Page 102 of A Little Jaded
His smile softens, and he reaches for my wrist, tugging me to a seated position while keeping my feet in his lap and my notebook in his opposite hand. Once I’m hauled up, I rest my head on his shoulder, and he lets me go, continuing his perusal of my work.
“How long have you wanted to be a tattoo artist?” he asks.
“A while.”
“You don’t have any tattoos.”
“You noticed, huh?”
“Most tattoo artists I’ve seen look like your dad.”
My lips curve up as I nuzzle a little closer to his side. “Technically, I’m not an official tattoo artist yet, but yeah. My dad’s a sucker for tattoos.”
“And you aren’t?” he challenges.
Resting my chin on his shoulder, I peek up at him and hedge, “I am.”
“Yet you don’t have any,” he repeats.
“I’m, uh, I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
My cheeks heat. “I haven’t actually tattooed anybody.”
With a frown, he tilts his head. “What does that have to do with you getting one?”
It’s a good question, one I’m embarrassed to answer. No one knows this. Not my dad or mom. Not Drake. It’s a secret I’ve kept close to my chest for as long as I can remember. But for some reason I genuinely can’t explain, I’m tempted to tell him the truth, no matter how juvenile it might sound.
Shielding the side of my face with my hair, I look down at my feet in his lap and warn, “It’s weird.”
“You should tell me,” he pushes. “Please?”
Please.
Oh, what this man can make me say.
“Honestly?” I pause, hating how stupid my answer feels now that I’m about to actually voice it aloud. “I kind of wantto, like…commemorate the first tattoo I give by getting a matching one. My first job with my first tattoo. Weird, right?”
He stays quiet, and I roll my eyes.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“It’s not a yes, just, uh,damn.” He turns back to the notebook and drags his fingers along a pair of hands sketched onto the paper.
“Damn?” I repeat. The familiar pang of shame and fear swirl together, leaving me on pins and needles as I study the side of his face.
“It’s a lot of trust in a random stranger.” He keeps perusing my work, slowly lifting the pages one after another. “What if they want you to tattoo a dick or something?”
I snort. “They’re not gonna ask for a dick.”
“You don’t know that,” he argues. “It could be anything. It’s their choice. All I’m saying is it’s a lot of trust in someone you don’t know.”
“Guess I’ll have to choose my first client wisely,” I concede.
It’s interesting. Watching him analyze my art. The way his tongue darts out between his lips and his eyes drag across the page. Seriously. It isn’t fair how handsome he is. And I don’t know if it’s because he actually cares about my work or if it’s because I’ve managed to slip past his asshole personality and see the ooey-gooey center he hides from the world, but I like it. I likehim. Way more than I ever thought possible.
Oblivious to the heart pangs I get any time we’re in the same room together, he challenges, “What if it’s a girl’s name or an anniversary date or a heart tattoo with I love Mom in the middle?”