The silent air separating their bodies felt like it vibrated with tiny sparks zinging back and forth. The short hairs on his forearms prickled. Ethan opened his mouth, snapped it shut, then tried again. “I’m—I’m Ethan Cohen.”
The black strands on top of the man’s head seemed confused as to where to lie. The soft, short faux hawk spiked while the silky sides lay haphazardly above his ears. Ethan wished he’d worn something nice from his closet instead of grabbing the first thing he could find in the dresser.
“Something full of color?”
Ethan blinked. “Huh?”
“Seeing as your bright-blue skinny jeans go so well with that hot pink shirt, I assume you like colors...even if they have no business being matched up.”
Ethan looked down his torso. The jeans had cost a hundred and fifty dollars. Well, cost Charles a hundred and fifty bucks. Besides, he didn’t have anyone to impress. And he liked his clothes, even if a straight asshole thought he looked ridiculous. The jerk was likely judging his pink Converses, too. See, he could match colors.
Niko tilted his head toward the back of the lobby. “Come on, stud. Even the pretty boys need some ink.”
Ethan didn’t flinch. He’d gotten used to being called names during the nineteen years he’d been on the planet. Insinuating he was gay was probably kinder than the faggot and dick sucker comments slung in his direction.
They walked into a room with three colorless walls and one covered in framed, vibrant artwork. Ethan started walking along the striking wall, soaking in the strokes on one of the canvases. Whoever painted them wasn’t the only one who liked to mismatch colors.
“Have a seat, Ethan.” Niko grabbed a notepad from the counter against the brick wall. “So”— he pulled the rolling chair up to the small round table—“I suggest you get your ass in the chair instead of gawking at the wall. You’ve got half an hour. Let’s figure this out.”
Niko’s rude attitude made Ethan want to hightail it out the door, but someone with Niko’s talent could be an asshole to anyone. He pulled out the hard plastic chair and slid down. “Before you waste your time, I probably can’t afford one of your original designs. I was thinking that the phoen—”
“I set the price. I’ll decide if you can afford it or not. Scarlet will handle the initial fee before you leave.”
Before Ethan could suggest the phoenix from the wall, Niko was already sliding a drawing pencil over a piece of white paper. Ethan looked around the room. A black monster, a barber chair looking like it waited for Sweeny Todd to place a victim in its seat, stood in the middle of the room. A massage table lined one wall while a rolling short metal table was parked next to a short stool on wheels.
“How old are you?”
Ethan dipped his head, studying the tight fabric covering his thighs. The fresh wounds still stung when he shifted in the seat. “Nineteen.”
“You look barely seventeen.” Niko never raised his head from the scratching pencil.
“People always say I look young. I have my college ID and driver’s license. I can prove my age.”
Niko tucked the white piece of paper behind the drawing pad and started to sketch on the new sheet. “Don’t panic. I believe you.” More glides and quick strokes. “Why are you so nervous? Just like that moment before you know someone is going to crank you over the head or you’re going to knock them out. Just breathe and keep calm. The other guy’s going down first. Nothing to get worried about. I’m not going to crack your skull, so you can chill.”
Ethan kept his hands under the table. How in the hell did someone live without anxiety—and how in the hell did someone not freak out about getting into a fight? Apparently his new tattoo artist knew the secret.
“So, colors. What are your favorites? You obviously like blues.” Niko peeked up, steeling a moment to study the blue stone Ethan wore on the ring slipped over his left index finger. Evan glimpsed the twin emerald irises before Niko looked down, writing blue and green at the bottom of a new sheet of paper. “And... Pink? I guess pink goes with that blond hair.”
Was that meant to be another gay insult? Ethan had been complimented more than once on the color of his hair. Usually, it was from women being jealous or men trying to flirt, neither a fag jab.
“Yeah, blue is my favorite color and I do like pink. I like yellow and green, too.”
Niko jotted down the colors Ethan listed. “What do you want?”
Ethan studied the grey and white octopus design, its tentacles swaying and turning when Niko moved his forearm. Each stroke of the pencil made the creature roll into a different shape. “I’m sorry?” Ethan looked up to find Niko’s dark lashes framing those shining green orbs. They were long, almost curled at the ends, softening his expression.