Fine Line (Inked Duet #1) Page 3

  The rest of dinner goes by a little quieter. Conversations and laughter still carry on around the table, but the mood has tapered. They all know about Cora. Hell, they have met her and invited her to dinner a few times. They knew we were just friends, but thank god they bit their tongues about more. It has been obvious for years I had feelings for Cora, but no one ever shed light on those feelings. Which makes this whole new awkwardness a little less weird. Only a little, though.

  Once everyone finishes eating, I help clear the table. “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yeah, honey.” She sidles up next to me and wraps her arm around my waist.

  “You mind if I head out? Know it’s early, but I have an appointment at eight.”

  She squeezes me harder for a second, then releases me. “Sure thing. What’s the appointment?”

  “Time to brighten up the canvas,” I say with a smile on my face.

  It is no secret Mom isn’t a fan of tattoos, but she never judges. “Just don’t understand the desire to sit in a chair for hours, in pain, while someone paints lines on your skin.”

  I laugh. “Maybe one day I will better explain it to you, but I need to head out so I’m not late.” I kiss her forehead and she hugs me as close as humanly possible.

  “See you next week. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I tell her.

  After I make my rounds, I leash Spartan and drive home to drop him off. Thankfully, the tattoo shop is close to the house. I check the time on the dash as we drive away from Mom and Dad’s. Spartan barks his goodbye before resuming his usual car window position.

  * * *

  I arrive at the tattoo shop with ten minutes to spare. Perfect amount of time to fill out paperwork and mentally prepare myself for being in the chair for more than an hour.

  A bell chimes when I open the door and step inside. The same woman sits behind the counter. Her hot pink hair reminds me of the color candy companies give artificial watermelon. Nothing like the actual color of the fruit. She twirls a finger around the locks on her shoulders while she pops her bubble gum.

  All I do is laugh internally. She is a strange mix of pinup girl and grunge princess. Hair to the nines. Clothes casual and baggy. I wonder if she dresses like this outside of the tattoo shop?

  I step up to the counter. “Hey,” I say, giving a small wave. “Jonas. I have an appointment.”

  Bubble gum princess peeks up at me and sits a little straighter. “Hey, Jonas.” The way she says my name insinuates she holds secrets about me. She grabs a clipboard and hands it to me. “Fill this out and I need to make a copy of your ID.”

  Fishing my license out of my wallet, I hand it to her before sitting on one of the couches and filling out the standard paperwork. Once I finish, I hand it back to her and she hands me my license with a smirk.

  “She’ll be with you in a minute, sugar.”

  While I wait to be called back, I mindlessly stare at the funky art on the walls. Each drawing and painting has one of the shop’s artist’s name below with a price tag. Kind of cool the artists put work on display to show their individual talents.

  “Jonas?” a soft, cheery voice calls out.

  “That’s…” I spin around and stop short at the petite brunette staring at me. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Sorry. I’m Jonas.”

  She smiles and the room brightens instantly. “Autumn. Follow me.” I follow in her wake as she leads me to her booth.

  Unabashedly, I check her out as she walks in front of me. Autumn is roughly six inches shorter than me, but leggy as hell. In a pair of black and white plaid-like skinny pants which hug every curve and a black top with straps looping around her neck and a dangerous dip at her cleavage. Her hips sway slightly when she walks, and I remind myself to keep my eyes at a gentleman’s level—up. As we reach her booth, I notice the bandana in her hair. It matches her pants and is a simple accessory to her pinned-up locks.

  “Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair in her booth. “Your paperwork says you’re wanting to continue one of your half sleeves.”

  I nod and search for my voice. Use your words, Thompson. “Yeah. I brought the drawing with me.” I hand over a folded paper.

  Autumn takes the paper, unfolds it, and studies the intricate artwork. Artwork I spent weeks drawing. This piece is my right arm. The left is similar in design, but not the same. Only a true enthusiast would detect the dissimilarity.

  She examines the lines, dots, and shading on the paper, then peers over at my arm. After several back and forth examinations, I wonder if it would be easier for me to take off my shirt. My shirt sleeves block at least half of the current art on my skin, and she is probably gauging where to start.

  “Need me to take off my shirt?” I ask.

  Her eyes lift from the paper and meet mine. Fuck. The most delectable glass of cognac stares back at me. Dark chocolate rims her irises, softening from brown to a golden, bold orange near her pupils. A light rouge pinks her pale cheeks.

  “Um.” She swallows. “Probably a good idea,” she mumbles. “So I can see what’s already done, of course.”

  Is she nervous? If so, it is adorable as fuck. Seriously, she has to have seen hundreds of people in her line of work. Work in the oddest places and a plethora of designs. I cringe mentally at the idea of her tattooing some asshole in awkward places. But pricks like that exist.

  “Of course.” I smile and tug my shirt over my head. If possible, her cheeks darken from a gentle blush to the soft petals of a pink rose and a surge of excitement floats beneath my sternum.

  She swallows again and blinks rapidly. Her eyes drop back to the paper as she tucks her cherry red lips in her mouth. Is she fighting off a smile? When she keeps her eyes downcast too long for my liking, I lay my shirt over my chest in the hopes she will look up again. I need another shot of her cognac irises.

  As soon as my torso is covered, she sighs. Sighs. The sound a mix of disappointment and relief. Dear god. This is going to be one of the longest tat sessions in history. And she won’t even finish the rest of the design tonight.

  Studying the current ink on my skin against the drawing, she bites the corner of her lip. I avert my gaze to the ceiling and pray to someone holier than me.

  Please let me get through tonight unscathed. Please let me get through this without the embarrassment of a hard-on. At this rate, there’s a high likelihood. I beg you, please.

  “Be right back,” Autumn says as she rises from her stool and strolls out of the booth. Once again, my eyes wander to her backside until she is out of sight.

  I slide my shirt down and expose my skin to the cooler air. Let it temper my overheated skin as I take a few deep breaths.

  But the fire Autumn created still burns hot. I love and hate how it simmers in my veins.

  What the fuck is happening?

  Three

  Autumn

  Jonas’s eyes scald me as I walk out of the booth. For the first time in years, I enjoy male attention. Jonas’s attention. His eyes on me make my blood pump harder, faster.

  As I make copies of his design to cut and put on transfer paper, Penny sneaks up from behind. “I was right, he is a hottie.”

  I jump and slap a hand to my chest. “Jesus, Pen. Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” She feigns innocence while smacking her bubble gum. Why didn’t I hear the distinctive smack of her lips as she came up behind me?

  “Scare the shit out of me.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. I glance over at Jonas—who seems oblivious to Penny’s obnoxious chortle—then back at my friend. I narrow my eyes at her and she lifts her hands in surrender. “Sorry, not sorry. But I wasn’t lying. He is hot.”

  I focus on my task—Jonas is a paying client, after all. “Yeah, I guess.” A heatwave spreads across my skin.

  Penny leans in closer and scrutinizes my every move. “You guess?” Keeping my head down, I peek up at her. She smiles at me with wicked intent. “Girly, you must be blind if you don’t
recognize a good-looking man when you see one.”

  The printer finishes and I grab the transfer paper. “I’m not blind. Okay? Just trying to breathe through the next two hours of my night. So” —I point to her chair— “go back to your desk and do what you do. And don’t pester me. Last thing I need is to fuck up his tattoo.”

  She giggles, salutes me, and walks off. “Yes, dear.”

  I take a deep breath and gather my wits.

  You can do this, Autumn. He is just another guy in your chair. A hot guy. Shut up!

  When I turn the corner of my booth and glance over at Jonas, I stop breathing. Since I left, he has pushed his shirt down his chest and sits perfectly still with his eyes closed. Is he sleeping? Stepping over to my stool, I set the papers down on the counter. His eyes remain closed as I start prepping for our session.

  Part of me wants his eyes open. A big part.

  As if I professed it aloud, Jonas opens his eyes just as I glance up at him. My stomach flips and I swallow. I have never seen eyes like his. Such fascinating shades of blue with a burst of sunshine at the center. As if his DNA couldn’t decide whether to make his eyes blue or hazel. I prefer the indecision.

  “So, I printed off more than what I’ll actually work on tonight. Some of what I printed, you already have done. But I did that so I could line it up.”

  Jonas nods. “No problem. You know what you’re doing. I’m not concerned.”

  He closes his eyes and lays his head back again. My whole body sags at the loss. “I need to shave your forearm. Thankfully” —I trace the corded muscles in his forearms with my fingertips— “most people won’t notice the difference.” His eyes pop open and lock on mine. I try swallowing the lump in my throat. “Your arms aren’t really hairy. It won’t look weird when I shave it, is what I mean.”

  He smiles and a dimple accentuates his left cheek. A dimple I want to kiss.

  Shut up, Autumn. He is your client.

  “I don’t care either way.”

  When I think he is going to close his eyes again, he surprises me. Instead, his eyes drop to where I lather soap on his arm. I dry off the gloves and pick up a disposable razor. Inch by inch, I swipe the razor over his skin. Finished, I wet a paper towel and wipe away any excess soap.

  After I rub a thin layer of natural moisturizer on his skin, I line up the stencil on his forearm and press it in place. I peel back the paper and smile at the purple lines on his skin. On the small rolling table next to my stool, I set his original drawing next to the small ink caps filled with black ink.

  Jonas closes his eyes again as I go through the process of opening the sterile needle pack and loading it on my gun. I run through my usual routine and make sure I have everything ready before I start. Once everything is set, I pick up the gun and press the pedal on the floor.

  When the gun buzzes to life in my hand, the old familiar joy of why I do this kick-starts my adrenaline.

  As a child, I always loved to color and draw. The older I became, the more I honed my craft. I took every possible elective art class in school. Somehow, I also managed to coerce the art teacher during my sophomore year to give me art lessons outside normal class hours. We worked at the school, of course, and she gave me extra credit—which I didn’t mind, but also didn’t ask for. Through Ms. Gibson’s lessons, I learned to love art over everything. She taught me every medium and how to open my imagination beyond what the human eye sees.

  I took those lessons and the skills I learned, and eventually discovered my preferred canvas. Skin.

  Leaning forward, I stretch the skin near Jonas’s elbow and press the buzzing needle forward. He startles, then relaxes. “Okay?” I ask, not looking up.

  “Yeah,” he answers, voice scratchy. “No matter how many times I’ve been under the needle, when it first hits my skin, I jump.”

  I nod but don’t look up. “Me too.”

  For the first ten or fifteen minutes, I work in silence and locate my rhythm. Every person you work on is different. Depending on their age, how often they are in the sun, and how well they take care of themselves determines how easy or difficult it is to work on them. Skin is skin. But at different stages of life, it has different density and elasticity. The older you are, the thinner your skin is. It is a natural progression. Also, the more exposed to the elements—sun, wind, level of humidity, and so on—you are, the more your skin is impacted.

  Jonas has nice skin. Slightly tan. Not the type of tan you get from regular visits to the beach. Jonas’s tanned skin is from everyday activity—mowing the yard, jogging outdoors, driving with his arm out the window or the top down. For a moment, I picture him in a lush, green yard. Black shirt stretched taut on his broad chest. Khaki cargo shorts hanging low on his hips. A bright smile and that adorable dimple on his face as he pushes a little girl on the swings.

  I lift the gun from his skin, turn my face away from him, and cough into my elbow.

  Stop it, Autumn.

  “Grab some water,” Jonas says as I spin back his way.

  “I’m good. Just a tickle.” I play off the softball-sized lump of emotion in my throat. What I need is a distraction. “So, Jonas…” His eyes shift from my hand dipping the needle in the ink cap to my eyes. “Tell me about yourself.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs in my periphery before he sits a little taller. “What would you like to know?”

  I bring the gun back to his arm and spark it to life again. “Girlfriend? Wife? Kids? All the good stuff.”

  “The good stuff, huh?” He snorts and I peek up at him for a second before refocusing on my work. “I’d laugh, but I don’t want to throw you off.” Out of the corner of my eye, he points to where I am currently working on a flower of life pattern.

  “I appreciate that. No way I’d be able to sleep if I jacked up your tat.”

  “Good stuff,” he mumbles then goes silent for a moment. “No girlfriend or wife.” And I can tell—without looking up—his face is turned away. It piques my curiosity. “No kids. Unless fur children count. If that’s the case, then I have one. Spartan. He’s three.”

  “Spartan. He a fighter?” I ask.

  He laughs, but not enough to jostle his arm. “Nah. He’s a big softy. Fifty-seven pounds of pure energy. Loves hugs and barking.”

  Now it is my turn to laugh. “What kind of dog is he?”

  “Husky.”

  I pause and meet Jonas’s eyes. “So, a fur baby. But no fur baby mama?” My retort is meant to be funny, but a gray cloud suddenly masks his joy.

  “Nope. No fur baby mama.”

  I hate how sad he sounds right now. Hate that I wrecked his mood. “Want to talk about it?”

  First and foremost, I am no therapist. But far too often, people sit in this chair and spill some of the craziest details of their life history. Some fascinate me. Others… not so much. But I have learned over the years to just go with the flow. If people need to get things off their chest, I let them. Not like I am the gossiping sort.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He looks away and I slump at the obvious discomfort I spurred.

  Instead of pestering him, I continue working on his tat. If Jonas wants to divulge whatever is bothering him, he will. A few minutes pass and neither of us says a word. But I feel his eyes on me. Not on my hand as it holds the gun and carves intricate black lines into his skin. No, his eyes are on me. A buzz ripples through my body. A buzz that has absolutely nothing to do with the tattoo gun vibrating in my right hand.

  “My best friend just got married,” he whispers. Voice so soft I almost miss it.

  I stop working and gauge his expression. Eyes sad. Smile absent. Shoulders low. Everything in his body language tells me he is upset or disappointed over this marriage. “Not my place to ask, but shouldn’t you be happy for him?”

  “Her,” he corrects.

  Ah. There it is. The fine line detail. His female best friend just got married. And he isn’t too keen on the idea.

  “Shouldn’t you be happy for her?
”

  He nods. “As painful as it is, I am happy for her. She’s with the one person she can’t live without. They’ve known each other since high school, but his family moved away when he was in high school. They reunited this past spring.”

  There is a peculiar familiarity to the story he tells me. Could be sheer coincidence. But it might not be. What are the odds?

  “This might be weird.” And suddenly, I have his full attention. “But is your best friend Cora?”

  His eyes widen at the mention of her name and a ball of jealousy forms beneath my diaphragm. His expression tells me he considered her more than a friend, but she never did. Most women would cringe at the notion. Me? I bask in it.

  Bask in the fact he never overstepped his bounds with her. As quickly as my jealousy formed, it melts away.

  Over the last seven months, I got to know Cora. Mostly through text and the occasional girls’ night, where we had dinner and a movie at her house. She is super sweet. Told me about this guy she had known for years—who she had given the same title. Best friend.

  Don’t know the dirty details of Jonas’s life, but I do know Cora thinks highly of him.

  “He just needs to find the right woman, you know. Someone who will make him smile and laugh. Someone who will hug him tight and make every day better than the last.”

  Her words come back to me from a couple weeks ago at her bachelorette party. I had no clue who she was talking about, but she wanted to make it her life’s mission to see her best friend happy.

  Now I know why.

  He swallows. “Yeah. You know her?”

  I lock eyes with him and nod. “Yep. Did her and Gavin’s tattoos back in April. We’ve chatted and hung out here and there. Attended their wedding.” His eyes sparkle at this fact. “She never mentioned your name. And, obviously, we never all hung out at the same times.”

  “Obviously.” He averts his gaze and mumbles, “I would definitely remember you.”