Hell, he makes You’re So Vain look like the picture of apathy.
I let the familiar melody fill my ears. Let my head drift to its happy place.
This is a classic backpiece.
Amor vincit omnia.
Love conquers all, surrounded by wings.
Thin lines, soft shading, sharp angles. The perfect mix of vulnerability and defenses.
The moment you let your guard down, let someone in, give them the chance to hurt you.
Sure, I can’t accomplish that.
Yeah, the thought of showing someone my broken heart makes me sick.
But I understand the sentiment.
If it’s what this girl wants, well—
Good for her. I hope she’s happy. I hope she finds a love that fills her soul.
I trace the last line of the quote. “Hanging in there?”
“Uh…” Her voice is weak. Stilted. “Will you think I’m a wimp if I ask for a break?”
“Shoulder blades hurt.”
“So it’s going to get worse?”
“Yeah.” I can’t help but chuckle. She’s a tiny thing. A thin girl with long blond hair and delicate features. She looks like she’d blow away in a strong breeze, but she hasn’t made a peep so far. She’s tough.
“You’re laughing at my pain?” Her voice almost gets to teasing.
“It gets better after it gets worse.” I turn off the gun. Set it on my tray.
She needs the break. I need to stretch. And toss aside the storm brewing in the back of my head.
Mack is getting married.
Skye wants us to fake a relationship.
It’s stupid. Immature. Petty.
But I get it.
Maybe I can’t erase Mack from my mind. Maybe I can’t stitch my heart back together. But I can do what it takes to never see her again.
Skye can’t.
She cares about her family as much as I care about mine. And Mack is family.
She’s fucked.
She needs a shield. Something to keep Mack’s backhand compliments at bay. To wipe the smug look off her face.
“How about some water?” I need to get my head in the game. At least for the next few hours. This is a great job, a great shop, a fucking calling. I’ve wanted to do tattoos since I was a kid. I tried to go to college, study something practical, make my dad happy. But I never got it out of my head.
This is where I belong.
Where life makes sense.
Hell, it’s in my blood. My mom was an artist—an animator. She would have worried about my unconventional path, but she would have been proud.
She was always proud. Full of love and joy and life. Even when she was dying.
My client pushes herself up. She offers me a shy smile. “I think I need some air.”
“In that?” I motion to the tape she’s wearing as a top.
Her cheeks flush, but I can’t tell if it’s modesty or desire.
She has nothing to be embarrassed about.
Her tits are small, but they’re nice. They suit her slim figure. Even with the tape, they’re perky.
“Don’t leave me waiting.” My client brushes her long hair behind her ear. Presses her lips into a sweet smile.
She’s flirting.
She wants me.
It’s not surprising. Or unusual. There’s something about the rush that comes with new ink. Dopamine and adrenaline.
Men get friendly.
Women get flirty.
Half of my female clients proposition me. After Mack left, I accepted their advances.
It was fun for a while. But it was empty too.
Shit. I’m getting distracted again. It’s Skye’s offer.
I had a million dreams about it. About her hands in my back pocket, her soft body against mine, her lips on my skin.
Fuck, those crimson lips.
Do they taste as good as they look?
Does she taste like the honey and matcha she’s always drinking?
My cock stirs.
Fuck. It’s one thing getting excited at the thought of her curvy body. But this?
Uh-uh.
I haven’t kissed in forever. I tried it with my first few one-night stands, but it was all wrong. Too close, too intimate, too personal.
“Hey.” Chase nods from his spot at the counter.
I move to the water cooler. Pour two cups. Down one.
Head in the game.
Memories of Mack locked in a box.
Thoughts of Skye far away.
I’m Forest Ballard, expert tattoo artist.
The guy who protects my family.
Who looks out for my friends.
Shit. My head goes to Skye immediately. The frustration in her blue eyes. God, her eyes are gorgeous. Bright. Full of life. AS brilliant as the sky itself.
They’re a little darker, a little deeper. Halfway between sky and ocean. A hundred percent intoxicating.
“You okay?” Chase asks. He’s our official manager. And a good friend. I’ve known him forever. Since we were on the same basketball team in high school.
He’s a good boss. He keeps the shop running like a well-oiled machine. And he still spends half his time on tattoos.
He’s good at it.
He is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
My friend used to be the picture of misery. He made me look well-adjusted. Hell, he made the miserable fucker singing about car crashes look well-adjusted.
For ages, he was obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Unable to move on. Forgive her. Or himself. Or a single person in his family. (Not that I blame him).