Page 17 of Beautiful Lies
“We can talk while you give me a tattoo.”
“I’m not giving you a tattoo.”
“Yeah, you are. Jared booked me in for twelve-thirty.”
“The shop doesn’t open until one. I’m fully booked today.” Why was I debating this with him? “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I cut the call, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stalked out of the locker room. Killian was filling up his water bottle at the cooler and turned to me, screwing on the cap.
“You okay?” he asked.
It was a loaded question. Define okay. “Zeke wants me to give him a tattoo.”
Killian’s brows rose. “Really?”
I laughed under my breath. “Yeah. Really.”
“Huh. You talked to him?”
“Briefly,” I said, leaving it at that.
While I was working out, I’d made my decision. I was going to buy the shop and I was going to make a success of it. As for Ava, I needed to find a way to let go and move on just like she had. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to do that.
* * *
“I don’t do YOLO tattoos,”I informed Zeke as I walked in the door and saw him sitting on the black leather sofa in the waiting area. Jared chuckled, sharing my disdain for YOLO tattoos, and turned on the sound system. Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down” blasted from the speakers. Nothing like a little emo to start the workday.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t want a YOLO tattoo,” Zeke said. “I want a nautical star compass. Right here.” He placed his hand on the middle of his chest.
“I don’t have that kind of time.”
“Yeah, you do,” he said with a big smile. I was tempted to punch his teeth in. Instead, I pinched the bridge of my nose, took deep breaths, and counted to ten, a relaxation trick I’d learned in rehab.
I checked the appointment schedule on the computer for verification—my one o’clock had been deleted. Goddammit.
“I’ll take care of that one,” Jared said. What kind of voodoo had Zeke performed to get his way? In the past, Zeke and I had been casual acquaintances and I’d never had a problem with him. Now I did. And I sure as hell didn’t want to spend up-close and personal time with the guy screwing my ex-girlfriend. “He filled out his paperwork,” Jared said.
“I thought you were taking the day off,” I said.
Jared shrugged. “Change of plan. I told him you were the best.”
“Now you’re blowing smoke up my ass? What’s the world coming to?”
“San Diego here I come.”
I shook my head. Wherever you go, there you are. If he thought new scenery and good weather could change everything, he was setting himself up for disappointment. “You should give this more thought.”
“And you should get the hell out of my face and get to work,” Jared said. “I’ve made my decision. I’m still waiting for yours.”
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, motioning for Zeke to follow me to my station. Zeke laughed like I’d just told him a good joke.
Per my instructions, Zeke stripped off his T-shirt, and I stared at his smooth chest. Fuck, it was perfect, unmarred by scars. I hated him for it. Hated the thought of Ava running her hands over it, resting her head on it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I needed to lock it down and stop thinking.
I snapped photos, took measurements, and prepared the transfer—flash art. Normally, I prided myself on my original designs, but this time I didn’t give a shit.
Jared taught me the art of tattooing when I was eighteen. The summer I graduated from high school, I came in with the portfolio that had gotten me into Pratt Institute. Jared took me on as an apprentice, and I never ended up going to art school. The scholarship they’d offered me wouldn’t even put a dent in the tuition, and I didn’t want to be saddled with student loans or let Killian pay my way like he’d offered. Lack of funds wasn’t the only reason I’d ditched art school though. I loved bringing my art to life on a human canvas. And, for the most part, I enjoyed interacting with the customers. Listening to their stories. Watching their faces when they looked at their new tattoo for the first time. And knowing that my design would be inked on their skin forever.
After I prepped Zeke’s skin and applied the transfer, I warned him that it hurt, and ink was permanent, something I told all my clients. Since homicide wasn’t an option, I opted for a professional approach. The sooner he got in and out, the better. “You still want it?” I asked, hoping he’d change his mind and scurry the hell out the door.
He settled back in the reclined chair. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Despite his words, his whole body tensed, and I could tell he was holding his breath.
