He's cleaning off the excess ink from a tattoo he just finished on a man's forearm. He looks up at me with startling blue eyes and I'm taken aback by the sudden attention. His icy gaze roams from my head to my feet and back up to my face. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking by his expressionless face.
"Sorry, we're not taking walk-ins right now. We're booked up for a month," he says to me. Even his low, gravelly voice is hot. I imagine a voice like that using naughty pillow-talk in bed would be a fun time.
"I'm just looking, thank you," I say. My own voice sounds as rigid as I feel. My heart is pounding into my ribs. I can't remember ever being this nervous about confronting a guy before. Then again, I've never approached anyone simply with the intention of having sex with them either.
There is a couch and a stack of portfolios of the different artists' work on a coffee table. I take a seat and sort through them. I find the one with his photo and name on the front: Max Savage. He must be the owner. The name suits him perfectly. He finishes up with his client. I try not to look at him as he walks toward me. From the corner of my eye he's like a tower. He stands there, imposing, taking up all the air around me, until I look up at him. I swallow, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.
"Looking for anything in particular?" he asks in a deep, playful tone that's masculine without hitting me over the head with testosterone.
"I don't know," I say dumbly. I can't think straight with him so close to me.
His eyebrows rise. He looks me over. I'm pretty sure he's judging me right now. "Let me guess … a tramp stamp."
My disappointment must show on my face. I would never get a tramp stamp-not that there's anything wrong with them. On the right girl, I'm sure they look great. But I'm not that girl. He smiles like he's accomplished what he's set out to do. He's trying to get a rise out of me. He keeps going. "A butterfly, fairy … no wait, an infinity symbol."
He's making fun of me. I'm guessing those kinds of tattoos are typically what girls who look like me get. I guess based on looks alone I'm a typical prissy girl. I'm a cosmetologist so my hair, makeup, and nails are always done, and I buy my clothes at the local mall. So, I guess looks-wise, I'm your all-American girl. It's probably a running joke in the shop among the snobbish elite in the tattoo world. I guess it's kind of the same for women who come into the salon where I work who wear their makeup all wrong or who cut their own hair. I don't make fun of those people, but other girls I work with do. It feels pretty horrible being on the other side of the insults.
Despite his stellar looks, this guy is such an ass. He shows me that annoyingly beautiful smile and I frown.
"In other words, you're saying I'm basic," I say.
I really don't like him. He's hot as fuck, but what a judgmental jackass. It doesn't matter. Like Kia said, she's not asking me to fall in love with him-thank God, because it would never happen. It's just a hook-up. I'm all for wild, passionate hate sex. Ask any of my ex-boyfriends who I've slept with after we broke up.
He shrugs and gives me the most obnoxiously sexy smile I've ever seen, his pearly whites revealed behind full lips.
"Is this how you treat all your potential clients?" I ask.
"No, but I have a feeling you're not here for a tattoo."
I furrow my brow. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you've been watching me the entire time and haven't looked at a single photo in my portfolio. That's not very typical of someone trying to figure out what they want as a tattoo."
He talks loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Machines mysteriously go quiet, and I have a feeling we have an audience. Looking around I affirm it when the other artists and their clients turn their heads.
"You're right," I say, talking quietly and hoping he takes the hint to do the same. "I'm actually here to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"
"What's this about? Am I being audited or something?"
"What? No."
Am I dressed like a tax collector? I look down at the simple black dress I chose to wear, my sensible heals. My hair is in a bun and I wore my glasses instead of contacts. I guess I do look a bit square today. Probably should've worn something that showed more skin if I was planning on asking a stranger to have sex with me. I was too nervous to think about that at the time.
"It's nothing like that," I say. "I just need to talk to you for a minute. It won't take long."
He rolls his eyes and says, "Follow me."
God, this guy is definitely single. What a jerk.
He leads me to the back of the shop and out the door into an alley. I wouldn't be surprised if he shuts the door and locks me out. He doesn't do that, though. Instead he comes out with me and sits in one of the three chairs surrounding a coffee-can being used as an ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts.
There's graffiti on the walls. Not like gang tags, but a stunning mural of the cityscape, probably painted by one or more of the artists working at the shop.
He looks at me as though he'd rather be anywhere else right now and sighs. "So, what do you want?"
I'm tempted to walk away. If Kia saw the way this guy was treating me, she would understand.
I take a deep breath. I can't fail on the first envelope. I have to at least try.
"My best friend died recently." The words still feel unreal when I say them out loud. They feel unreal even thinking them.
Max's posture straightens and the smug look on his face slips away into something almost friendly.
I continue. "She has this bucket list that she wanted me to finish for her." I hesitate. It feels wrong to out her secret but it's too late now. I can't bring myself to say the words, so I hand him the envelope.
He reads it, eyebrows shooting up. He flips the note over and reads the back, then bursts out in laughter.
"Is this for real?" he asks.
"Yep. There's a whole box full of these envelopes and I have to complete one task in order to move on to the next. This is the first."
The smooth skin of his neck starts to look blotchy. Is he blushing? It's hard to tell with all the tattoos. He stares down at the note, avoiding eye contact. Whatever self-assurance he seemed to have an abundance of is no longer there, replaced by something reminiscent of shyness.
"Maybe this isn't even about me," he says. "There are other artists working here."
But he's the only one with a window seat, and the only one I remember fawning over in the bar that night.
"Trust me, it's you," I say.
That shy smile is back and he laughs again, a wonderfully deep sound.
"Look," I say, "I understand if you don't want-"
"I'll do it," he says.
My stomach drops as though I'm freefalling from the tallest roller coaster in the world. From the way he treated me when I first walked into his shop, I thought for sure he wouldn't be interested.
"You will?" I ask, skeptical.
He shrugs and that cocky smile returns. "Sure. Why not?"
"Okay. When?"
He looks at his watch. "I have some time right now between clients."
My stomach continues to plummet, twisting and turning in a downward spiral. "Wait, right now?"
I'm not ready. I mean, I haven't …
Actually, I can't think of a reason why not right now. I've showered and all the necessary parts are landscaped. I have condoms in my purse that aren't too terribly old. I can't think of a single reason why not-unless he means to do it right here in this alley, which would only happen if it were on Kia's bucket list, which, thankfully, it's not.
"Your place or mine?" he asks.
"Um, where do you live?" I ask.
He points up above the shop.
Shit. That doesn't even give me the drive-time to pull myself together and come to grips with the fact that this is definitely happening right now. But my place is a mess and it's all the way across town.
"Yours, I guess," I say.
He leads the way as we head upstairs and come to a barn-looking door on a track. He slides it open. It's a huge space taking up the entire second story of the building. For the most part, it's how I expected it to look. An open floor plan so you can see the living room and kitchen. There are other rustic-looking barn doors which I'm guessing are the bedrooms. What a cool place. It's full of art and sculptures, mismatched furniture, quirky décor, guitars, painted skateboard decks, and a TV as big as the wall with every video game console you can imagine. A total bachelor pad, though it's cleaner than I imagined it would be. He's very tidy. From what I can tell by one of the partially opened doors, his bed is even made.
"Are we doing this with clothes on?" he asks as I stand there, taking in everything.
"Oh, um, no. I guess not," I say.