“And sometimes you need a little help when you’re trying to hide from it.”

* * *

“Hi, Slim. Bye, Christos.” I press myself back against the door as Christos sails past me and out onto the sidewalk.

“Got a gig at the Cage tonight. Have to run.” He blows me a kiss and then races down the street.

Slim looks up from Rose’s desk and shakes his head. “He’s more about the music than the ink.”

“That’s not true. He’s about both.” I dump my stuff and perch on the edge of the desk beside him. “And if you think he’s going to leave us, I can promise you he won’t. He loves it here. He loves his work. And although I hate to say it, his band is never going to make it big. They’re good but not that good. Plus, he’s loyal. Like me and Duncan.”

Slim sniffs and shoves his Fedora to the side. “You said you want to open up your own studio. Doesn’t sound loyal to me.”

“I’m talking years from now. Like so many years you’ll probably be sick of me by then, and I’ll have forgotten everything I learned in my business management course and come crawling back begging for a chair.”

“That kinda attitude, you’re right.” Slim leans back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his head. “You gotta have confidence in yourself. Coupla times I left you running the shop, you did a bang-up job, but you were always second-guessing yourself. You got good instincts. Trust ’em.”

Ha. If he knew about my lack of judgment, he would never say that. “You trying to make me leave? Bolster my confidence enough and I might just walk out of here.”

“You’re not there yet. If you were, I’d be hiding my client list.”

We chat about some of the mind-blowing artists who have made names for themselves in the city with clever designs, crazy colors, and bold line work. I tell Slim they’re killing at what they do while I’m stuck in the same place. Slim laughs and says they’re all basically doing the same thing, scamming on the styles of the masters. True art is unique, pure creation. One day when I’m doing freehand, I’ll understand.

I wish that day was now.

The little bell on the front door jangles and Slim gives my arm a warning squeeze. “Speaking of clients, here comes your man.”

“He’s not my man. He’s a friend.”

Slim laughs. “My friends don’t look at me like they want to devour me. They also don’t call up Rose, order her to clear your schedule for the evening, and offer to pay for the extra time. That kind of attention usually means something more than friendship.” He winks and tips back his hat. “Just sayin’.”

Pressing my lips together, I glare. “Don’t you have an ass to ink out back? I thought Rose mentioned your favorite soldier got drunk again at a party and can’t go home until you’ve covered ‘Whore Lover’ with his wife’s name.”

Slim scrubs his hands over his face. “Fifth time now. I’m running out of ideas for stylized versions of ‘Ava’ that are long enough to cover the tats he gets when he’s on tour overseas.”

He heads to the back and I spin around to find Ray in the doorway. He’s wearing his usual delicious khaki commando pants, sitting low on his narrow hips, and a tight black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His biceps bulge from beneath his short sleeves and my mouth waters.

“Ready for me?”

Oh boy. Am I ready.

When we reach my station, I pull out the stencil of the original design I finished up after Jess left for work. We discuss shading and the best way to make use of the design to cover his scar—a nice, professional conversation, although the thoughts going through my mind are anything but nice. Or professional.

Once we’re done, I wash up and remove my sterilized equipment from the autoclave, then I pull on my gloves and bring the water, razor, and rubbing alcohol to prepare the skin I’m about to ink. By the time I return to my station, Ray has stripped off his shirt and is now lounging half-naked in my chair.

My breath catches in my throat. Dear God. His lightly tanned skin is stretched tight over rock-hard muscle and his tattoos shimmer under the overhead light. Seated, still, he is at the mercy of my slow, meticulous perusal. And boy, do I peruse.

After I’ve drunk my fill and calmed the raging desire in my blood, I adjust my artist’s chair and pull it up so I am only inches away from his breathtaking body. “You can put your arm across my lap.” My voice is remarkably calm. “It’ll give me better access.”

Better access? Cringe. I dip my head and swallow hard. How about I keep the mouth shut and just get busy?

He nods and places his forearm across my thighs, his clenched fist at my waist. Warm and heavy, his arm rests perilously close to the juncture of my thighs and I steel myself to keep my thoughts away from images of that hand between my legs, his fingers stroking my folds.

Taking a deep breath, I run a warm washcloth slowly over his skin. “Too hot?” I look up through my eyelashes and the intensity of his gaze as he shakes his head takes my breath away.

His muscles tighten when I dip the cloth again and gently wash his chest and shoulder. His skin is smooth and taut over rigid muscle. I silently curse the gloves that stop me from feeling his skin, and the soap that cannot mask the sinful, masculine scent that is driving me to distraction. When I pull out the rubbing alcohol, I curse that too because it means I have to stop touching him.

Except for the White Buffalo’s cover of “House of the Rising Sun” playing in the background, there is no sound except the rasp of Ray’s breath as his chest rises and falls under my hand. Although I’ve done shoulder and pec tats countless times, the intimacy of this position sends a shiver through my body. Longing grips me hard and fierce, and I scramble to regain some semblance of control. Maybe a little conversation.