Full Contact
Page 25

“Duncan said you wanted your ink. I won’t have time to do the whole piece, but I could do the outline.”
He nods and drops his hand. “Unless you got any other artists here who’ve been targeted by a street gang. Not keen on being interrupted again.”
Although he doesn’t smile when he speaks, his dry humor makes me laugh. “You think a street gang would dare set foot in Redemption? You guys would tear them to shreds.”
Ray grunts in assent and slides into the chair. “Damn right we would.”
He grips the bottom of his shirt to tug it off, and I beat a hasty retreat to the staff room, decorated in warm beiges and browns, with the excuse of needing to collect my equipment from the autoclave, but more to calm my nerves. For the last week, I’d resigned myself to never seeing him again, decided it was for the best. But now he’s back, and as hot as ever, and I’m just as ready to throw myself at him as I was before he left me in the alley. I have no shame. How can I still want him after he made it clear he’s not interested? How do normal people handle this kind of rejection? But, of course, they don’t have to handle it because slightly kinky sex doesn’t make them scream in panic and chase men away.
Ray is stripped to the waist when I return. Ignoring Duncan’s appreciative raised eyebrow at the hunk of manly perfection in my chair, I go through the process of washing and sterilizing his chest and shoulder, and applying the stencil. Then I prepare the tattoo machine, placing ink in the ink caps and removing the needles and tubes from the sterile pouches. This time, I manage to keep cool. He’s just an ordinary client. I’ll do his ink, he’ll pay his money, and then maybe I’ll see him once or twice around the gym before we return to Slim’s shop. There are no unintended squirts with the disinfectant, no imagined electricity between us. I am the epitome of a professional artist.
At least, on the outside.
Duncan plays an eclectic mix of indie pop and rock, and I manage to put aside all lustful thoughts of Ray and concentrate on the line work. My first day on the job, Slim told me art is sex. I wondered, if that were true, what it meant when I locked my real art away.
After Duncan finishes up with his last client and leaves for the night, I steel myself to look up, and almost burn under the heat of Ray’s gaze. “You want me to change the music? Not everyone likes Duncan’s indie pop mix.”
“I’m good.”
When I turn to switch cartridges, Ray shifts in the chair. “You don’t talk while you work?”
“Clients talk. I listen. I’m not really one for spilling all the details of my life to strangers. Rose, on the other hand, usually has them in the back room in less than five minutes to show off her tit tats.”
Ray snorts a laugh, and I wait until he’s still again so I can continue my work. “Feel free to talk, though. It won’t bother me. I’m used to it.”
“Not a big talker. But you can ask me a question.”
“You want me to ask you a question?”
Ray nods. “I got nothing to hide. Ask me anything.”
I return to inking his outline. “Okay. What do you drive?”
“Harley-Davidson Softail.”
“Biker.” I shake my head. “I should have known. I wanted to get a bike, but Tag helped me finance my vehicle, and I wound up with a Volvo instead. Not quite the same.”
His eyes sparkle, amused. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Volvo girl.”
I pause and check my cartridge. “True. I’m more of a Nissan 370Z girl, or maybe an Audi TT. A sports car, but not a screamer. I don’t want an eat-my-dust kind of sports car, but something more refined. Not that I have the money to buy one, but a girl can always dream.”
“Ask me another one.”
“Where do you live?”
“Loft apartment in a converted warehouse off Temescal Alley.”
“Wrong side of the bridge,” I say, half joking. Wrong because he’s so far away from me. “I’m in the Upper Haight. Coming out here is one hell of a commute, but since it’s only for a short time, I can manage.”
He licks his lips, as if my answers are a tasty treat. “More.”
“Favorite band?”
“Forest Rangers.”
My head falls back and I groan. “Sons of Anarchy wannabe. Was that before or after you got your motorcycle?”
A half smile tugs at his lips. “Always had a bike.”
“Of course. I’m sure you were born on a bike, like all bikers.” I turn off the machine for a moment to give my hand a break. “Where did you grow up?”
“Army brat.” His jaw clenches, almost imperceptibly, but I’m watching him so closely I see his corded neck tighten when he swallows. “Both parents. We moved so many times, I can’t remember every place we were stationed. Also can’t remember how many times we were all together, because they took turns going on tour. Both very strict. Very disciplined. Very focused on duty.”
“Sounds tough for a kid.” I give his arm a sympathetic stroke.
“Kids adapt. And when I turned eighteen, I did what was expected. Followed the family tradition. Enlisted as soon as I could.”
“But you’re not in the service anymore?”
His muscles tighten under my palm. “What about your parents?”
Puzzled by his reluctance to answer but not willing to pry, I shrug. “Mom is a florist. Very uptight. She came from a wealthy family, but she fell in love with my dad and her parents weren’t happy about it so we never see them. Dad’s a cab driver. Pretty laid-back except when it comes to me. Then he’s overprotective to a fault. Small house in the suburbs. Never moved. Pretty normal until a few weeks ago when Mom lost her job, and then Tag and I found out they’d been living from paycheck to paycheck. We’re helping them out with the mortgage so they don’t lose the house, which is why I work the long hours and take on any client I can get.”