Page 135 of Rush of Jealousy

Thursday’s lab class features the analysis of different lie detector devices, using fellow students in class as test subjects to predict results based solely on body language. Labs are definitely more my speed. I love the hands-on component to the five-credit Human Behavior class. But having Bryce as a partner is stressful when I am worried he is going to get us kicked out based on his laid-back approach to basically everything in life. And his inappropriate humor. Let’s not forget about that. There is no reason for all of his questions to be presented as sexual innuendos. No reason at all. Especially when I am kind and ask him questions such as the name of his hometown, his favorite color, and if he is looking forward to life after graduation.

I hang around campus in the computer lab to type up some of my research notes and scan through the private email where I sent some of the pictures. Zander is not working until later in the day, so I know there is minimal chance of running into him. Right now, I think avoiding him is best until he calms down. Then, maybe we will be able to work at building back our friendship. He is still so pissed at me, and I cannot erase his nasty words from my memory.

When I feel like I actually accomplished something, I pack up my belongings and make my way out of the building to my car. It only takes me fifteen minutes to park at the penthouse and find the exit into the street. I am not ready to go up and be by myself while Graham is at the office, so I walk around and explore the area.

I somehow manage to find myself hovering outside a tattoo parlor—named Ink Coat—completely mesmerized by the artwork on the display windows. Maybe it is the reminder from yesterday’s dinner that I almost got my belly button pierced. Maybe taking more chances and conquering some fears will help me step forward instead of always falling backward.

I have always had a fascination with detailed graphics and imaginative expressions. The windows contain art etched into the glass and colored with translucent paint. It catches my attention. The intricate designs and details portrayed take my breath away and make me want to see the inside. Surely if the window honors the art, a body part would as well.

I am not sure if I really would ever want to ink my skin. I have seen the teenage tramp stamps around campus, usually underlined with whale tales from dainty thongs. But, I doubt I would ever succumb to the rebellious impulse. It’s a bit too cliché for my liking. I mean, I have nothing to prove to anyone now. If I were to mar my pale white skin, it would definitely have to be for me. No one else.

As if hooked and pulled by a fishing line, I am reeled through the door, completely dazzled by the real photos of body art aligning the wall. I stare at a girl in a spaghetti strap tank with the word “love” spelled out on her pelvic bone in elegant handwriting that curls into the shape of a heart. Some guy has a fingerprint on the back of his neck. While I don’t know the stories behind the designs, I just can’t help but stare and find appreciation for the uniqueness of the ideas. My favorite image is of the word “forever” spelled out in tiny capital letters, wrapped around each ring finger of a man and woman. It is a beautiful representation of commitment.

“Hey cutie.”

My body whips around to find a fiery redhead, with enough facial piercings to piss off any TSA worker at the airport, behind the counter greeting me with wide inviting eyes. I swear that even her eye liner is a permanent stamp.

“Can I help you with anything?” Her accent is English, and just listening to her talk makes it difficult to actually focus on anything but the way she pronounces words.

I glance around the space to find a male artist working on some middle-aged bald man’s shoulder art. The artist has blond hair with a dyed-tipped mohawk. The sound of the buzzing equipment absorbed by the sound system’s rock music fills the air.

“Oh, I’m just browsing.”

“Browsing?” Her eyebrow quirks as her short figure steps around the counter, gesturing with her hand outward. “In a tattoo and piercing parlor? Surely, you’re not here by accident?”

Oh. Umm… “I’m sorry,” I say, turning my body and making my way toward the exit.

“Hell, do you have to scare all the ladies out of this joint?” The masculine voice booms from the back room scolding the girl, making Mohawk pause and turn toward me with a sexy grin. The man from the back reveals himself, eyeing me with curiosity. He has brown hair and is all smiles, with dangerous roaming eyes. He removes his black latex gloves, snapping them off and rolling them inside out into a ball. He tosses them into the trash can several feet away, making the basket with ease. “Hey there. You don’t have to leave on account of her rudeness. I can assist you.” He reaches out his hand for me to shake. It seems so old-fashioned, yet comforting. “I’m Logan, by the way. What can I do for you?” He studies my face and lingers on my eyes longer than is socially acceptable without being creepy.

“I asked her the same thing, Log.”

“Shut up,” Logan and Mohawk say in unison.

I stand in my spot on the tiled floor while the redhead glares at the men and shakes her head in disgust. For all being coworkers, they definitely need help getting along. At least in front of the customers.

“You would look absolutely adorable in my chair,” Logan boldly admits. I can hear Mohawk chuckling under his breath, returning his focus to filling in some color for the man’s tat. “And why the hell do you look so familiar?”

I look him over. There is no way I have ever seen him before. I would remember his striking looks. This is not the same shop that Claire and I stumbled into while tipsy. No, this shop looks sanitary and safe.

“I don’t think we have met before,” I say slowly.

“What’s your mood? A butterfly? Perhaps some script? Celtic symbols?”

“Oh, umm. I really just saw the sign and thought I would come in and take a look. I have never been in here before. The art on the front windows drew me inside.”

Out of sheer politeness, Logan refrains from rolling his eyes at my clueless demeanor. Even I am judging myself; I sound like an idiot. I mean, seriously, who randomly enters a tattoo and piercing parlor?

“Well, then. Let me give you the grand tour, darling. But if you want a Grateful Dead teddy bear, that’s a no.”

“Anything celestial—that includes the sun, moon, or Star Wars?” Mohawk chimes in.

“Is ahellno,” Logan finishes.

I can’t help but burst out laughing. I know from my gut instinct that he is being one hundred percent real and honest with me. Apparently they have standards.

Logan winks at me. “And unless your lover’s name is Logan…”

“And if it is, I’m sure he’s a douche!” Mohawk harasses.

---