Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

“I’m not apologizing to that dick after he hit me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even,” I say, searching my closet for a clean shirt. Something dark that will bring out the green in my eyes.

“If shit blows up during practice, then I’ll dock both of you on the next gig for wasting time.”

Shrugging—our pay is like chump change to me—I spray on some cologne and grab my keys.

At the rattling of keys, Romeo’s head snaps around. “Where are you going?”

I almost snicker at his confusion. I rarely drive, and not just because my car has only two seats. The main reason is that if I’m not on campus, I’m usually out partying. And since I don’t really date, whatever girl I end up with usually does the driving. If we have band practice, I catch a ride with Romeo.

“Dragonfly Ink,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Tattoo shop.”

His eyes roll and he turns back to the computer. “You’re not lifting tonight?” he asks absently, referring to our usual workout. Since he trains people—mostly kids in an after-school program—in boxing, he has access to the weight rooms on campus. And since the weight room is the one place where we get along, we’ve been spotting each other since freshman year.

“I’ll be there. Just going for a consultation today. Might be getting a custom tat this time around.”

He shakes his head.

Grabbing my coat from the bed, I almost snort. Romeo is such an uptight fuck. If they hadn’t stuck us together freshman year, the two of us would have never agreed to room together. Though my parents won’t spring for an apartment, I could afford one on their ridiculously generous allowance, but living in the dorm makes life easier. I’m all about the easy life.

Done with my stupid ass roommate, I head out the door.

It’s almost a hike to my car in the back corner of the dorm parking lot. I’ve had the car since I turned sixteen, when my father bought a new car and gave me his old one. He only drives BMWs, so I do too. Not a big deal. Not like he was giving me a Lamborghini or some other car from his collection, which sits 99 percent of the time in his monstrous garage. But I have no problem with my Z4, and I’m lucky my father went on a sports car buying spree in his early fifties. Otherwise, I would have ended up with a sedan.

I get into the car, push on my sunglasses, and start the engine purring with a turn of the key.

A glance at the clock tells me I’m going to be early. I drive slower than usual. People pass me on the highway, but I keep my speed around fifty. Damn. I’m nervous. Music usually blasts while I drive, but I’m hoping the quiet will help calm my nerves. I can’t remember the last time a girl made me nervous. I’m not sure if I want to date her—shit, I haven’t dated anyone since high school, and that was just a few times—or what. Though there is one thing I know I’d like to do with her.

After a twenty-five-minute ride that should have taken fifteen, I park across the street from Dragonfly Ink. I do some breathing techniques I regularly use prior to going onstage, then force myself out of the car. Time to turn on the charm. Just like onstage—time to shine.

The girl behind the counter isn’t Mandy or Allie. “Hello,” she says with a smile. “May I help you?”

With her bronze skin and a mane of light brown curls, this girl is hotter than Mandy. She could be a model. Like runway in Paris shit. But like Mandy, she doesn’t move me. She doesn’t have that voice or those eyes. Or that talent.

Out of habit, I smile back. “I have an appointment with Allie,” I say, walking to the counter.

She reaches for a leather appointment book with a hesitant look. “Um, let me take a peek.”

“Is there a problem?” Somehow I keep the tension I’m feeling from my tone.

“I’m not sure.” She quickly turns pages. “But Al usually doesn’t come in today.” She turns some more pages and her finger scans. Tapping her finger on a page, she looks up. “Justin Noel?”

I nod.

She glances at the skull clock above the shelves filled with logoed T-shirts. “You’re a little early. Al’s not here yet, but she’s never late.” She gestures to a row of chairs along the wall. “You can sit and wait.”

Damn. After driving slow and breathing like a moron, I’m still almost ten minutes early. “I’ll take a look around.”

“Okay. Can I get you anything? Bottled water? Coffee?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay. Name’s Shaya, if you need anything,” she says politely.

I wander over to the counter with the photo albums containing custom work, hoping for some inspiration. I flick through the stuff again. Although it’s great work, nothing grabs me.

My phone vibrates as I shut the book. Since I’m expecting it to be one of the many girls who constantly blow up my in-box, I’m slightly annoyed to see it’s a bank update. My monthly allowance just went into my account. Gotta love my parents, coming through with the only form of love they know how to deliver.

With nothing else to do, I hit my father’s number on speed dial. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message. My mother doesn’t answer either, but her recorded voice says, “Leave a message, but we’re in Barbados until the end of March.” I smack the phone on my leg. They could have told me they were taking a month-long trip out of the states, but no. They don’t tell me shit. Don’t even answer my calls.

Pissed off, I move over to the row of chairs and plop onto the middle one.

My parents have always been the distant kind. I had a nanny until I was ten, and though they were hardly around, they seemed to at least like me. But once my full-time babysitter left, my attention-getting antics brought nothing but perpetual sour glares. When they weren’t too busy. And ever since my father retired two years ago from being a surgeon, it’s felt like we live on opposite sides of the US instead of opposite sides of Michigan.

My elbows dig into the hard metal arms of the chair as I wearily rub my hands across my face. Even though I’m twenty years old, thinking about my parents still makes me feel like that lost ten-year-old boy, which has me peeved. I don’t need anyone. Much less their lame asses.

I race—if nine miles over the speed limit can be considered racing—to work. I’d been so wrapped up in finishing my paper for Business 302 that I’d forgotten about the appointment Mandy had scheduled for me on my day off. Or maybe I wanted to forget. I’m not looking forward to working with Mr. Hottie, whose bedroom eyes will be striving to strip away my casual indifference along with my clothes. His bad boy aura bugged me—I’m beyond done with bad boys—but his gaze bothered me most. The last thing I want to do is design for him. Then there’s the fact he hit on Mandy, which she was very vocal about, prior to hitting on me. Nasty as that is, though, I don’t really have much choice since I’m trying to build my business. I’d be an idiot to turn away a new client, especially a musician. Word of mouth is the best marketing tool out there. And musicians are some of my best customers.

After parking in the lot behind the shop, I rush through the back door.

Shaya bursts into the hallway. “You’re late. You’re never late.”

“Got distracted working on a paper.”

“Well, he’s been waiting for almost a half hour.”

“I’m not that late.”

“He came early.”

I cock my head to the side, thinking. Either he’s the punctual type or he thought Mandy would be working. That wouldn’t surprise me—I hired Mandy because she’s attractive. She may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not above using whatever tactics are necessary to keep people, males to be exact, in the shop. Her looks along with her flirting help distract them from me. Many guys who are into tattoos are attracted to girls who can ink. Like artistic talent means that a girl will be a kinky, sexual gymnast in bed.

“Huh,” I say, opening the door to my office and pulling off my jacket. I yank my iPad out of my bag and toss my coat on the desk. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll take care of it.”

Out in the shop, I’m greeted by the sight of Justin’s long body curled in one of the chairs along the wall. His hands cover his face while his fingers dig into his temples. I walk over to him, but he doesn’t look up, so I clear my throat. His green eyes, as deeply shaded as a painting of an English garden, are filled with a pain that makes me step back. The flirty guy from the other night has been replaced, at least for the moment. Somehow I find my voice. “Hello, Justin, I, um, want to apologize for my lateness.”

The tortured expression on his face dissipates as he stares at me. Though I’m wearing a tank top with the shop logo, skinny jeans, and calf-hugging brown boots, I feel naked under his gradually warming gaze. “No problem. Can’t say I minded waiting for you to come,” he says, smiling like he holds some secret knowledge.

It’s easy to ignore what is probably innuendo with his deep dimples distracting me. Dang, dimples get me every time. But I will stay immune. “Why don’t we get started?” I gesture to the corner where my art table sits.

He stands gracefully while I try to ignore those dimples.

“All right,” he says. “But I have to warn you, I’m counting on your abilities as an artist to bring me some inspiration.”

Tall and lean, he towers over me. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his sharp jaw contrasts with the dark blond rumpled hair falling over his forehead, and the white of his teeth contrasts with his coppery skin. In his distressed jeans and a faded, fitted T-shirt with sunglasses resting in the V neckline, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for something ridiculously priced and European. Or maybe for an exotic men’s cologne. Because he smells fantastic. Words like clean, woodsy, and dusky come to mind as I breathe in the dark scent.