I lowered the sketch book into my lap, my thumb still wedging the page open as I looked at her.
“I won’t bite unless you ask me to, baby,” I teased. “You can come on in.”
She rolled her eyes at me and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Are you drawing?”
“Tattoo designs.” I shrugged nonchalantly and her eyes lit with curiosity.
“Can I see?”
Fuck, should have seen that coming.
“No,” I replied, falling back on my asshole reputation to save me from getting caught out. Tatum narrowed her eyes at me and I let out a huff of frustration. “Shit, if you’re gonna cry about it then come here,” I said, beckoning her over with a jerk of my chin as I turned the TV off.
She drew closer as I flicked the pages over until I wasn’t looking at an image based on her, settling on the eagle I’d been designing instead. I’d dedicated six pages to trying to capture the beast just right so it was a pretty safe bet to show her them.
I hadn’t bothered to pull a shirt on and my dark red sweatpants were riding low on my hips. I pressed my thumb to the corner of my mouth to hide my smirk as her gaze dipped down to my waistband.
I may have had my reasons to keep away from her, but when she looked at me like that, I couldn’t help but get the urge to reel her in.
“You know, it’s not actually necessary to be a douchebag all the damn time,” she muttered as she came to stand over me.
“That thought had never crossed my mind,” I teased. “What exactly would I do with the rest of my day if I didn’t though? My only real hobby is being an asshole.”
“You’re right, it would definitely be a struggle for you to fill all of that time doing something else. Perhaps you could take up knitting?” she suggested.
“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea,” I replied, running a hand over my jaw. “I never know what to get Saint for Christmas, but if I could knit I could just make him an assortment of cock socks to go with every outfit.”
She snorted a laugh and I smirked at her as those big blues drifted to the sketchbook in my hand which I’d let fall against my chest so that she still couldn’t see it.
I patted the spot beside me on the bed and she moved into it slowly, arranging herself beside me, careful not to touch as she curled her legs beneath her and leaned up against the headboard. Saint had gotten her changed into a little black sweater dress which rode up her thighs as she got herself comfortable and I let myself look even though I probably shouldn’t have.
I held the book out casually, keeping it open on the page with the first eagle and she took it with eager hands, her eyes lighting up as they fell on the sketch.
She didn’t say anything, her lips parting as she ran a finger down the page alongside the bird, almost like she wanted to touch it before her gaze shifted to the sketch on the next page which was slightly different. The faint scent of cigarettes clung to the pages and it wafted over me as she turned them, making my stomach knot with thoughts of my family.
“Kyan…” she breathed, her eyes glued to the sketches like she couldn’t help but drink in the subtle differences from one image to the next. “These are…I mean, they’re incredible.”
I grunted dismissively, reaching over her to point at the right wing of the eagle she was currently studying. “The angle is all wrong here, there’s something off with the shading – makes it look like the sunlight is hitting his underside or something.” I shifted my finger to the one below. “This one got closer to the mark, but that look on his face isn’t right, it’s too serene, too calm –”
“I think they’re all beautiful,” she murmured in disagreement and I paused in my criticism of my work as I just looked at her.
I hadn’t taken art class when choosing my timetable here, knowing my family would find out if I had and not wanting the headache of trying to defend myself over the choice. Blake and Saint had seen my work enough times to toss the odd compliment my way, but being told something was shit hot or that it would look sick branded onto my skin wasn’t exactly the same as the quiet, almost devout appreciation she was offering. Her gaze trailed over the pages like she wanted to crawl right into them and the way her fingers kept caressing the paper made me cut the self-deprecation and swallow back the dismissive comments I wanted to make.
“Thank you,” I muttered, not really sure what to do with myself as she turned the page again.
“Do you only draw things with the aim of them becoming tattoos?” she asked slowly, her gaze still fixed on the sketches.
“Mostly,” I said, wondering what the fuck she’d think of me if she flipped to the back of the book and found her own face looking back at her. She’d probably have to wonder if I was the motherfucker stalking her or something.
“When you tattooed Monroe, you did it freehand,” she said. “How does that work? Do you design things first and then just roll with that idea, or do you usually use a stencil to put it on skin?”
“I like to sketch out the designs over and over,” I admitted. “Tweaking details, getting into the flesh of the piece, feeling its heartbeat-”
“Your art has a heartbeat?” she asked curiously, turning her head to look up at me, her gaze tearing away from my
