Page 23 of Sass

The pope himself wouldn’t be able to resist.

I ripped open the bag and bit off a warm unctuous mouthful. The gooey deliciousness exploded over my tongue like heaven, and I almost had to hold myself up from the flood of endorphins that raced through my system to wobble my knees. I washed the mouthful down with a swallow of perfectly doctored coffee, thought for two seconds about going upstairs and thanking the man responsible, then decided to deal with that conundrum tomorrow.

Instead, I texted a simpleThank you.

Then I set the alarm and headed out the back door to my Mini. I’d barely buckled myself in when Leon’s reply lit up my phone.

You’re welcome. Don’t stay too late, Kip.

I glanced up at the soft glow emanating from Leon’s bedroom and tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone gave a shit about how late I worked. Short answer: Never.

I also tried not to think about how that long, broad body might look stretched out on a bed.Mybed. Or how I missed Leon calling me Chris.

Tried and failed.

I took another bite of scroll, threw Delilah in gear, and headed back to my empty apartment.

CHAPTERSIX

Leon

“Wow, that’s amazing.”The young businessman beamed at the mirror and the large tribal design I’d outlined over the stencil on his back. It covered both shoulder blades and down to his waist. I genuinely admired the guy. It was his very first tattoo and he’d come up with the basic design, tweaked it with my help, and then barely flinched once we started.

“I hate wearing a damn suit every day.” He continued to study the outline. “Just knowing this is underneath will be epic. When do we start shading?”

I capped the cream and set it back on my station. “It’s a large design, Col, so I’d like to wait two to three weeks to let it heal properly before we do anything more.” I moved aside as JJ fixed a light dressing over the design. “The shading is gonna need a few long sessions and healing time between each one, so you need to think about how you want to plan that into your schedule. I’ll book an appointment for three weeks. After that, we can take it step by step.” I handed him a printout. “Here’s the aftercare we discussed. You can call with questions, anytime.”

JJ caught my eye. “I’ll organise the next appointment. You clean up and then go take a break. You missed lunch, remember?”

On cue my stomach growled, and I nodded my thanks. JJ headed for the reception desk, black ponytail swishing, her ballsy attitude belying her five-foot-nothing, knock-you-over-in-a-stiff-breeze, fine-boned South-East Asian genes. JJ inked like she was born with a tattoo machine in her hand and was one of the best freeform artists in the country. You crossed her at your peril.

When she was gone, I turned to the young man who was slowly easing into his shirt. “Any questions?”

“Nope, don’t think so,” he said, still smiling. “I’m just so stoked about how it looks.”

I grinned along with him. Clients like Col made my day. “You’re welcome. Follow the instructions and I’ll see you in three weeks.”

He nodded and headed over to JJ while I set about cleaning my station in preparation for my next client—a new dad who wanted his three-month-old daughter’s name inked on his rib cage, just under his heart. It was a simple job that I could’ve easily handed off to JJ whose turn it was to take the walk-ins, but the request struck a chord in my heart. I had Susie’s birth date on my right hip and an angel above my heart, so I got it, and I’d told the man to return in a couple of hours.

As I cleaned, I smiled at Tyson’s rumbling baritone singing along to Ry Cooder’s “Prodigal Son.” Ty was inking an intricate floral piece onto the thigh of a strapping forty-something gym franchise owner who’d been a regular in Ty’s chair for over five years. He belted out the chorus above the clamour of the rain ricocheting off the front windows of the store. It hadn’t let up all day and puddles the size of small lakes were inching their way from the gutters toward the middle of the road.

“Sing it, brother,” I called through the curtains and he obliged, raising his voice until the walls of the studio practically vibrated.

The gym owner laughed. “Don’t distract him or I’ll end up with a daisy instead of a bird of paradise.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Ty scolded, and we all laughed.

We were an eclectic bunch when it came to music. Tyson loved his old school guitarists. JJ nursed a kink for K-pop and Scandi rock. And my tastes ran to swamp blues and jazz. It was a potential minefield when it came to work playlists, and so we took turnabout on a half-day basis and kept our opinions to ourselves... mostly.

Unlike JJ, Tyson was a big man in every sense of the word, including his heart, but he had a surprisingly delicate touch when it came to his art, and he regularly blew me away with his elaborate pieces. He also handled most of the moredelicatemale piercings—the tattoo artist had more metal hidden in his briefs than Wolverine stocked in his arms. JJ handled most of the female requests. Both were independent operators, renting their booths from me on a monthly basis, and we split the walk-in profits sixty-forty. We’d been a team for five years, more family than colleagues, and it worked well.

With my station clean and half an hour to kill before the new father’s appointment, I headed out back to grab a real break. I’d barely switched the kettle on when my phone rang and my mother’s name popped up on the screen.Damn.I took a breath and answered.

“Hey, Mum.” I tried to sound cheerful and not like I’d been avoiding her all week.

“So, you’re still alive then. Hang on a minute. Henry, you can stop searching for the insurance papers,” she called out to my father.

I grinned. Michele Steadman could never be accused of not having a sense of humour. “Sorry. I’ve been slack. I should’ve called.”

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