Surviving Ice
Page 20

I don’t answer, pushing the door closed. I lock it once again with a sly smile. As far as I’m concerned, if Bobby shows up now, no one’s here.
“You’ve done a lot here since yesterday.” His piercing eyes survey the interior, stalling over the six full trash bags sitting in one corner and the four boxes of “Ned things” that I’m not sure what to do with yet, but I can’t bring myself to throw out.
“I’m having it painted at the end of the week, so I don’t really have a choice.” The painter showed up here at nine this morning for a quote, and I, still groggy from too much sleep, agreed to a Friday start, not really thinking about how much I’d need to get done by then.
But I am thankful that I wasn’t too out of it to pack a change of clothes for the afternoon, knowing that I’d be covered in dust and dirt by now. I smooth my off-the-shoulder army-green shirt down over ripped detail black leggings.
“I see you’ve taken care of the chair.” He turns, but not before I see the smug smile touch his lips.
“I haven’t had time,” I lie, eying his arms again, hopeful. I’m not going to ask for help outright. If he’s smart, he’ll have figured that out about me by now.
It looks like the hot stranger has brains to go with his brawn.
He steps past me without a word, the scent of fresh soap catching my nose and stirring my hormones. Grabbing the chair by its wide arms, he heaves the entire thing from its resting place, uncovering a square of pristine honey-colored hardwood. My chest swells ever so slightly when I catch a nostalgic glimpse of what Black Rabbit’s floor must have looked like on the day Ned opened its doors for the first time.
“Is the Dumpster in the back?” he grunts under the weight of the chair, the strain in his muscles visible from beneath his shirt. He doesn’t wait for my answer, heading down the hall, stopping at the back door to both unlock it and, I suspect, to give his arms and back a break.
I trail him, dragging two bags of trash along the ground behind me, all the way out to the Dumpster. He flips the lid open.
“I’m guessing it’s too heavy to lift ov . . .” My words drift as he hoists the entire chair up and over his shoulders to topple it into the bin, the sound of metal ricocheting off the inside deafening.
“. . . or not.” My breath catches. I couldn’t move that thing even an inch and he just had it over his head. How is he that strong? He does have broad shoulders. I study his hands as he wipes them across his jeans. Large, masculine hands that look like they’ve done their share of manual labor. An angry scar runs along his right thumb, faded by years.
“What are you staring at?”
“Your scar,” I admit. I wonder how he got it, and if it bothers him, but I don’t ask. “I’ve covered a lot of scars for clients.”
“I don’t need it covered,” he says. “Scars give you—”
“Character,” I finish in unison with him. “I don’t mind them, either. They make people more interesting.”
He closes the distance and pulls the bags from my grasp, his fingers grazing mine, and tosses them into the Dumpster. “Anything else that you need carried out here?” His words are slightly breathless, and a light sheen of sweat coats his forehead. At least it wasn’t too easy for him. While I hate it when someone makes me feel small and weak and incapable, actually witnessing that made me feel something else. Something thrilling.
“I think I can handle the rest.”
“Okay.” He flips the lid closed. Looping his hand beneath the front of his T-shirt, he pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his chest and stomach, both of which are padded by an impressive layer of muscle. “So . . . should we get started?”
A flicker of light dances in his eyes, and I know that that was intentional. He could have used his arm, or his hand. Hell, he wasn’t even that sweaty.
“Yeah, sure.” I try to sound nonchalant, but for the first time since Ned died, I actually feel the urge to sit down in front of my machine. Even if it’s for the wrong reasons. I don’t care what this guy wants, or where. I’ll do it. But that’s not the most professional way to broach the topic with a new client. One whose name I don’t even know.
I reach out. “My name is Ivy.”
He pauses for a long moment, staring at my hand before taking it in his, his skin rough and warm and powerful. “Sebastian.”
“And what exactly were you thinking of having done, Sebastian?” Please let it involve taking your shirt off. Better yet, your pants.
“A piece, right here.” He runs long fingers over the left side of his torso, from below his armpit to his hip.
Jackpot. I stifle my smile. “That’s a big area.” Does he realize how long that will take? How much that will take out of him, and me?
“Yeah. It is.”
“That’s going to take hours.”
His eyes flicker over me lightning fast. “All night, maybe.”
He’s flirting with me. I can’t read him at all, but I caught that.
My heart skips a beat as I get lost in his face. I’ve had a few clients turned flings. I try to keep things separate, but sometimes it’s hard. There’s a heightened level of intimacy that comes with this job that is impossible to replicate. These men come to me, vulnerable and full of trust from the moment they climb into my chair. I have all the control, and it can be intoxicating, having an attractive guy lie there and watch me with anticipative eyes, allowing me to mark him with something that bonds us for eternity—or until he files for divorce in a tattoo removal process. Though, I’ve had no divorces yet, from what I know. If anything, they search me out on the Internet when they want more. I have my own web page set up, with my portfolio and where I’m working at any moment in time. One guy from Portland actually vacationed in Ireland last summer, just so I could finish his sleeve for him.
“Do you have a sketch already?”
He reaches into his back pocket, his T-shirt pulling tight against the ridges of his chest, retrieving a sheet of paper that he unfolds and hands to me. I study the grim reaper on the page, the gown heavy and black, the scythe oversized. A little morbid, but I’ve seen worse. I recognize it as a popular sketch. I’m not a fan of popular sketches. If you’re going to mark your body, why not make it original? It disappoints me a little that he wouldn’t feel the same. But I guess that’s why he’s coming to me, so I can set him straight. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Are you a virgin?” I like asking hot guys that question out of the blue and seeing how they react.
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Have you had any other work done?”
“Oh.” The slightest exhale sails from his lips, but I notice it. “Yeah. I have.”
My eyes roll over his form again, wondering where it could be. “Okay. Well, Sebastian . . . We should go inside and talk about this some more. This is about seven hours of work, and doing it in one sitting is hard, but I don’t think we have any other choice. Ideally I’d outline it all and then begin the detail a month or so later, once it’s healed. But I doubt I’ll be around in a month.”
“When are you leaving?”