Page 98 of Look, Don't Touch

Her smile is big, just as big as her fresh tears. They glisten down her cheek and fall onto my arm. She traces the lines of my scars. Razorblades. Self-inflicted. Then she moves to the circles. Cigarettes. Cigars. Not self-inflicted.

“He is a horrible, evil man who doesn’t know how to love. Because you are too easy to love.”

My throat goes tight. “I’ve never been called easy.” I’m surprised the words actually manifested.

“If love wasn’t the hardest, most terrifying thing for me to do, I would have loved you weeks ago.” I press my forehead to hers. A single tear slips from my lashes. Hailey swipes it with her finger and licks it off the tip. “Too easy for me.”

“Only for you, Hailey.”

When we walk into the back room of the parlor, everything is sterilized and ready to go, except my tattoo artist. He’s nowhere to be seen. Usually, he greets me out front and walks me back, but today, the receptionist led me and Arlo into the room. We stand there, slightly awkwardly. As if we don’t know what to do with ourselves.

It’s probably just me.

I should probably excuse myself to the bathroom to check my makeup, hair, and outfit, but I don’t want to leave Arlo’s side. It’s as if there’s a magnet drawing me to him.

“Do I look okay?” I whisper.

“No,” he answers quickly. My eyes go wide, and my jaw is about to hit the floor, wondering what horror story my face tells anyone brave enough to look, then he winks. “You look like a walking wet dream.”

I cover my stupid grin with my hand.

“Sorry, I’m running behind, sweetcakes.” My tattoo artist barrels through the door, looking down as he wipes water droplets from his thick, tatted hands and forearms. “You caught me by surprise. I haven’t gotten my claws on you in a while.”

My stomach bottoms out at the endearment. My gaze flies to Arlo to gauge his reaction. When the oaf continues to talk without reading the room, I wait for the earth to crack open and swallow me whole.

Instead of cracking, the world stops turning for half a second. Arlo’s shoulders are low. His fingers are loose. There’s even a big fucking grin on his kiss-swollen lips.

“Uh, surprising me twice,” Hard continues. “Shit, Arlo Judge! Call that three times, sweetcakes.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snap at my artist without looking at him.

“Sure thing,” he agrees. “We don’t want the heavyweight champ to have a go at me.”

My gaze bloats. I toss it between the two men. “You two know each other?”

“Know is such a definitive term.” Hard extends his hand to Arlo. “I know of him.”

“Then you know he doesn’t do handshakes.” I move to step between them.

Arlo stops me with a brush of his fingers across my cheek. He extends his hand and grabs my tattoo artist’s proffered one in a hearty shake that shows no hint of discomfort or malice. “Hard Limit.” His unique voice rasps. He offers a nod. “Arlo Judge. It’s nice to formally meet you.”

Something passes between the two men, but I can’t discern it. It’s not macho chest-puffing bullshit, but it’s not nothing.

“How do you not know, but know of each other?” I pose my question to Arlo this time, knowing he’ll give me a straight answer. Then it hits me. “You have tattoos?”

“No.” He releases his grip on Hard and straightens, standing a few inches taller than the burly man with tattoos covering nearly every inch of his visible skin. “I don’t have a good canvas to work with, but Hota does. He’s been worked over by Hard Limit in the ring, on the tattoo table, and at Crave a few times.”

“Oh.” I feel like a total idiot. I knew Hard was pretty famous for his fine-line black and gray tattoos, but even more so for his need to find a partner’s hard limits.

“He doesn’t have to stop calling you sweetcakes on my account. I’m not going to take a swing at him unless he hurts you more than you ask for.” Arlo says this as though it’s no big deal, as if my whole frame of reference hasn’t shifted before my very eyes.

I pull him to me and press my lips to his. Then I brush my cheek across his, something that’s become highly addictive in such a short time. “Too easy.” I kiss the lobe of his ear and then release him.

“Quadruple surprise.” Hard stares up at us from his rolling stool. “Looks like you two found someone to loosen your limits with.” He gestures with his freshly wrapped tattoo gun. “Mazel tov.”

I’m pretty sure the big brute isn’t Jewish, but I could be stereotyping. He holds up the stencil that’s supposed to go up my side from my ribs to my hip bone. The basilisk is long and winding. Its scales are delicate, but its head and mouth are ferocious. Hard looks at the artwork, and then at my outfit. His lips screw into a pucker.

“I wasn’t planning on getting tattooed today. Or else I would have dressed for the occasion.” Plus, I don’t have on panties. My gaze jerks to Arlo, who has reclined himself into a leather armchair as though he hasn’t a care in the world. He doesn’t even smirk at my accusing glare. The mystery behind his eyes glints.

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