Page 65 of Brittle Heart

His mouth twists into a half-smile. “Pain meds would be great if you have it. I think I’ll need a bit more than chocolate to get through a whole day of tattooing.”

I nod, grabbing a tablet that melts on your tongue. “Open,” I say, and Xander obeys while giving me a look.

I place it on his tongue and wait a moment before he scrunches up his face.

“That is gross.”

I open the piece of chocolate and offer it to him, a smile on my face. “Open,” I say again, and he complies, humor sparking in his eyes while I feed him the chocolate.

“Smart.” His smirk mirrors mine. “Thank you,” he says, squeezing my thighs once more.

I need to look away, as his gray eyes have a way of flustering me. So, I divert my gaze down to his chest, which isn’t any better. His pecs are a masterpiece, with tattoos and pierced nipples. On his left side, just over his heart, he hasCLAYtattooed, and the letters look like they are illuminated, reminding me that Xander is a dream come true but not meant for me to dream about.

If only my body would take the hint. I have to swallow hard before stepping back and breaking free of his hold. Then my eyes land on the black shading on his other pec. It looks like a black hole amidst his other tattoos. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I blurt out, “Did you have to cover something up there?” I realize that it’s a personal question instantly and look at him with wide eyes. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Did you know that in some cultures, they believe the left side of your chest is where your heart lies, and the right is where your soul lives?” he questions, his voice softening.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know that. It’s beautiful to think about things like that. But what does it have to do with…” I pause as realization dawns on me. “You think your soul is black?”

“The abyss,” he responds, standing, causing me to tilt my head upward to meet his gaze. “I’m going to change real quick. My client for today should be coming in a few minutes, and I have to sanitize the space again.”

* * *

Xander

Carolina is in the final phase of sanitizing the tattoo station when I step out of my office, pulling on the spare black shirt I keep in there. She’s got gloves on and is doing a solid job.

“Did you learn to do that from watching me?” I ask, startling her as I stand behind her. “Sorry,” I quickly add, not meaning to scare her.

“I picked it up when you were doing mine.” She shrugs, but her attentiveness is impressive.

I glance at the clock, noting my client is due any minute. “Sorry, but we’ve gotta speed through the tasks I need you to handle before my appointment shows up,” I tell her.

“No problem.” She quickly removes her gloves, tossing them in the trash.

We get to the front, where I introduce her to the desktop computer. “The password’s CC0818. This is my calendar. If someone comes in looking for an appointment, you’ve gotta check here first to see if I’m free and then ask them what they want. I usually only do small tattoos on Saturdays, while larger pieces are reserved for Tuesday through Friday. Sundays and Mondays are my days off.” As I’m explaining, she fetches a notepad and pen from the counter to jot down notes.

“You know my style. If a design doesn’t match my aesthetic, I won’t tattoo it, and you can let them know right away. All else, it’s just about setting up an appointment. They have to send me their idea using the form on the website, and I’ll confirm the date and design later tonight after I’m done with my client.”

She gives me a nod. “Okay, got it.”

“If you have any questions or need me, come and ask,” I tell her. “But try to keep it to a minimum, as I’ll need to focus on this design today.”

“Understood,” she says, her face serious.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling.She’s definitely taking this seriously.

I can manage things on my own. I’ve done it for years, mainly because I’m not great with people hanging around. They tend to bug me or get too loud for my liking. I prefer working in peace or with music playing. Yes, it’d be nice not to have to break my concentration to handle walk-ins or answer phone calls, but I’d take that any day over having someone who isn’t a client in my space.

When Clay mentioned the cream incident, I knew she’d never accept a free handout. I grew up poor and understand the feeling of having things just given to you. She wants to earn her way. I respect that. And the few times I’ve interacted with her, she’s been nice to be around.

The door dings, and my client comes in. He’s a big gym guy, almost as tall as me, and huge. His broad back will take hours to tattoo, and I’m pumped.

“Hey, X,” he greets, shaking my hand before pulling me into a hug and patting my back hard.

I have to hold my breath to stifle a grunt as pain flares up in my shoulder. Carolina did a good job patching me up, but it still stings.

I need my emotional support thighs.

---