Confidence, not ego.
Ha. Sure.
I stretched my neck. “Well, another few minutes, and I’ll get you out of here.”
“Cool.”
He turned back to Tally and they chatted about one of their kid’s teachers, leaving me to the work again, but it wasn’t so easy for me to find the zone a second time. I’d been abruptly dropped back into my own body and everything hurt—my hands, my back, my neck, my eyes. Two pieces in one day meant that I’d been working for near on eight hours.
Yes, I knew that was a normal day for most people.
But that didn’t include the final tweaks to the sketches or the placement of the templates. It didn’t include the consult, the prep, wouldn’t include the cleaning up.
By the time I crawled my ass up the steps, I’d have been working on Tally and Jeff’s tattoos for almost twelve hours.
And that didn’t count the time I’d spent drawing up options the night before.
Regardless, I’d been doing this for almost ten years. I knew when I could push through and finish and when I needed to stop because I risked ruining someone’s piece.
This was the time to push through.
Forty-five minutes later, I’d finished, and while wrapping his arm, I went over the aftercare.
Pretty simple.
Keep it clean. Don’t swim or use a hot tub and be generous with the Aquaphor. Their own sweat was fine. Other people’s was not.
Though, the last was more with my clients who wanted to go out and meet up with someone who’d slid into their DMs on Instagram, rather than the married couple in front of me. I’m guessing Jeff and Tally had shared a lot more than sweat over the years, considering they had two kids.
“Bummer about the hot tub,” Tally said, “But I’m not sad I have to skip out on the gym for the next two weeks.”
I winked. “Do you need a doctor’s note for that?”
“Can you make me one?” she teased. “And one for work, too.”
“I can,” I said. “Not sure Garret Thompson, Wanna Be M.D. will be very effective.”
“Sounds like a rap name,” Jeff said.
Tally grinned and shook her head. “Damn.”
Jeff frowned. “What?”
“You had to bust out the Dad Joke.” A beat and a solemn shake of her head, though her lips were still tipping up at the corners as she fought back her grin. “You were actually cool there for a minute.”
“I’ll show you cool,” Jeff said, slinging an arm around her waist and tugging her close. He punctuated the movement with a wince, but Tally was off balance and missed it, especially when he dropped his mouth to hers and stole a kiss. I turned back to my station and started cleaning up, giving them a little privacy.
I mean, this wasn’t exactly a private place, but I wasn’t going to step on their moment.
Especially when I heard Tally’s voice soften and drop in volume as she said gently, “Thanks, baby. Thanks for doing this for me.”
“I love you,” Jeff murmured.
Slice. Jab. Stab.
Silently, I stretched and stepped a few feet away, pretending to have something to do at the computer at the front of the studio. I spent several minutes looking busy and deliberately ignoring the couple kissing in my station, but eventually Tally and Jeff came out of each other and gathered their stuff.
They paid, tipped—generously, which was nice—and then left.
And as it had often been of late, I was alone at Tig’s.
Not surprising, since it was a Sunday. Most of the crew didn’t work the weekends, or if they did at all, they only came in on Saturday. But I was cramming in as many appointments as I could during the time I had here. Saving up on my final stop before I headed home to California to set up my own shop.
I’d done guest spots in Miami, Atlanta, Austin, Los Angeles, Chicago, and now NYC. All had garnered good money, all had padded my savings, but this stop had the most value of all of them since rent and utilities were included in Tig’s cut of my pieces.
Plus, it was easy to stay late when I only had to stumble up one flight of stairs before crashing.
But there was still work down here to do.
My station to clean. Equipment to sanitize. Confirming my prep for tomorrow’s appointments was ready.
I made sure the front door was locked and turned on a playlist on my phone then went to work. The needles were disposed of properly, the gun taken apart and placed in the sanitizer. I gathered up the trash and threw it into the dumpster out back then came back in and was giving everything a once-over to make sure I hadn’t missed something critical when I heard it.
Thump-thump.
Frowning, I glanced around, but couldn’t place the noise. Clearly, I’d been in this shop for too long if I was beginning to imagine sounds.
I bent, grabbed my cell, and turned for the stairs.
Thump-thump.
Okay, so that was definitely not imagined.
Was there a giant ass rat making itself at home in my apartment?
Thump-thump.
Not up, but forward. As in, the sound was coming from the front of the shop. It was dark outside, but the lights were on and so I could see jack shit outside.
Thump-thump.
“Shit,” I muttered, heading toward the door. Stupid as hell, to be considering opening it when fuck knew what was out there. But I had to at least make sure it wasn’t someone on the sidewalk needing help.
I glanced through the window.
And immediately my heart was the thing doing the thumping.
Charlie.
She raised her arms, and I saw they were piled high with boxes and bags then realized the thumping had been from her foot doing the knocking.
Hurrying, I flipped the lock and opened the door. “Charlie, are you okay?”
“I’m sho-kay,” she said, and I realized she had a bag in her mouth, too. Grabbing it and the rest of the bags that were precariously perched on the box, I stepped back. She came in, smiled up at me. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I saw the lights on as I drove by and figured I’d drop the stuff by for tomorrow. But I should have waited when I couldn’t get a spot in front.”
I lifted a brow.
She explained. “The fittings are expensive, and I didn’t want to leave them in my car. It’s somehow still running, but not exactly secure, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t. Not really. Was it really old? Or had someone taken a baseball bat to it?
But instead of asking, I just shut the door behind her and asked, “Did you want this stuff in the back?”
“Oh, I can get it,” she said. “It seemed like you were ready to go.”
I didn’t want to argue with that, so I just shifted the bags down my wrists, snatched the box from her arms, and walked toward the back room.
“Garret!” she exclaimed.
“Charlie!” I exclaimed back.
She huffed.
I kept walking.
“I’m fully capable of carrying—”
God, she had spine. Why did I have to love women who had spine?
“I know.”
“So why are you—”
“It’s pretty late to be delivering supplies on a Sunday,” I said, attempting to divert her focus.
It worked. Sort of.
“I was at another job,” she said, coming up behind me and trying to take the box back. Her scent filled my senses, tropics and salt, her bare skin brushed mine . . . and my cock pulsed.