Page 3 of Full Tilt
Another lie from Mom.
I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and look around at the kind of lavish apartment I know I’ll be living in just as soon as I turn pro. Which I will.
My dad might not want anything to do with me, but he can sure watch me become the most remembered Schneider in the NHL. Every time a hockey fan utters the Schneider name, I’ll make sure the only player they’re referring to is me. All this guy cares about is himself and his ego, and this is the perfect way to hurt both.
CHAPTER ONE
MORE THAN SIX YEARS LATER - SEPTEMBER
TOMMY
“What’s the significance behind this one?”
No matter how many times I get a tattoo, the pain never feels any easier. Especially not when the area getting inked is your neck.
Lying on my side, I shift to get more comfortable on the black leather bench, trying not to let my discomfort show, along with my irritation at the incessant questioning I’ve endured for the past four hours. My usual tattoo artist moved out to California six months ago, and now I’m stuck with his apprentice, who he assured me was just as good, although I highly doubt that—I don’t see how anyone can maintain a high level of concentration when all they do is fucking talk. Oxygen is needed to power the brain as well as the mouth.
“No significance,” I answer bluntly.
Aside from confirming the final design I wanted, I’ve barely said ten words since I climbed onto the bed and he got to work.
“Oh, right,” he replies, wiping down my raw skin for the thousandth time. “It’s just that most people only get a necktattoo of something significant. I guess because it’s hard to hide it on this area of the body.”
On a sigh that is designed to convey my irritation, I remind myself that he’s nearly done and then I’m free to escape. I fucking hate small talk. “Yeah, well, I’m not most people, and this isn’t exactly my first rodeo.”
“I’ll say.” He chuckles. “How many have you got now?”
Whythe fuckare some people so fucking cheerful? They could be having the worst day or have the grumpiest client, yet their bright persona never fades.
It’s fucking annoying as hell.
“Lost count at number twenty-five.”
He blows out a long breath. “Of them all, I think this king cobra is my favorite. And not because it’s my work. It’s the way it snakes up your spine. The idea is right on.”
What I just said isn’t strictly true—the tattoo does have meaning, as does a lot of the ink on my skin.
The first tattoo I got—a pair of scissors cutting through a thread—was done right across the street from my dad’s apartment. They had walk-in appointments available, and I had twenty hours to kill before my flight home. I used my fake ID, and they inked me there and then. It’s still my favorite tattoo to this day.
“I would ask if you planned to stop after this one, but everyone knows that once you get one tattoo, the addiction takes hold.”
Lifting my hands up, I twist my wrists around so my palms are facing him. “Aside from my face and feet, the only blank canvases I have left are these, and I heard they are the most painful and difficult area to get done.”
The artist—who gave me his name when I arrived, but I can’t remember it since I plan to erase him from my memory as soon as I leave—sucks a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Yeah. Palm tattoos generally fade quickly or fail altogether. You have to go really deep to achieve any kind of longevity.”
I shrug. “That doesn’t bother me. I welcome the pain.”
He huffs out a laugh, and I’m ready to take the ink gun he’s holding and shove it up his ass. One false move, and he’s fucked this tattoo.
“No kidding. You literally just had your spine and neck tattooed in two sessions, and I didn’t feel you flinch once. Most clients—no matter how experienced they are—would be crying like a baby and begging me to stop by now.”
“Showing pain is a sign of weakness, and I already told you, I’m not most people.”
Wiping the nape of my neck again, he sets down the gun, and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief.
Fuck, that one was tough.
