Page 3 of Three Reasons

Twenty-three years old, and I’m still considered the outcast—the black sheep, if you will. I don’t fit in with my parents’ rich lifestyle, my two older sisters' need for perfection, or any of the social circles I grew up in. None of them understand my desire to cover my body in tattoos and piercings—not that they’ve even seen them all. They don’t really care to understand me.

My Pappy is the only one to truly love me for me and my need to be my own person. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten my first tattoo when I was sixteen or displayed it so that it was a slap to my parents' face. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten one every time they disciplined me. I could have made better choices, but this is who I am now, and they’ve never once tried to accept me for me, so I’ll keep doing what makes me happy.

Even if I’m alone forever.

“Holy shit,” Missy mutters as my computer takes forever to run her card. “I could climb them both like hunky little trees, one after another.” She licks her lips as if she’s about to have a snack.

Glancing up, I notice the two men who just walked into my shop, and I see what she means. They are two fine-looking men. Fine as aged wine.

“Sure,” I mutter. Watching them from the corner of my eye, I give them a moment to get their fill of Missy’s perky body before I address them. “Have a seat, guys, and I’ll be with you in a minute.” They give a nod and sit down, ignoring Missy completely.

Missy chatters on quietly about what she’d like to do with them, but my ears are tuned into what they’re discussing. All I make out is their tones, so I refocus my attention. Finally, the computer cooperates, and I can get this perky-ass woman out of here.

“See you soon.” She winks at me before turning her sights to the guys on the couch.

I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter when the blond places his hand high up on the dark-haired one’s thigh. Biting my cheek when Missy flounces out, I get back to work and finish up the sales record.

Needing a moment, I ask them to wait a few more minutes. The dark-haired one flirts a little, and I feel myself flushing redas I head into the back to grab the new inks that were delivered this afternoon.

“Holy crap.” Waving a hand in front of my face in order to cool down, I can’t believe the two men waiting on me.

From what I saw, the one with the dark hair is a very experienced piece of canvas. Ink creeps up through the collar of his shirt and down onto his wrists and hands. The work appears immaculate, and I’d like to get a closer look to determine who his artist is.

The blond is every bit as appealing with his permanent scowl, crystalline-blue eyes, and tension along his jawline that I’d like nothing more than to turn into a smile.

“Get it together, girl.” Muttering to myself has always been a way I’ve self-soothed, and it seems to get stronger the more nervous I get. I’m not feeling a danger of violence from these guys, more a danger to my heart.

After a few deep breaths, I drop my inks off at my station and head back out front with a smile on my face, finding them admiring some of my previous work and the drawings I’ve done just for fun.

Clearing my throat, I step around the front counter. “Alright, fellas, how can I help you?” I try not to squirm when both sets of eyes eat me up like I’m their next meal.

“Got an appointment with Mr. Ryhan.” Dark hair is the friendlier of the two, I see.

“You got her.” I offer the warmest expression I can. Their confusion widens my smile. Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t help teasing them now. “Which one of you is Callan?” My first guess is the tattooed hunk, but I get the impression they aren’t here for him tonight.

When blondie scowls, I speak before he can. “Hold up, let me guess!” Sizing them up, I take the moment to inspect eachone the way they did me. Mr. Friendly grins as he waits, while blondie’s scowl deepens further.

Walking closer, I circle them before moving to shut the ‘open’ sign off in the window and lock the door. My parents would kill me if they knew I did that, but I’m not getting those icky vibes from these two, and I’ve become an expert at reading people over the years.

“Normally, since you’ve got the tats, I’d say you.” I point to the man, grinning. “But since you’re holding onto that huge scowl, blondie, I’m thinking I’m taking your V-card tonight.” Dropping a hand on my hip, it takes a second, but happy here starts howling as he bends over from laughing so hard.

When he can breathe again, tattoo hunk stands straight, wipes his eyes, and nods. “Not too bad.”

“It’s a gift,” I shrug before grabbing my sketch pad and pencil off the counter. I realize many artists nowadays use iPads or other technology, but I still prefer the feel of paper and lead. “So, how can I help you tonight?”

Blondie still doesn’t speak, and the two of them seem to get into some sort of fight, using their eyes for communication. Callan himself appears to be more withdrawn than his friend; he’s the steady ship in a storm. Pulling up the appointment details, I see he wants a memorial tattoo for his father. Simple enough.

As their silent argument continues, I begin to draw, keeping Callan in my sightline. He seems so serious, but I’m willing to bet there’s some fire in those pools of blue, just dying to be unleashed.

It doesn’t take me long to get an image together, ensuring that the most prominent detail will be the word ‘Dad’ in the only splash of colour within the design. A large but straightforward cross takes shape, with dark, avenging angel wings spread outbehind the bar as if they hug the cross itself. As I shade in some of the elements, shadows appear over my shoulder.

“Way to take care of the client.” Callan’s sarcasm isn’t missed, but his attitude won’t dissuade me from doing what I do best—even despite the shivers racing up my spine from the gravel in his tone and the heat radiating from both men’s bodies, causing me to glisten with sweat.

Without glancing up, I inject some sass into my voice as I ask, “What year was he born?”

“What?” Callan asks at the same time Mr. Friendly says, “1955.”

At the bottom of the cross, I sketch ‘Dad’ in a classic scrawling script through a ribbon with the year of birth on one end and the year he died—which I had in the appointment notes—on the other.

---