"Of course not."
My hand brushes hers as I lean down. I roll my jeans up my ankle. Turn my leg to show off the bare skin. "So do me."
Her eyes go wide. Not fear or frustration, but genuine shock.
She bites her lip. Stammers something that isn't a word.
I was as gung ho as anyone ever has been, but I was still terrified the first time I put a tattoo gun to skin.
To my skin.
I still have the shitty, uneven lyrics on my other ankle. They're ugly as fuck, but I wouldn't dream of doing a cover-up. It's a battle scar. No way am I hiding that.
And this, offering my skin to Chloe, that's another battle scar.
Fuck, never thought I'd be offering my body to a woman like this. To be honest, most of my fucks aren't exactly offering. I don't give anything of myself. I don't expect anything in return.
Expectations lead to disappointment.
To hurt.
To betrayal.
Who the fuck needs that?
Shit. I'm getting distracted. It's Chloe. She does something to me. She tears at the string holding my thoughts together.
A week ago, I was sure everything in my life was just right.
Now…
I stare into her dark eyes. "You want to be an artist?"
"Of course."
"You have to start somewhere."
Her gaze focuses on my ankle. My calf. My knee. My crotch. Her cheeks flush as she drags her gaze to my eyes. "But I don't—"
"Don't what?"
Her lips press together. "What if I mess it up?"
"Can you think of better revenge?"
"True." She fails to sell the confidence in her voice.
She slides off her stool. Leans into her heels to crouch on the ground.
Her gloved fingers brush my skin.
It's not like when she touched me before. It's clinical. She isn't looking at me like the guy she wants to fuck—she can deny it all she wants, but she does. That's clear as day.
She's looking at me the way she needs to. Like skin stretched over bone.
Like a canvas.
Then she isn't.