Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

Obviously, showing up with me at a party is enough of a reward to do hours of boring research and writing. Since I joined the band, getting girls has become far too easy. More than me, they’re after my persona. And I’m okay with that. I think. Getting deep isn’t my style. The real me is off-limits anyway. But fuck—where’s the challenge? I search through memories from several encounters, trying to remember what Lila was like in bed. Fast. And there wasn’t a bed. Rather, the back of a door. Maybe the party won’t be too bad. Or more specifically, the after-party.

I tap my fingers on the circular armrest while she finishes reading the lengthy assignment description. In the sitting area next to us, a group of students compare notes. Beyond the study group is the checkout desk, where a short line of students wait. My fingers stop their tapping at the sight of the last person in line. I’m out of my chair in seconds and moving across the library. Though Lila hisses my name, I snag a book from a shelf and then keep walking to the end of the line.

I stare at the waves in each of her dark auburn ponytails—she looks hot with her hair up. I wait for her to turn my way, then say, “Hey, Allie, didn’t know you went here.”

The large bag on her shoulder almost hits me in the stomach as she turns around. Her charcoal eyes slightly widen. “Well hello, Justin.”

“You’d think that since we’re dating, I’d know we go to the same college,” I say with a smirk. I wonder about her ex, then wonder why I give a shit. It’s not like I’m after anything more than a fling. An extremely sexy fling, given that husky voice and the many hidden tattoos to discover. But my pursuit has been slow. Her rule about not dating customers is a total cock block.

Her lashes flutter at me. “I forgot to tell you over our romantic dinner date. With all that lobster and your cute dimples, sharing my educational pursuits escaped my mind.” Her sarcasm brings a grin, and probably dimples, to my face. Her smile drops, and the usual restraint returns to her expression. “But then, I only take two classes a semester. You?”

“Full-time.” Studying her face, I wonder why I’ve never seen her on campus. With those eyes and that lip ring, I would have noticed this girl in a hallway packed with people or the bookstore or on a sidewalk or…anywhere. Next to her, I’m alive with lust. In a fucking library. “You must take morning classes.”

She nods. “Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”

I drag my gaze from her mouth and notice The Fundamentals of Business Law title wrapped in her arms and pressed against her chest. “Business? I would have thought art.”

“Couldn’t get away from it totally. Art is my minor,” she says, studying the spine of the book in my hand. “And you?”

I glance at the book in my hand: Taking Charge of Your Fertility. An internal groan rolls through me. Leave it to me to lift something that makes no sense. “Communication.” I tap the book. “Family communication. Big paper. Fertility’s more of an issue in marriage than most people imagine.”

As Allie’s expression turns skeptical, Lila is suddenly next to me, shoving the handout I gave her into my chest. “You forgot your papers, Justin,” she says, sneering at me and then giving Allie a dirty look.

I don’t reach for the handout. “You can have it,” I reply. “I have another.”

She pushes harder and snaps, “I don’t want it. Take it.”

People are starting to watch us. The last thing I need is for Lila to go apeshit on me in front of Allie. I reluctantly take the handout.

Lila huffs under her breath, “Asshole,” then stomps off, her blonde hair flying and big ol’ bag swinging.

Besides being gullible, freshman girls can be overly dramatic. I shove the handout into the fertility book. “My paper partner,” I say. Allie’s face changes from skeptical to cynical as she watches Lila exit through the double doors. When her gaze comes back to me, I shrug.

“She’s not a morning person, but she’s excellent with words. A truly amazing lyricist.” Allie’s expression doesn’t get friendlier. Wanting to change the subject fast, I ask, “Things go okay the other day with your ex?”

Her lips tighten. “Things went fine. I sort of freaked out over nothing.” She steps forward with others in the line, and I’m staring at her back. When she readjusts her bag and her sweater shifts, I catch half of the sunflower tattoo on the base of her neck. The colors are vibrant. Her skin looks soft. I’d like to kiss the yellow and brown ink. Slide my lips around the dark outline of the flower.

I lean close to her ear and ask in a whisper, “Also inspired by the ear slicer’s work?”

She slowly turns to me with a pensive expression. “Are you guessing or do you truly recognize it?”

As if I’m not trying to impress her, I shrug. “I’ve seen the painting.”

Her gray eyes widen for real this time. “Get out. Where?”

“London? Paris? New York? Those museums all seem the same inside.”

She blinks at me with an amazed expression. “London and New York, yes, but the paintings at each are actually a bit different. But you’ve been to Paris too?”

I was trying to impress her with my knowledge of art, not my travels, which weren’t impressive but lonely. They were never family trips. My parents did their thing. I did mine. How else would I have wandered into an art museum? My parents certainly weren’t interested. But if she’s impressed, I’ll roll with it.

“And Rome. I’ll never forget Rome.”

I’d been sixteen, and the dark-eyed girls had liked my height and light hair. A handful of them had been older than girls, and I still remember what they’d taught me. But even after all that lush flesh, I refused to go to Barcelona the next summer. The moments of pleasure didn’t compensate for the loneliness of being in a foreign country while my mother shopped ten hours a day and my father relaxed into becoming a zombie. The one month of summer vacation was when he relaxed. The only time he relaxed.

Allie stares up at me with interest while clutching her book to her chest. “So you’re into art?”

Honesty should have me admitting art is intriguing—I’ve always welcomed the way it brings feeling to my usual emotionless state for at least a few moments—but it’s not my style to be deep. Opening up to people feels as foreign as the countries I visited across the ocean were. I remind myself what I’m here in this line for, and grin. I lower my voice and say, “I like lots of things.”

She raises a brow, but the request of “May I help you?” has her moving to the counter.

After she checks out her book and starts for the exit, I can’t help calling out, “See you Friday, Allie.”

She nods over her shoulder before slipping out the doors.

The librarian behind the counter looks at me expectantly. I’m clueless for a second, but stuck with a line of people behind me, I check out the book on fertility. At the entrance, I jerk out the research paper directions and drop the book into the return bin. Time to find Lila. While freshman girls can be overly dramatic, they are also extraordinarily forgiving.

Though usually soothing, the small space of my tattooing room feels confining as I prepare for Justin’s appointment. I’m so nervous it’s hard to stay focused, but luckily I could fill ink caps in my sleep. I’ve done it for years. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone since…well, Trevor. And in many ways, the insane attraction I have for Justin reminds me of how it was with Trevor in the beginning. I still find Trevor attractive, but it’s tainted now by all the heartbreak he put me through. Trevor has made me wary of all men. The pain he caused is enough to last a lifetime. I’d rather let my idle lady parts dry up to dust than deal with another rampage on my heart.

My apprehension about Justin might be for nothing. After meeting him three times, I’m quite sure that he’s a relentless flirt. His intense gaze, which always throws me off, is most likely part of his calculated bad boy act. But I’m very, very tempted to use his act to my advantage. He could be the perfect buffer to help me deal with Trevor’s return. Justin seems shallow enough to agree to play the part. When it comes to Trevor, my emotions are so warped I don’t trust myself.

Todd strolls into the room and lifts the thermal paper with Justin’s design on it from the tray stand. His lip curls. “More tribal shit?”

“Todd,” I say in a warning tone. He is forever complaining about people who come in and pick “cool” or “cute” ink. Tribal designs and fairies top his whine list. I don’t care what people pick. I’m always honored they let me permanently mark their skin. But Todd is the textbook image of a tattoo artist. Attitude. Shaved head. Two arm sleeves. Ear gauges. Pierced everything, which is why Todd is the shop’s piercer.

“Hey, I quit saying shit in front of customers.”

“Quit saying sh—stuff, period.”

“Oh.” He leans back and points a finger at me. “I almost got you.”

I give him a low-lidded stare, then nod toward the stencil. “Take a better look, beep face. That one is custom. The guy is a singer.”

“Beep face?”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, I say, “Figure it out. Fill in the blank.” I point at the design. “Just take a look.”

He peers closely at the stencil. “This thing would rock without the lame tribal shit.”

Irritated, I point to the door. “Go find something to do. Clean the bathroom if you can’t figure out anything else.”

He wrinkles his nose until the end of the septum ring practically points at me. “I’ll find something.”