“Well, meet us out front in fifteen minutes. Dax already called a couple of taxis. Adam is predictably, completely pissed.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll be there in fifteen.”
As selfish as I am, I want to get as much time with Abby as I can before Kate descends, describing in detail why Abby needs to stay far far away from the likes of me.
Kate walks off after giving us both a confused look. My heart drums against my chest and I use my fingers to tap a matching rhythm on my knee. Abby watches Kate leave before turning her heated gaze on me. I recognize the look in her eyes: lust, desire, the clawing need that you can’t ignore. I’ve never in my life felt how I do when that look comes from Abby. But the fact that she’s giving me that look… it says more about how she feels than any words could adequately describe. My entire body sizzles as we stare at each other. Sparks light up every nerve, and my dick grows impossibly hard.
I swallow thickly and avert my eyes before I either spontaneously combust or come in my pants. My hand trembles as I hold back from reaching out and touching Abby’s tantalizing skin, from running my thumb over her full lower lip. I should stay away. I know it. I’ll ruin her and probably fuck myself up even more in the process, not that I care what happens to me.
But the urge to have Abby any way I can get her is too strong. Maybe if she spends enough time around me, she’ll see why she needs to run in the opposite direction. Maybe she’ll figure it out before I wreck her with my demons. I can only hope so, because I’m not strong enough to push her away.
Abby
When Hawke called and asked me what I was doing today, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. Of course I would say yes to whatever he wanted, not willing to pass up any chance to spend time with him. The bonus of being able to watch Hawke add to his impressive body art somewhat dulls the disappointment of finding out he wasn’t asking me out on a date.
I shift from foot to foot, trying my best not to let the ache between my thighs and the molten lava flowing through my veins dominate my every thought.
“You’re not going to pass out, are you?” Hawke smirks, misreading my sexual desire as discomfort over our surroundings.
I shoot him a glare as he flips through a book of designs at the tiny tattoo parlor in WeHo. My eyes lock onto his mouth when he chews on the small silver stud in his lower lip without looking up.
“No, I’m not going to pass out.” I manage to tear my gaze away from that sinful mouth long enough to respond. “I’ve seen some pretty gruesome things at the counseling center. This is nothing.” I wave my hand around the room casually.
Hawke tilts his head away from the book to stare at me, as if he’s mulling over what I said about the center. It’s true. I’ve seen kids so abused it takes every bit of strength I have to not throw up or break down and cry right in front of them. I’ve come close, but somehow managed not to embarrass myself. Yet.
It’s not easy work. I’ve seen kids who cut themselves, teens in abusive relationships, teens who sell their bodies for a living. Humans sometimes do terrible, awful things to each other, but my job is to fix the kids’ minds, not their bodies, so I force myself to overlook the injuries in order to help heal their damaged psyches.
Hawke finally tears his eyes away from mine, flicking them back to the book on the counter. “This one.” He stabs a finger at a beautiful dragon with a long, swirling tail.
The tattoo artist, whose name I forgot but Hawke apparently knows, grins. “Good choice. Where do you want it?”
Hawke points to his back over his shoulder. “Start at the left scapula with the tail over my shoulder to the front.”
“Let me go size this and we’ll get started. This is a big piece, it’ll take two or maybe three sessions,” the artist says.
“That’s fine, man. Whatever.” Hawke nods. The artist picks up the book and ducks into a tiny office next to the front door.
I turn from the counter to walk along the perimeter of the waiting area, checking out the hundreds of colorful photos lining the walls. Pictures of clients showing off their ink interspersed with different design options hang from random thumbtacks. I spot one of Hawke, his shirt hiked up on the side to show a swath of black text along his ribcage. It’s poorly focused, so I can’t read the text.
“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask, studying the photo closer. It’s too fuzzy to read the tattoo, no matter how hard I squint.
“I have no idea,” he replies. Hawke rests his hand on my lower back and I have to bite back a groan. I know in his mind, his touch is meant to be friendly, but I can’t help my physical reaction to him.
My pulse picks up, thrumming in my ears when he leans in and points to a photo, his warm hand still splayed across my back as his hot breath caresses my ear. “That’s Jimmy Harper, from Viking’s Revenge.” When I give him a blank look, Hawke rolls his eyes playfully. “They’re a metal band. Anyway, Rook knows Jimmy pretty well.”
Rook, that’s the tattoo artist’s name.
“Hawke, you’re up.” Rook waves us back and we follow him down a short hall past a closed door. A loud buzzing sound is coming from behind it. When we reach our destination, I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s a brightly lit room that reminds me of a doctor’s office. White and very clean, with stainless steel countertops and trays full of shiny instruments, it’s not at all what I expected.
“You can sit there, gorgeous,” Rook says with a smile. He winks and I feel my face and neck flush.
“Thanks.” I avoid looking at Hawke, but catch him glaring at Rook out of the corner of my eye. Uncomfortable with Rook flirting with me in front of Hawke, I drop into the extra chair and keep my head down.
Rook slaps his hand on a weird black vinyl and metal contraption. “Take your shirt off and sit,” he says to Hawke, taking his own seat on a low stool.
I can’t help myself. I lift my head to watch Hawke undress. I’ve imagined his naked torso dozens of times, wondering what sorts of tattoos he’s hiding beneath the layers of clothing. My mouth is nearly watering when Hawke grips the edge of his shirt and begins to pull it off.
Rook snaps on a pair of latex gloves and turns his back to us to ready whatever he needs to work on the tattoo. Hawke’s eyes flick over to mine and a chill prickles down my spine. I immediately recognize the emotion behind Hawke’s multicolored eyes—anxiety.