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“I don’t mix my mermaids with concrete. They prefer the open sea,” I retort, smiling despite myself.
He watches me shade a sensitive area on his inner arm. “Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind…”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick to skin. It’s more…pliable.” I resume my focus on my art.
We’re silent for a long time as I continue working, the buzz of the tattoo machine a constant undercurrent to the mounting tension between us. With only another couple of hours until the piece is completed, my stomach feels hollow. Despite our banter, I hate what he did to me then. I also hate how dishonest we’re being with each other now.
On the other hand…
I don’t want this to end.
“How’d you get into tattooing?” Peter keeps his eye on where the needle decorates his skin.
“It found me more than I found it,” I reiterate something I said practically verbatim to him in Vegas. It's become my go-to explanation in any interview I do, so it comes in handy when customers try to make small talk. “Art’s been my thing since I could hold a crayon. Tattooing is a natural progression. A way to make it more accessible to the masses.”
Our eyes meet. We both stare at each other for easily a minute. Understanding passes between us.
I know. He knows. It’s all out there.
I wait…
But he looks away and the moment dissipates into thin air. “Makes sense. Your talent certainly speaks for itself.”
Fuck this. Fuck him. He had his chance…
I resume my shading, determined to finish with him as quickly as possible. The sooner I'm done, the sooner I can move on with my life. “Thanks. But flattery won’t get you a discount.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His voice is somewhat cautious. “I value the artist too much.”
I roll my eyes when I’m certain he’s not looking. What a fucking crock.
As the session winds to a close in silence, I realize I’m not going to say anything. I’m going to let him get up and walk out the door like he did in Vegas. This time, however, I’m not going to jump into an unfulfilling relationship to try and forget him.
The Tryst List beckons, after all.
I finish his tattoo, wipe his arm off and set my machine down.
“Jordan…” Peter peers up at me, a knowing glimmer in his eye. “Deveraux. Any relation to Jace Deveraux from Less Than Zero?”
I stiffen slightly. Holy shit, is he finally going to acknowledge he's Vegas guy? “Yeah, he’s my brother. Why?”
“Just curious.” He swallows, his eyes shifting between me and his arm. “I…uh…we have mutual people in common. I designed The Mission and Gus, Zane and Fiona Rocks’ businesses. Will you be at the opening?”
I nod, trying to keep my composure. “Of course. I’ll be there with my family.”
We stare at each other.
I straighten my back and narrow my eyes defiantly, daring him to continue.
Peter sucks his lips through his perfect, white teeth. Lets out a heavy sigh. Then smiles. Feebly. “I know it's you, Jordan.”
I freeze. My heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings. I knew it. I fucking knew it. All this time, through niceties and flattery, he’s been toying with me. The realization leaves me disoriented and speechless as he continues speaking.
“Just like you know it’s me. How could we ever forget the greatest night of our lives?” He sits up in all his muscled, shirtless glory.
His eyes search mine for a reaction.
My jaw sets. I break eye contact. I’m fucking pissed.
