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“Yeah,” I said, voice soft. “I’m okay.”
He shifted closer, his body heat reaching out like a caress, just like the husky tone to his words. “My bed was too empty this morning.”
I laughed under my breath, the wild fluttering sensation making it hard to do anything else. When he just stood there watching, I nodded. “I missed you too.”
His hand left my wrist to curl around the back of my neck and draw me in. The kiss was brief, sort of like those butterfly wings I felt in my stomach.
“Hi,” He murmured.
My lips curled in on themselves as I fought the urge to smile. Charming bastard.
“Go on,” he said, patting my Speedo-covered ass. “Get changed. I have to feed you before class.”
I shuffled off to do as he said.
“You got it bad,” Ryan mused when I walked past him to my locker.
I didn’t even bother denying it. I definitely had it bad. No wonder I couldn’t get over him no matter how hard I tried.
There was literally no getting over Max. There could never be anyone else.
32
Max
The signature buzzingsound of a tattoo gun filled the shop. I was so used to the sound it was almost as if I didn’t hear it anymore. Even before it grew into something familiar, the whirring noise was relaxing to me, offering a place I could escape.
Being a tattoo artist was not just about creative expression for me. Artistry was a big part, but there was more. Being a tattoo artist required a lot of focus. It required sitting in one place for long periods of time, time during which you had to concentrate and keep distractions at bay so you could concentrate on the lines and art being created. I found it was a great lesson in self-control, something I’d struggled with for a long time.
Self-control isn’t just a physical thing. Or a mind thing. It’s both. It takes resolve, focus, and sometimes sheer will to restrain impulses. Whether those impulses are lashing out in anger and pain or something much quieter like keeping the hand and mind still while working.
In a sick way, the back pain, neck strain, and even arm workout that came with being a tattoo artist was something I liked. Again, it all came back to that self-control. I liked having mind over body, being able to endure even when my body ached.
Did all this stem from being abused as a child? Likely. But hey, I could do far worse.
It hadn’t taken long for me to graduate from tattooing designs on pig skin to working on actual clients, and before them, I did some work on myself.
That little Nemo on my thigh Wes loved so much? I did it myself. I did a lot of the abstract work on my arm as well. But a lot of the bigger pieces, like the clock on my shoulder, were done by the artist I apprenticed under.
In the shop, I walked around in a tank top mostly to show off the ink I had. There was no better advertisement than my own body. I started off doing small designs, gradually working up to larger pieces.
Today, I was doing a medium-sized tattoo on a woman’s chest. It was a seedling, which represented growth and new beginnings, something I currently related to. The design was simple, its simplicity carrying a lot of meaning.
Between her breasts, I drew a single stem, thin and sort of fragile. It stretched up strongly, though, reaching toward the sun. The top of the stem was two sprouting leaves, also curling upward. They were shaded with a vibrant green, the kind all brand-new growing plants glowed with. It was at the bottom of the stem, though, where the real meaning (for me) came through.
I worked carefully on the delicate lines and details, wanting to show the complexity even in the simple art. Below the surface where the stem sprouted were long, tangling roots reaching down into the earth. These roots were done in black, thin like fragile threads. They covered the woman’s sternum, fanning out a little to create a half-rounded shape.
People rarely saw the work and effort below the surface that a person had to endure to grow and change. So much went into that little seedling sprouting out above the earth. It was bright in color, pretty and fresh… but no one knew how much effort went on below the surface to make it look so beautiful.
She reclined in the chair, her shirt completely unbuttoned and spread open. She wore no bra because it would obviously get in the way of the design. The only thing concealing her rounded breasts was the open shirt panels.
My cell rested on a small cart nearby as I practically straddled the woman to get the shading right where the stem met the roots. Even though I was wholly focused on what I was doing, I felt her stare and her desire. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman asked me for a tattoo. It wouldn’t be the first time she flirted and showed more skin than she needed to for me to do my job.
Had I banged previous clients? Yep.
But that was before. Before when I needed an outlet for pent-up tension, when I needed to try and assuage my forbidden want of Wes.
It never worked, but it didn’t matter now because he was mine and I would never give him up. And I would also never give anyone else the time of day.
