“Your boyfriend broke up with you, right?”
“Yeah.” I’d really rather not think about that right now.
“So how come you’re the one who’s out on the street, looking for a new place to live?”
You know what? I don’t have a good answer for that. I take a stab at it anyhow.
“Because his name was on our lease?”
Vik makes a dismissive noise. “If he’s the one who wants change, he changes. You stay and he goes.”
It’s dark outside, and the few people walking past the window are either staggeringly drunk or so wrapped up in each other that they don’t look inside Ink Me’s windows. It’s liberating knowing that everyone and no one is watching, that Vik and I are alone in this pool of light inside a bigger sea of darkness. I suddenly understand why all those detectives in TV shows shine a spotlight on their targets, willing them to speak.
The words spill out of me with each question that Vik asks. He can’t care about my answers, not really. He’s working, filling the minutes and the silence the same way he colors in the blank spots on my skin, and yet it feels both surreal and good at the same time. It has nothing to do with my noticing how powerful his thighs are in those wash-worn, threadbare jeans of his, or how his motorcycle boots make me think really, really dirty thoughts.
“There was no magic putty for my relationship with Mark. The problem is I get distracted by a pretty face and Mark had that in spades.”
“I’ll be your booty call,” he says as he presses a bandage over my lower back.
“Excuse me?”
I sound like I have a stick up my butt. Prissy. Uptight.
And he repeats the utterly ridiculous, totally crazy thing he just said.
“If you need a pretty face for sex, you can call me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Harper
VIK SHOVES A tattooed hand in my face. “Up,” he says.
His voice is phenomenal. Low and rough, full of heat and humor, the man could make a fortune as a sex line worker. He could read bedtime stories, dirty limericks, the stock report...anything, and I’d be jilling off on the other end of the line because he’s that goddamned sexy.
Danger, danger.
Getting up is exponentially harder than lying down. Not only am I more sober, but I’m stiff. There’s also the whole business of my skirt and my blouse, and even though what goes up must come down, my skirt is a challenge. The fabric clings to my legs, and the strong possibility of flashing my high school lover-turned-biker my cotton-covered butt makes me self-conscious. Frankly, I’d feel better about putting myself on display if I wasn’t wearing sensible white cotton.
Vik solves my logistical issues for me. Large hands close around my waist and yank me upward. I try not to giggle, but a squeak escapes me anyhow. I’m painfully ticklish, and his fingers dig gently into every spot I wish he’d avoid. At least he’s quick. I don’t even have time to worry about the doughnuts I’ve been stress-eating because he flies me through the air and sets me gently on my feet. I’m not a small woman; I started growing up when I was ten and then out two years later. And while I haven’t achieved Jolly Green Giant proportions, I’m not precisely sylph-like, either. I’m tall, I’m sturdy and I’m wearing four-inch heels.
“Warning would be good.” I dig my nails into his forearms trying to find my balance. The skin beneath the dark scrolls of ink is sun-bronzed. It’s also totally lickable, but I need to not think about that.
“Vik Air at your service,” he deadpans. “Although you either have to let go or come home with me.”
We both look down at the death grasp I have on his arms.
Right.
I let go.
Vik strips off his gloves and tosses them into the trash. I guess we’re done here. He might be hot and talented, but this isn’t personal. Sure, I’ve felt this man’s hands on my body, his breath on my skin for three hours, but it’s a business deal. His ink in exchange for my money. Anything else was absolutely not on the price list the girl at the front desk gave me.
But I want more.
God help me, but I do. I don’t want tonight to end. Right now, it feels like I’ve lost everything. In the morning, I’ll end my pity party, but right now, I don’t remember what’s right with my life. I just remember the crap. I don’t have my place anymore. My stuff’s packed up in a storage pod. My ex hijacked our Siamese. All I have is work on Monday and...this night. The tattoo, this man’s hands on me waking me up in places I didn’t know I was asleep. Would you want it to end? If I’d been Cinderella, I’d have stuck around on the top of those stairs.
He steers me away from his bench, his hand low and firm just beneath the spot that burns and aches from his needles. And okay, just above another, slightly more southern spot that also aches and burns because clearly I’m all kinds of messed up.
“Harper?” His mouth brushes the hair by my ear.
“Yeah?” My stupid feet stop moving toward the front desk, where an astronomical bill waits for tonight’s piece of folly. Ink and this man do not come cheap.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you and I mean it. I’d be happy to be your booty call,” he whispers roughly. “All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”
I just...can’t.
Vik disappears while I settle up with his receptionist for my new ink. I shouldn’t be disappointed. Obviously, the flirty come-on lines are just part of the service—kind of like a hairdresser chatting you up while you’re in her chair and pretending she’s super-interested in your life. I force myself not to look around while Gia runs my credit card. After I sign the receipt, however, I discover a logistical problem.
Brooklyn’s sound asleep on the couch.
Since
