Page 4 of The Stranger

“You ever been to a tattoo shop?” I ask, checking the time and realizing we still have around ten to fifteen minutes alone.

She runs her slender hands through her short hair. “No. Never.”

“You did ask me to take you anywhere.”

“I did.” She sighs and chews on her bottom lip. And fuck, now my eyes drop to those pink luscious lips that look as soft as a pillow. “Sir, I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Sir? Call me Tyler. I’m Tyler Reid.” The image of her biting her lip is seared into my retina, and I need to distract myself. Otherwise, I’ll find myself in an uncomfortable, awkward situation. “Was that your boyfriend?”

The side of her mouth lifts. “He was, and I’m Maura Beck, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Maura. And I’m sorry we met under such weird circumstances.”

She stands and reaches over the tattoo chair to extend a hand.

Normally, I would shrug and say, “That’s not my thing.” But something pushes me to do the same. My brain screams and reminds me how much I loathe touching without gloves on, which is why the only people I voluntarily touch are myclients. Flinching away from any form of touch is mostly muscle memory for me.

For years, I associated touch with pain, and it took me a while before I could tattoo my clients without feeling like I was about to pass out.

Most of my childhood and teenage years were spent walking on eggshells around my father. If I so much as sneezed at dinner or breathed the wrong way, I would show up in school the next day with my back or legs covered in bruises.

Of course, no one could tell. No one knew. Dad made sure never to hit me where it would show, like my face, my arms, or my neck.

That fear wormed its way so deep into my being and my unconscious that just the thought of being touched by another sent me into a spiral. It made me hate myself because even a simple handshake triggered an irrational internal reaction from me.

Becoming a tattoo artist makes sense to me because, this way, I have control. I am the one touching other people, with their consent, of course, and if there’s any pain involved, it’s from the needle piercing the skin. No one comes out bruised, traumatized, or seriously hurt.

I don’t know why, but at this moment, I’d rather chop off my ear than not take the chance to brush my skin against hers.

I can’t not touch her. Everything I buried within me rushes to the surface—desire and the primal need to touch. And it’s only been less than an hour since I met her.

My fingers wrap around hers, and I jolt at the electricity zapping down my spine, making my limbs tingle. She must feel the same because she opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and closes it again.

What the fuck?

When she pulls her hand back, I almost growl in disapproval, feeling the emptiness in the air already.

I’m overcome by a sense of hunger I’ve never felt before. Looking at her bare shoulders, the clavicles peeking out from her sleeveless dress, and the pulse pounding between them, I want to touch her. I want to touch her so badly I ache.

The realization is so unexpected that I drop my hand and slump back on the plastic folding chair, reeling with the intensity of my emotions and feeling unmoored, like the floor has vanished from under me.

“Am I gonna distract you or something? I could stay by the woman at the front desk.”

I look back up to see her playing with her earlobe, a look of uncertainty on her lovely face. What did she ask me? Oh, right.

I clear my throat. “Nah, you’re good. Besides, you don’t want to sit by Erika. Her girlfriend’s the jealous type. When she gets jealous, they fight. When they fight, Erika would start giving me shit.” She laughs, and I smile at the sound. “So, no. Stay here. Our lives will be more peaceful this way.”

Maura clasps her hands behind her and walks toward the Polaroid photos tacked to the wall. Those are all my original designs, and I’m damn proud of them.

“Wow, you’re good.” She throws me a soft smile over her shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Almost twenty years. I took a part-time job at a tattoo parlor when I was sixteen.”

She turns around and digs her shoe into the floor, a flush creeping on her cheeks. “I’ve always wanted one.”

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