed to.
“This isn’t what you showed me.” My hand trembles as I reach back, intent on touching it, but Arlo puts the mirrors down and catches my fingers in his hand.
“I have to put a bandage on it,” he chuckles like I’m not about to go into hysterics and justforgot.
But I don’t want him to, because I don’twantit.
“No.” I go to move as if I can still somehow wash it off, but then the black-haired stranger, Cyril, sits on the still-flat bench in front of me and grabs both my hands, his grin anything but friendly now.
“Sit right there,” he tells me, dark brown eyes that are set in a sharply handsome face firmly fixed on mine. This close, I can see how rich his dark bronze skin is and that his nose is almost too big for his face. But it doesn’t detract from howgorgeoushe is. Or how great he looks when he smiles at me with that wolfish look.
“Let me go,” I tell him, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to pull away. Arlo grips the back of my sweatshirt with one hand, but a second later, it’s gone as he puts something cold on the newly finished tattoothat I don’t want.
“No. Because you’ll run around screaming, and Arlo isn’tdone.” Cyril’s voice is soft but full of steel.
