Page 3 of Ink & Desire

I sigh. “That life would suffocate me, Cass. You know I’m right.”

Cass’s voice is more somber when she speaks again. “I know. You know I support you, no matter what.”

“I know.”

“If this is what you need, just know that I’m rooting for you. I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, Cass,” I say. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says. “Now go kick some ass.”

“I’ll do my best.” I smile as I end the call.

My smile fades and I blow out a breath as I flip down the visor to check my reflection in the tiny mirror. I try to see myself as a stranger would, for the first time. My makeup isn’t over the top. I made sure it was subtle and natural-looking. My hazel eyes are probablymy most prominent feature, so I made sure to emphasize them with my mascara. The small scattering of freckles on my nose stands out against my pale skin, but that can’t be helped. My black hair falls in its typical board-straight curtain to brush against my shoulders. I sigh again, not sure what I was hoping to see in the mirror. I look exactly as I did before I left the house. Anxious.

Closing the mirror, I glance down at my outfit. I tried on so many different shirts before leaving the house that I finally just gave up and went with my favorite jade-green top. I’ve been told it looks great on me, and I wanted to wear something that would inspire some confidence. Though I’m not sure it’s working. The butterflies in my stomach don’t seem to care what shirt I’m wearing. I chose jeans over slacks, thinking they’d fit in better at a tattoo shop. Not that me fitting in was ever going to be an option. I just hope that I don’t stick out like a sore thumb.

It’s too late to worry about changing my clothes now, even if I wanted to. My appointment is in 10 minutes. I try not to think about what I’ll do if this doesn’t go well. I try even harder not to think about the fact that the odds of it going well are not in my favor.

Corbin James is the best tattoo artists in the city, if not the entire east coast. He’s built a reputation by creating beautiful, original tattoos and only working with artists who hold to the same standards. His client list includes rock stars and some of the biggest socialmedia influencers. His waitlist can take months. He’s also never taken on an apprentice. Ever.

That's why I’d had to be creative today. I knew there was no way he would see me if he knew why I was here. I didn’t want to ruin things before I even got a chance to meet the man. So, I’d scheduled myself a tattoo consultation instead. I figured it was the only way I’d be able to talk to him, let alone convince him to take me on as his apprentice.

I know Cass is right. This is a crazy idea. The most likely scenario is that he’ll laugh in my face and ban me from his studio for life. But I can’t quite extinguish the faint hope that he’ll see my portfolio and be impressed enough to give me a chance. I can’t give up without at least trying. Even if it means I’m forced to go back to New York and work for my family for the rest of my life. At least I’ll know I tried to change my fate.

It will work. It has to. The alternative isn’t something I want to consider. I wonder, not for the first time, if maybe I should have chosen a different artist in Boston. Perhaps one who isn’t as well-known. Maybe I should have taken the time to seek out an artist with a less infamous reputation. But I chose Corbin for a reason. If I’m going to do this, I need to work with the best. And I need someone who doesn’t know anything about my family. It’s the only way I’ll know for certain I’m making it on my own merit and not because someone wants to get in my family’s good graces. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

I take another deep breath and release it slowly.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching for the door handle.

There’s no going back now.

Chapter 3

Corbin

When the bell over the front door rings alerting me to the arrival of a customer, I glance at the clock. 11:55am. My gaze goes to the woman who just walked in, eyeing her from head-to-toe. She’s a tiny thing. Cute, though. She seems a little out of place in a tattoo shop, but I know better than anyone that outward appearances can be misleading sometimes. She’s looking around the shop, one hand stuffed into the pocket of her jeans. Hergaze tracks over the framed art on the walls. She seems to be looking anywhere but at me or Jessie.

I hide my amusement over her obvious nerves. Since I opened the shop nearly a decade ago, I’ve seen all sorts of people walk into my shop asking for all sorts of different art on their bodies. They all have various reasons for why they’re here. It’s not my place to judge. I typically don’t care why someone wants a tattoo. I also don’t care much about the design they choose.

If I had my choice, I’d like to design every tattoo I ink onto someone’s body. But I’m not picky. I don’t have a lot of guidelines for what I’ll tattoo. If the client can pay and it’s within my abilities, I’ll do it. The only time I’ll refuse a tattoo is if the design is inspired by hate or bigotry. I’ll tell someone to leave in a heartbeat for that shit. I don’t care if I lose business from racists or bigots. Fuck that. Luckily, it hasn’t happened often.

For the first time in years, I find myself wondering about a client’s story. I wonder what brings this woman in today. I can’t see any ink on her from here. Not that that tells me anything. For all I know she has her entire back covered in tattoos. Or she’s got a secret labia tattoo. I’ve done a few of those over the years. I glance at the computer, checking the name of my 12pm appointment.

Avery Scott.

That’s a rich girl name if I’ve ever heard one. I watch her as she looks around the shop, taking everything in. Her black hair is perfectly straight and smooth, brushing the tops of her shoulders and showcasing the slendercolumn of her neck. The green shirt she’s wearing contrasts nicely with her pale skin and subtly outlines her small breasts and narrow waist. I reevaluate my earlier assessment. She’s not cute. Beautiful is too strong of a word, but there’s something about her that holds my attention. She’s…striking. I consider the word, deciding that yes, it suits her.

I don’t let any of what I’m thinking show on my face as she approaches the counter. Jessie gives her a smile as she stands to greet her. I stay near my work station, watching the interaction.

“Can I help you?” Jessie asks.

The woman gives Jessie a smile that seems to transform her face. The nerves are gone, and she looks confident and sure of herself, even if she still doesn’t quite fit in here. I’m struck by the force of her smile, even though it isn’t directed at me. Weird.

“Hi,” she says. “I have an appointment with Corbin at 12 today.”

I nearly smile. Just as I thought. She’s here for a tattoo consultation with me. Her voice is just what I expected. Musical and dainty. She reminds me of a tiny pixie. I wonder if she’d even come up to my shoulder if I stood next to her. Hell, I bet my hand would wrap all the way around her neck. At the thought, an image of her throat in my hand pops into my head before I push it aside. That’s the last thing I need to be thinking about. She’s the type of woman I tend to avoid. Small. Fragile. Breakable. I prefer a woman who likes it a little rough andcan take it. That’s not this girl. No matter how enticing the idea might be. Besides that, she’s a potential client. I’m not some creep who tries to hook up with his clients.

---