Shattered Ink

Rush

“There’s a rule about this, bro.”

“Yup,” I say, staring at the top of Vincent’s head, which is now sporting a green-tipped mohawk. The guy is worse than a chick when it comes to style and color up top.

“And I think you’re the knucklehead who came up with it,” he continues.

I mentally shrug. “Could be.”

Vincent pulls back on the iron and flips his peepers up to meet mine. I notice he’s added a second piercing to his eyebrow. “So, what gives, man? And don’t tell me it’s the loooovvvve that’s brought your ass to my chair—because I’ve seen you turn away rock royalty when they wanted the name of some chick inked onto their skin.”

Discussing my private shit with anyone makes my balls shrink, so I point at my hand, aka V’s work in progress. “Can you finish?”

“I just don’t get it, bro,” he continues like the deaf numbnuts he is. “Breaking the rules for a hot piece of ass has never been your—”

My eyebrows jack up and I send him a look. “Hey. Watch yourself.”

“What?”

“You don’t talk like that. You know, not if you want to keep your blood inside your body and all.”

“Shit, bro. So hostile.”

“Addison’s my girl, dickhead,” I growl. “Not a hot piece of ass.”

“I dunno, man.” Vincent starts back in on me, moving up my thumb with his signature shade of black. “Addison has a pretty hot ass. I mean, I’ve never seen it without denim or anything, but I can imagine—”

“I swear to motherfucking god—” I start between teeth so tightly clenched my jaw protests.

Vincent chuckles. “Don’t move. Or this ‘I’ is going to be busted. Damn, she has a long name. Good thing you got the room. Big hands.” His mouth curls into a Hollywood grin. “Addison likes that, I bet.”

The urge to send the heel of my boot into his junk is crazy strong. But you know, I don’t want to bleed out from the needle he’s using on me. Not when I’m going to see my baby tomorrow. “I think I need to fire your ass when we’re done here.”

“That what you think?” He laughs. “Shit, Merrick. You know you need me. Besides my obvious skills with an iron, I’m the only testosterone you got around here.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Get serious, man. Janie’s got more T than the both of us combined.”

He grunts. “Heh, heh. True that.”

Just sitting in the guy’s dungeon-inspired room, watching him do his thing, that motherfucking perfect line work, I close up shop on the banter that just ends in me wanting to knock him into Sunday, and go silent for awhile. Which I guess opens me up to thoughts I’ve been trying to tamp down lately. Like maybe why it is I’ve broken my rule. The rule that states crystal fucking clear: No Names Inked Onto Skin. I mean, shit…it’s like the kiss of death. Total jinx. An omen. A relationship killer. In my biz, I’ve seen it a hundred times. So what am I doing? Testing? Teasing? Seeing how strong we got it?

Or maybe…fuck me…maybe I want her to know how deep it runs for her, you know? Like she’s in my goddamn blood. She’s mine. Maybe I want her to see it tomorrow and say to me, Baby, put your name on my body, too. Somewhere real visible. Because I want every guy who takes a look and thinks he’s got a chance with me to think again.

“All right, idiot,” Vincent says, setting his iron down and mopping me up. “You’re done. She’s on you forever. So basically you got a week or two before this thing crashes and burns.”

“Dick.” I look down at my thumb. Her name scripted in black. My eyes follow the lines, from A to N, and my dick goes hard. I close my eyes and breathe deep. The tent popping isn’t something I want V to witness. Dude has zero filter, and I’m kinda itching to knock him in the back of the head.

“Your girl coming this weekend?” Vincent asks me, spreading some goop over Addison’s name.

Coming? Fuck yeah she is. Over and over until she’s hoarse, and my neighbors a mile away call to complain. But I know that ain’t what V means, so I just nod.

“You bringing her to the shop?” he asks as he wraps up my thumb.

“Course.” I’m bringing her everywhere with me. Stuck to my side and my front and my mouth like super glue. It’s been ten days since I’ve touched her. And guess what? I know how many hours and minutes it’s been too—I’m just not that big of a douche to acknowledge it out loud.

“When?” V asks, ripping off his gloves and pushing back toward the trash can in his roller chair.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Friday night?”

“No, not tomorrow night.” My whole body gets kind of hot and bothered. Tomorrow night is my night to ask her the big question. Tomorrow night’s the night I tell her she’s gonna move in with me after grad. That she’s gonna move to Vegas permanently, and let me take care of her because, fuck, I can’t keep waking up without her. And I sure as hell can’t keep imagining her back in Cali, looking all sweet and sexy, getting hit on by a bunch of beach ballers—especially those vanilla beach ballers.

“What about Saturday?” Vincent continues. “She coming in Saturday?”

“Okay, what the fuck is this about?” I stand up and give him a quick sneer. “You crushing on my girl or is this about that Lisa chick?”

V goes kinda red, which makes me snicker a little in spite of my irritation with him.

He turns away, shrugs. “Don’t know anyone named Lisa, man.”

I laugh. “You ever gonna tell me what happened there?”

“Don’t know what you’re yammering about, brother, and don’t want to.”

Fine. I don’t need to know. As long as it doesn’t involve Addison, I don’t give a shit what or who V does. “Then why do you keep pressing me about bringing my girl into the shop?”

Vincent turns back, the red face thing gone. He’s got one of those shit-eating grins the ladies seem to like, but I don’t get it. “I just want to witness the meet and greet, that’s all.”

“Okay, Riddler, I’m so glad you didn’t ink my fuck off finger.” I flip him off.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” When I stare blankly at him, he chuckles. “Oh, you stupid bastard.”

I flip him off again and head for the door. “Thanks for the ink, asswipe.”

“Our guest, Rush,” he calls after me. “Or technically, your guest.”

A foot from the door, I slow up. My brows slam together and I glance over my shoulder. Vincent is leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, showing off his most prized possession, his Banksy t-shirt.

“Wicked Ink welcomes Erica Day this weekend,” he says. “That ring a bell?”

My cock twitches and not because it’s excited. How the hell hadn’t I remembered this? “Fuck.”

Vincent flashes me the pearlies, his black eyes going all wicked jackass-ness. “The old girlfriend gets to meet the new girlfriend.