Page 67 of Show Me How
He swaps out the needle with ease and then presses a few buttons on the gun before wheeling back to her and dipping it into a cap of pink ink. The buzzing starts again before he gets back to work, his hand moving differently this time. Instead of short strokes, he’s almost sweeping it over the skin inside the stencil.
I bounce my leg and reach for the small notepad by the keyboard. There’s a pen beside it that I pick up before tapping the tip to the paper. Looking back at Shade, I increase how fast I’m moving my leg. He’s so calm . . . like he feels no pressurewhile permanently changing this woman’s appearance. If he messes up, she’ll have to see his mistake forever.
Long black hairs fall against his temples, brushing his skin as he lifts off the stool slightly to lean further over her. The paper towel he was using to wipe excess ink is filthy as he dabs the edge of the design, adding pink to the black and red. He tightens his face in concentration, every move of his wrist made with purpose.
There’s a soft pulse between my legs that pulls me out of my haze. I clench my core and roll my lip between my teeth. Heat builds beneath my skin, staying trapped as I drop my gaze from Shade to the notepad.
I still.
One five-letter word has been sketched on it, and as I drop the pen and lift my hand, I see the black smudges on the side of it. SHADE stares up at me from the paper, the letters thick and bold with little flicks sticking out every few strokes. Without filling them in, they look unfinished and hollow, but still cool. Interesting in a way I’ve never thought plain letters could appear.
It’s embarrassing to be doodling your boss’s name on paper stamped with the name of the business you’re sitting inside. However, I never did notice the stamp there. Not until right now. It’s not exactly eye-catching with its boring, thin lines and lack of visual appeal.
Why did he use this one in the first place? It doesn’t match the aesthetic or the beautiful work he can create on both paper and skin.
Turning away from the sight of him working, I tuck myself into place with my legs beneath the desk and pick the pen back up. I lock in to the letters in front of me and focus on recreating them in the empty space above. One by one, I work through the rest of the studio name, skipping theTin THE for now.
By the time I’ve realized that I’m sketching the shape of a tattoo gun into the shape of thatT, my neck pangs from deep in the muscle. I lick my dry lips and squint at it, dragging the thick tip of the pen to where I’ve created an ink spot beneath it.
“What’s that?”
The pen goes flying into the air. My heart falls to my stomach as I push away from the desk and gawk up at Shade’s face. His expression is open and curious, but that dang smirk is still there, making me more nervous that I’d be without it.
Scrambling, I reach for the notepad but can’t snag it in time. Shade swipes it clean off the table and holds it in front of him, staring at it like he’s either disturbed or intrigued.
“Give it back. It’s?—”
“If I hadn’t caught you drawing it, I’d have thought you had it done by someone else online,” he says before I can finish.
My eyes widen. “Like, paid someone to create it?”
“Yeah, princess. It’s fucking great. Incredible, actually.”
My lungs pinch, making my inhale short and nowhere near full enough. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Did you just do this now?”
“I got . . . inspired? Maybe? I don’t know if that was why I started doodling. It just happened.”
Shade nods, seeming to understand what I’m saying despite my word vomit. “I’d say you were right to start with. Inspiration doesn’t make sense most of the time. I’ll see a bug on the trunk of a tree and find myself pulling a sketchbook out and drawing a riverbed. There’s not always a reason for it.”
“It was like my hand moved, but my mind didn’t.”
“Have you drawn like this before?”
“A few times. Mostly if I’m alone and haven’t been out for a few days. I get restless.”
He hums, shifting closer to where I’m sitting, no longer standing at the edge of the desk. “Do you have a proper sketchbook?”
“You’re holding it.”
“This is a notepad.”
“It works good enough, doesn’t it?”
His brown eyes lighten to a warm chocolate. “Use it for now, but no, Millie, you need something real.”
“I’m not an artist,” I argue, feeling a bit . . . sheepish. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with something more real than this.”
