“The placement isn’t a problem,” I told him, handing back the phone. "But I don’t copy other artists’ tattoos. Are you okay with some variation?”
He frowned, as if he wasn’t expecting the answer. Then again, I wasn’t really surprised he would think he could just point at a piece of art someone else cared enough about to put on their body and have it replicated like some cheesy flash piece.
“I was hoping it could be the same.”
I tapped my pen against the sketchbook. Not off to a great start. And I had to use kid gloves, if I didn’t want to get reamed out by Ryan for being mean to his boyfriend’s brother. “Can you tell me a little more about what it’s for so I can make suggestions that will tailor it to you? Maybe something in a softer shading style.”
His eyes flashed with familiar indignation. “I know what I want,” he snapped. “I’m not a child.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I said, resisting the urge to talk down to him like he’d done to me earlier. “But it goes against my code of ethics to copy another artist’s work unless you have permission.”
“That’s going to be a bit difficult, considering he’s dead.”
I stared at him for a moment as his words sank in. Well, shit. Now I felt like an ass. “Oh. I’m sorry, I just thought--”
“You thought I was what, getting some alpha’s name tattooed over my heart like every drunk, lovesick omega who comes into your shop?” he sneered.
“No. For one thing, I don’t take walk-ins, and for another, I don’t tattoo drunk people,” I informed him. “But it would help if you gave me a little information, especially since you’ve made it clear you hate tattoos. I don’t want to put something on you that you’re gonna regret six months from now.”
He seemed like he was about to argue further, and considering he was about to make a career of it, I knew he had it in him. Instead, he sighed and his shoulders sank in defeat. “He was my best friend, and he died last year in a car accident right before law school. We did everything together in high school, and he got the tattoo when we both got accepted to undergrad. The letters belong to the law fraternity both our families have belonged to for generations, and we were supposed to go together.”
He took a deep breath, and it occurred to me this was the first time he’d ever willingly said more than a few words to me, let alone shown any sign of emotion. Even though I could hear the pain in his voice when he spoke of his friend, he was still collected, still in perfect control. His voice was steady as he continued with, “Elliot said the tattoo would be a reminder to always keep focused on the finish line. So no, it’s really not my style, but when I got accepted into the fraternity, I thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration. “I don’t know. We were supposed to do it together, and I guess it’s my way of bringing him to the finish line. Stupid, right?”
“Not at all,” I said immediately, reaching for a tissue. The emotional nature of my work meant I had to keep stocked, and I was used to seeing people crying, but he acted like it was some deeply shameful weakness. “I think it’s a beautiful way to keep him with you. And I’m sorry for assuming your reasons.”
He looked up, surprise in his glassy eyes. “So...you’ll do it?”
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “Definitely. Just give me a few minutes to draw something up.”
He nodded, looking away as I started sketching out a design. I tried to keep as close to the original as I could, while softening some of the design elements that would make it seem out of place on someone so elegant, incorporating Elliott’s name at the same time. Once I was finished, I held it out for his inspection, and he looked up from his phone.
“Don’t be shy if there’s anything you don’t like,” I told him. Not that there ever seemed to be any danger of him holding back what he thought. It was my favorite thing about him, actually. That and those silver eyes, ice cold and full of fire at the same time. “Or if it’s not close enough to the original.”
For a few moments, he just studied the drawing, his expression completely unreadable. If he ever decided law wasn’t for him, he could make a killing as a pro poker player. “It’s perfect,” he finally said, his voice slightly hoarse as he handed the drawing back to me.
I smiled. “Okay. I’ll get the stencil ready. Make yourself comfortable.”
He nodded, starting to slip out of his jacket. When I was finished with printing and cutting the stencil out, I turned back, and the sight of him sitting there in just his slacks, his lean, toned chest on full display, I almost tripped over my own jaw.
Even during last summer when we’d all been at the lake, I’d never actually seen him in less than a polo shirt.
He looked up, confusion in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said hoarsely, trying to veer myself back on track. “Not at all.”
It took way too much willpower to keep my thoughts on the positioning of the stencil as I placed it over his heart, and not the warmth of his silky skin beneath my fingertips. I had no choice but to smooth it down over his pectoral, but I still felt like a complete creep with the way my thoughts were drifting.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I’d been doing this forever, but I wasn’t some horny teenager who couldn’t control his libido and just wanted to tattoo for a chance to get cute omegas half-naked. I was a damn professional, and at this point, I had become an expert at feigning obliviousness when a client flirted with me, which happened enough to give most alphas an ego complex.
With him, it was different. And not at all in the way I’d expected. At least he didn’t seem to notice, which meant I was doing a better job keeping it in check than I feared.
“There,” I said, holding up a mirror. “Take a look at the placement and see if you like it.”
“It looks great,” he said, actually sounding excited. “I love it.”
Those words were always nice to hear, but never quite as nice as they were coming from him. “Cool. I’ll just wash up and we’ll get started,” I said, going over to the sink.
“You’ve washed your hands like ten times since I’ve been here,” he remarked.
“And I’m probably gonna wash them at least ten times more,” I said, drying my hands off with a paper towel before I put on a fresh pair of gloves.
“I’ve never actually been back here,” he murmured. “It’s a lot cleaner than I would have expected.”
I chuckled, making a few minor adjustments to the tattoo machine. “Can’t say the places I learned were very clean, but we take sanitation very seriously these days.”
“Is that what all the awards are for?” he asked, jolting as soon as I turned the machine on and it started buzzing.
Keeping my amusement in check was more of a challenge than I thought. He was adorable when he was startled, but I knew he’d think I was making fun of him. “No, the awards are because I’m good at what I do. The sanitation is just a given.”
Shan eyed the machine like it was the first time it was sinking in that he was about to get a tattoo on his body, and not just in imagination land. This was the point a lot of people chickened out, so I decided to take it slow.