Ink My Heart

becomes part of the song. For a few minutes we’re on the same wavelength of emotion, connected by compassion, sometimes sadness. Though strangers, we understand each other in that moment.”

His explanation astounds me. I’d like to rest my forehead on his skin and take in this moment—part of me can’t believe he has opened up and let me see beyond his playboy persona. I’d never expect such depth from him. He’s cocky and an obvious womanizer, yet his heartfelt explanation makes him more attractive because it’s a perfect description of how I consider art. In its highest form, art ignites universal emotions that transcend the differences among people.

Instead of giving in to the urge and pressing my cheek on his back, I simply say, “I think you explained it rather well.”

He shrugs but says, “I’m not sure I did but thanks.” A soft rock song fills the silence. “So how long have you been into van Gogh?”

I wipe at a bead of ink on his skin. “Since I was about twelve.”

“How does a twelve year old girl get into van Gogh?”

“We had to do a two-page paper in art. I picked his name out of a hat. The first time I saw Starry Night it was love at first sight. Then I read about him and read his letters to his brother, and I don’t know…He seemed so lonely and sincere yet troubled. My little twelve-year-old heart went out to him.”

“Huh. You must have been one mature girl. At that age, I was drooling over Beyonce and Gwen Stefani. Sincerity didn’t enter into the drool.”

“There were Tiger Beat boys pinned to my wall too. Not just van Gogh prints. I wasn’t a total nerd.”

“You sound sweet not nerdy.”

Me sweet? I’m not a raging beezy or anything, but sweet? There’s only a small circle that gets sweetness from me. “Don’t get any wrong ideas about me. Remember, I’m sticking a needle in you.”

His laugh is rich and deep.

“You might want to stretch while I change needles,” I say, wishing his laugh didn’t make me want to open up to him.

He pushes out of the chair, and I adjust my rear post to modify the supply of ink and then attach a large mag needle for the shading and coloring. The changes to my machine keep me from watching him stalk around the room and in front of the mirrors.

Finally, he sits all that skin down and I get back to work. We talk about art and music as I shade the tattoo, then fill in the tiniest amount of red for some extra definition. Once again, he’s easy to talk to. It’s nice. But not as nice as his kiss, which shouldn’t be in my thoughts while I’m working—or at all.

I let him look at the finished tat before I put the bandage on. While he checks it out in the mirror, deep dimples form as he smiles, just like the last time. He studies the defined treble clef filled with intricate tribal work wrapped around the detailed microphone.

“It’s amazing.” His eyes meet my reflection in the glass. “You’re beyond talented.”

My murmured thanks receive a quick hug. A moment later he slides away, brushing his slight five-o’clock shadow with my cheek and leaving me frozen as he plops into the chair. I stiffen from his embrace and try not to recall the sensation of his warm, lovely skin. I slowly reach for some goo, then apply it in a dreamlike state to his back. I haven’t been to dreamland in years. Nor have I felt fuzzy and warm, which are the only words that describe how I feel from his hug.

Not good.

After applying the bandage, I shake my head to clear it. Head in the clouds leads to idiotic things. Like fake dates.

Once he’s dressed—I peeked very little by keeping myself busy cleaning up—he hands me two tickets. “You need to come see your work. It’ll be center stage tonight.”

My fingers reach for the tickets, and warning bells ring in my head at the touch of his hand. I snatch the tickets and clasp them to my thigh. “That will be a first.”

He snags his sunglasses off the counter, and gives me an uncompromising stare with those clear green eyes. “I’ll be looking for you in the crowd.” Then he and his inked body are gone, leaving only the scent of his dark, sexy cologne.

About two minutes later, I’m still standing next to my tray like an idiot and debating if I really should go to his show when Todd walks in. His pierced mouth curls into a smirk. “Knowing you tatted him, I get why Justin had the look.” The look refers to the tell-all smile a customer has when seeing their finished tattoo. “But why do you have the look, Al?” he asks, then grins mischievously at me.

The smile I hadn’t known I was wearing turns into a frown. “Oh fuck off, Todd.”

“Shay! Bring the jar!” he yells, then hoots and points like a twelve-year-old.

I dig five ones out of my pocket before she even puts the dang jar under my nose.

Since Justin first came around, my swear jar idea has been biting me in the rear.

Chapter 9 Allie

Saturday nights at the shop are usually walk-ins. However, I did have one regular coming in for a scheduled appointment. The client happened to be Holly, who is also my roommate. The minute I suggested we reschedule our session and go see Justin’s band instead, she was all over it. She’s been trying to hook me up for the past two years. After pressuring me until I couldn’t take it anymore, she has dragged me to house parties, college bars, and even fraternity mixers, including the one where she met her current boyfriend. But I never met anyone. Instead, while out I always felt out of place and lonelier than if I were sitting at home. She didn’t give up but forced me into the blind date thing instead. Holly set up the two dates I’ve been on in the past two years. One was with her boss. Financially stable. Mature. And as boring as a visit to the dentist.

Holly goes to college part-time—like me—but she takes evening classes because she has an awesome job as a pharmacist assistant. Seeing her at work, you’d never guess she had a wild side. She’s smiley and cheerful, and except for a star on her wrist, she appears tattoo free. When she goes out…Well, it’s hard to keep track of her ink because her outfits reveal almost all of it. Not all tattoo fanatics are wild. I’m definitely not. Holly most definitely is, even with a boyfriend she plans to marry. She’s impatiently waiting for a massive rock to put on her finger.

While we wait for the band to come on, the guy next to us at the bar is checking out the huge butterfly that looks like it’s about to fly off her back. She likes backless clothes. There’s not usually much to the front either. So when she turns around with a drink in each hand, the guy isn’t checking out the pretty swirls circling her belly button. Or the ladybugs—the only tats I didn’t do—along one side of her ribs. He’s not even checking out the scrolling words across the top of her chest. Because his eyes are glued to her cleavage. She’s had work on that too, and in her own words, “ain’t too proud to admit it.” Though we’re both in jeans, she has heels on. I’m wearing my knee-high calf-hugging boots. And except for the dress I wore the other night, the sexiest top I have is a tight white tank with a bit of lace at the edges, which is what I’m rocking for the show.

Holly hands me a mojito. “It’s about high time you had a good time, so I buy and you drink.”

I take a sip. “Slow down, chica. About three of these and I’ll be passed out.”

She lifts her own mojito. “Lightweight excuses aren’t going to fly tonight.” She wiggles her ass on my thigh. “We gots to get our krunk on before the band comes on.”

My eyes can’t help a roll while the guy next to us drools at her rubbing against my leg.

While declining several offers from guys who want to buy us drinks, we split another mojito, then order two beers and head out into the crowd in front of the stage. Holly uses a combination of “excuse me” and her tits to get us about fifteen feet from the stage. To get us any closer, she’d have to show more than cleavage. I don’t push the issue because she probably would. Holly is not exactly shy.

We sip our beers, bounce to the blaring music, and wait for the band to come on. If the crowd here is any indication, Luminescent Juliet is a lot more popular than Justin led me to believe. I haven’t told Holly anything about