Page 27 of Ink & Desire

She says this as if I could possibly forget the date. It’s been the same date every year since I was 12. Every September, on the anniversary of my father’s death the Bradshaw Foundation holds a charity gala with a silent auction. It’s a formal affair that only the rich and elite attend. Ticket prices start at $1000. And all the money goes to a charity that helps people with traumatic brain injuries pay for their recovery. As much as I dread the gala every year, I can’t fault my mother for doing it. It was her way of creating something positive out of the senseless tragedy. She dove headfirst into planning and organizing the event. I think it's her way of dealing with the grief over losing my father. Over the years she’s managed to raise millions of dollars for people who are going through what I went through, or worse. It’sadmirable. Everyone says so. It’s one obligation I can’t avoid. It doesn’t make me hate it any less.

“Yeah,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good!” My mother exclaims, mollified by my concession. “I’ve already ordered your gown. You’ll just need to come for a fitting.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling, asking for patience from whatever benevolent god might be listening.

“Can you have it sent here?” I ask. “I don’t know how much time off I’m going to have with this new apprenticeship.”

There’s a long pause where I wonder if my mother is asking for her own patience, but then I hear her sigh.

“I’m not sure how that will work with Eliza, but I can see if she’ll make the trip down to Boston. I suppose I can pay her more.”

“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to force her to make an extra trip. I’ll come home for the fitting.”

“Excellent!” It’s clear my mother’s mood has brightened considerably by this news. “I’ll let you know when the dress is ready. You’ll need to give Eliza plenty of time to make any alterations.”

“I know, Mom,” I say. It’s not like this is my first dress fitting.

“Maybe we can have lunch while you’re here,” she says.

“Sure. That would be nice.”

“Honey, I need to go,” she says. “We’ll talk soon?”

“Definitely.”

“I want to hear all about your apprenticeship!”

I smile. “I start this week. I’ll tell you all about it next time we talk.”

“Sounds good, honey. We’ll talk this weekend. I love you!”

“Bye, Mom. Love you, too.”

I end the call and let out a sigh. I know she means well, but I can’t help coming away from interactions with my mother feeling like I’m somehow disappointing her. I wonder what she’d think if she knew the truth about my new apprenticeship with one of Boston’s most well-known tattoo artists. A quick internet search of the name Corbin James would have her on a private plane to Boston within the hour to drag me back to New York and my ‘proper place in life’.

Not that it matters what my mother thinks of my life goals. I don’t need her support or approval. But, like most kids, I still crave it. I just hope that she’ll be understanding when she finally finds out what I’m doing with my fancy, art school education.

Chapter 14

Avery

By the time Monday rolls around, I’m feeling more anxious about meeting Corbin than I had the first time. At least this time I know he’s going to give me a chance. But I also know how intimidating and infuriating he can be. The unknown was less scary than the memory of his hand on my neck and his body pressed against mine. Not that there will be any of that. Now that I know we’ll be working together, I’m going to make it clear that we’re to keep things strictly professional.

I need this to work out. My career hangs in the balance. I won’t risk that for some sexy fling, no matter how curious I might be. So, no more innuendos. No more intense stares. No more talk of begging. Even though that last one has something dark stirring inside me. What would it take to make me beg? Before meeting Corbin, I would have said nothing could make me stoop so low. Now, I’m not so sure. The idea sends a flood of heat through me, and I’m shocked to find myself growing wet. What the fuck is wrong with me? Didn’t I just decide there would be no sexual undertones between me and Corbin? And here I am thinking about sex before I even see him. I need to get it together, or I’m never going to survive this apprenticeship.

I arrive at the shop five minutes early for my meeting with Corbin. I don’t know if this meeting will be just the two of us, or if the others who work at the shop will also be there. Part of me hopes they will be. I don’t know if I’m quite ready to be alone with him. He’s so intense. We weren’t even alone at the club that night and he’d managed to overwhelm me with his presence and his words. Now I’m starting to second-guess this whole situation.

What if he’s a total creep and I’ve just signed myself up for months of sexual harassment? Is it still sexual harassment if you want to rip off the harasser’s clothes? I don’t know the answer to that. But I do know that I can’tsit here in my car forever. I’m going to be late, and I doubt Corbin’s the kind of man who likes to be kept waiting. I have a feeling tardiness is something that would piss him off. With one last deep breath, I open my car door and climb out, heading for the front door.

The lot is empty except for one other vehicle. It’s a classic muscle car, but I don’t know enough about cars to know what kind. It’s pretty, though. Shiny and black with wide, white stripes down the hood. I wonder if it’s Corbin’s car. I do my best not to stare at it as I walk, trying to picture him behind the wheel. He’d look good in this car, I decide. Who am I kidding? The man is gorgeous. He’d look good in a clown car.

The door opens as I reach for it, startling me since my attention is still on the old muscle car. Tilting my head up, I look into the hard gaze of the object of my recent obsession. Corbin has his usual scowl in place, but he holds the door open for me to enter. I'm sure it’s more out of politeness than anything else, but I can't help feeling pleased by the gesture.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to inject a happy tone to my words.

Corbin just grunts in answer.

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