We both look at my portable workstation with its array of needles and inks.
“I’m making money.”
I only need to ink another two hundred thousand cowboys or so to come up with the money to fix Auntie Dee’s house.
“If you need money, take mine.”
“There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t know where to start.”
“Try,” he whispers, nipping my ear. “You and I have gotta start talking about our shit.”
“So you’re back to wanting to give the relationship thing a try? You confuse the hell out of me.”
“I never stopped,” he says roughly.
“So last night’s hot-cold thing was a fluke?”
“Sometimes I need space,” he grits out. I twist my head so I can see his face, and the expression there is scary. It’s part self-loathing, part hatred, and I’m pretty certain I’m not misreading the need for violence. Angel wants to hurt someone or something, and while I know he’d never hurt me physically, it’s uncomfortable.
“Okay. Now tell me why.”
“No.” He doesn’t dress up his answer with excuses. Some genies don’t go back in the bottle once you let them out, and they damned certain don’t grant wishes. Angel is holding onto secrets that he can’t or won’t share with me.
“Then tell me this: was it what I told you last night?” I’m so tired of worrying about my past. Instead of holding on, I want to let go. I try to turn away from Angel, but he won’t let me.
“Nothing you ever tell me could push me away,” he promises. “I’m not leaving you. I’m in this for the long haul.”
“You left last night,” I point out, knowing I sound pathetic. Really, really pathetic. I wish Rory were here to kick me, but he’s disappeared inside the RV for what he calls a “siesta” and I label a “hangover.”
“I came back,” Angel counters calmly.
He officially drives me insane. “I can’t wait around for you to work through this come-go-stay bullshit.”
And… he nods. See? He’s messing with my head.
“It won’t happen again. Now tell me why I can’t give you money.”
“Jesus, Angel. For starters, because I don’t have any right to it. Secondly, I want to use it to fix up a house that you want to tear down. You don’t see the problem with that?”
“I don’t want you touching other men,” he growls.
“Too bad it’s in my job description.” I’m teasing the beast. I know this. “Most guys don’t find it kinky.”
That gets his attention. “Most?”
Yeah. Angel’s not happy about the caveat.
I shrug. “Some guys like the pain or the buzz of the needle. I don’t ask. I don’t look. As long as they keep in their pants, I’m cool with it.”
“For fuck’s sake, if you need to tattoo someone, tattoo me.”
And, hello opportunity knocking on my door. I’m not passing up my chance to mark Angel. If I could, I’d tattoo a no trespassing sign on his gorgeous ass, but I do have professional standards.
So I ask him: “What do you want?”
ANGEL
“Surprise me.” Fuck. My voice sounds gruff, like I’ve been smoking too much or crying too hard. Maybe scream. I know what men sound like when they’ve screamed for hours.
Rose nods, and pulls away from me. I let her go, because her attention’s still one hundred percent focused on me. She bends over the portable tattoo station, sketching something with a pencil. Frowns. Erases a line and starts again. It’s no surprise that I’m a work in progress.
Eventually, she comes back over to me, frowning. “You sure about this? I know you’re a control freak.”
She doesn’t have to point out that I’m letting her make the decision here. She’s going to be the one—temporarily—in control.
“Do it.” I hurt her last night. I didn’t mean to, but I was an asshole. Letting her ink me now is payback. She’s good at what she does—fucking brilliant—but that’s not the point. She chooses the design, she chooses where to mark me, and I take it. I drop onto the chair where her last guy sat.
“Wrist,” she says, thank fuck. Knowing Rose, it could have been my ass or my dick. I’d like to think I’d do anything for her, but I suspect I have limits. I cross my arms over the back of the chair, exposing my right wrist.
“You’re not gonna make me sign a waiver?” I may be an tattoo virgin, but I’m pretty sure paperwork is the part of any ink job.
She hesitates. “Can I trust you?”