Obviously, I'm getting super excited, so I thought I'd share the first chapter with y'all so you could be excited with me. LOL They say misery loves company, but I think excited people do, too! Or at least I do:) hehe
CHAPTER ONE-
Sloane
“Ohmigod, I
can’t believe you’re going through with this,” my best friend Sarah says as I
pull open the glass door to the tattoo parlor.
Although I
would never admit it to her, I actually get a little chill when I step over the
threshold. I’ve never been into a tattoo
shop before, so I don’t know what the others are like, but this one is pretty
intimidating. The music is loud, the
counter is black and every fixture in sight is chrome. I swallow my sudden burst of nerves and push
myself forward.
It’s reassuring
that this place, The Ink Stain, comes very highly recommended. And it’s easy to see why when I let my eyes
run over the amazing art work that covers the walls.
Somebody’s got some talent!
“Are you sure
you want to do this, Sloane? I mean, your dad will kick your ass if he finds
out,” Sarah continues. When I stop
suddenly to look back at her, she nearly runs into me. “Shit!” she exclaims,
pulling up before we bump chests. She
was busy examining the walls, too.
“Number one,
Dad can’t kick my ass. As of …” I glance around the neon-lighted interior of
the shop, looking for a clock. When I
find one that’s in the shape of a skull with cross bones for hands, I squint to
read what it says. “Seven minutes ago,
I’m officially beyond the control of the thick-headed Locke men. And this is my first act of independence.”
“More like rebellion,”
Sarah snorts.
“Semantics,” I
say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Either
way, I’m getting this damn tattoo and nobody’s gonna stop me.”
“Are you sure
it’s…safe? I mean…”
I see the
concern in her eyes and I love her for it.
I give her my
softest smile. “It’s fine, Sarah. Seriously.”
With one final,
reassuring nod to her, I move forward to approach the shiny black counter. I ring the bell for assistance.
While we wait
for someone to come to the front, I walk along the borders of the room,
admiring the sketches on display. As
someone with the heart of an artist, I can even better appreciate the skillful
hand and eye behind the charcoal renderings.
A deep voice
interrupts my study. “Can I help you?”
I turn toward
it, ready to explain what it is that I want, but the words die on my
tongue. Of all the works of art on the
walls, none compares to the one I’m staring at now.
I see his
features in separate bursts, like strobes of light striking the backs of my
eyes. Angular, masculine features seem
to be carved in stone—slashing brows; luminous eyes; high cheekbones; chiseled
mouth. And it’s that mouth that I’m
looking at when his lips curl up at the corners. I’m staring. I know it and he knows it. “See anything you like?”
My eyes fly to
his. They’re dark and teasing, and I
blush accordingly. “No,” I say
automatically. When I see one pierced
brow shoot up, I realize how my answer must’ve sounded. “I mean, I already know what I want.”
His other
eyebrow rises to meet the first and I feel my cheeks burn. I have no doubt they’re the color of ripe
apples by now.
“I love a woman
who knows what she wants.”
My mouth drops
open. No one has ever flirted with me. All the guys I’ve ever known have been
terrified of my family, so I have no clue how to react to banter like
this. Other than to blush, much to my
dismay.
Frick!
Obviously
amused by my discombobulation, he chuckles.
The sound is like black silk, sliding over my skin in one cool, smooth
swipe.
More heat
rushes to my face. I’m honestly afraid of what I must look like at the
moment. I don’t know what to do other
than look away, so that’s what I do. I
glance down, breaking contact with his disconcerting eyes as I reach into my
purse for my sketch. I take a deep
breath, using the search as an excuse to regain some modicum of composure. When I locate the piece of paper I’m after, I
walk wordlessly toward him and hand him the folded square.
He takes it from
me, his eyes touching mine for a fraction of a second before he turns his
attention to the paper. I watch as he
unfolds it then studies it for a heartbeat before he notices that it’s upside
down. After he rights it, he pulls it in for closer examination.
The overhead
light shines down on his face, hiding much of his expression. His long, thick lashes cast a shadow over his
eyes and his brow is puckered in concentration.
I wait patiently for him to finish.
With a single
nod of his head, he glances back up, his eyes clicking to a stop on mine. From
across the room, I couldn’t see what color they were, only that they were dark
and compelling. But now I can see them
clearly. They are the deepest blue I’ve
ever seen. They pierce me like steel and
leave me as breathless as midnight.
“This is
good. Who drew it?”
My heart swells
and flutters around inside my rib cage. “I
did.”
For an instant,
I see appreciation flit over his face, but it disappears quickly as he fires off
more questions. “Is this to scale? And are these the colors you’d like used?” he asks as he turns to walk back toward the
shiny countertop. “I’m Hemi by the way.”
Hemi.
What an odd
name. “Hemi? Isn’t that something on an
engine?” I blurt.
When he glances
back at me, I get the impression that he’s amused again. “Something like that.”
Hemi.
Like a big engine. I can see
that. He seems fast. And powerful.
“I’m
Sloane. And yes, the sketch is to scale
and in the colors I’d like used.”
Hemi nods again
as he steps behind the counter, reaching beneath it for some papers. “And where did you want it?”
I don’t know
why I feel like blushing again, but I do.
“Ummm, I’d like to have the half-open oyster shell on my right hip,
toward the back and have the butterflies coming out of it and flying up my
side. Sort of around toward the front.”
He’s still
nodding, but now frowning as well.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs. “Let’s get
these forms filled out and then I’ll take you back and have a look. I’m not working on anybody else right now.”
“O-okay.”
Hemi explains
to me what I’m signing—waiver, release and consent to tattoo. It’s their way of saying, Hey, if we screw up, you’re screwed!
You’re eighteen or over and have given us permission to permanently mark
your body. If you don’t like it, tough
shit. Thanks and have a nice day. But still, I don’t hesitate to sign them.
I know what I’m doing. I
experienced a little chill when I first walked in, but now, after meeting Hemi,
I feel like I’m in good hands. Warm,
capable hands.
Or maybe I’m
just bedazzled.
Either way, I
sign them quickly. I’m anxious to get to the next part.
I slide the
papers back across the counter to Hemi and lay down the pen. He takes them,
shuffles them into a neat pile and then sets them aside before he looks back up
at me.
“Ready?” he
asks. He might not know it, but that
question holds so much more meaning than simply whether I’m ready to get a
tattoo.
And so does my
answer. With a single, emphatic nod, I
reply, “Yes.”
He tips his
head toward the doorway through which he came.
“Then let’s do this thing.”
He starts
toward the next room and I turn to grab Sarah’s hand. I meet with resistance.
“Oh, no, no,
no! You’re not dragging me into
this. I’ll pass out, sure as shit.”
“What? I’m the
one getting poked with a needle a zillion times. Why would you
pass out?”
“Sympathy. That’s why.”
I tilt my head
to the side. “Sarah, don’t be
ridiculous. I want you to come back with me while I do it.”
She twists her
hand free of my grip. “I love you,
Sloane, but this floor is probably the perfect place to get Hepatitis. You’ll
be in the chair. I won’t. If I go
down, it’ll be face first in someone else’s blood. So thanks, but no thanks.”
“Sarah, there’s
no blood on the floor. It’s not like that.”
“How do you
know? This is the first tattoo parlor you’ve ever been to.”
“So? Look at this place. It’s spotless. It even smells
clean, and you know that can’t be easy with all the drunk, smelly people
that no doubt come through here.”
“You’re just
making my point for me. Nope. No
way. I’ll be waiting for you right…” she
says, backing away from me toward one of the chrome-and-leather chairs that
line one small section of the wall.
“Over…here.”
“Fine. Miss this significant life moment. It’s all right. I’ll still love you.”
With a heavy,
loud-as-I-can-make-it sigh, I turn toward the door. Hemi has already disappeared into the next
room, so I make my way slowly forward.
I hear a
frustrated growl from behind me. “Fine.”
The word is followed by the clomp clomp
clomp of platform-shod feet stomping toward me. “So help me, if I pass out and get some sort
of face fungus, you’re paying for all my doctor bills and any necessary plastic
surgery.”
I smile broadly
and loop my arm through hers when she stops at my side. “I won’t let your face touch the floor. I promise.”
“You don’t
promise. You never promise,” she observes, eyeing me skeptically as we enter
the next room.
“No, I just
don’t make promises I can’t keep. This
one, I can keep.”
We stop and
look around the room. There are two
other people getting tattoos. They both
look up at us. They don’t look like
they’re being tortured. In fact, one of
them looks kind of sleepy. Or drunk.
Either way, it makes me feel a little more at ease about the pain I just
signed up for.
I tug Sarah
forward and we make our way through the room.
The overhead lights are still bright, but they are strategically placed
over the three reclining tattoo chairs.
It makes the rest of the space look intimately dim.
I walk toward
Hemi where he’s standing at a little cubby against the back wall. It’s occupied
by a small cabinet with a mirror over it, a rolling cart of some sort, and an
empty tattoo chair.
I start to
climb into it, but he stops me.
“Wait. Show me exactly where you
want the oyster shell before you sit down.
I might have to put you on your stomach or your side, depending.”
Feeling heat
rise to my face yet again, I turn my right hip toward Hemi and pat the place
where I want the shell. “Here.”
Hemi squats
beside me, reaches forward and raises the hem of my cami then drags his fingers
up my side. “With the butterflies up
through here?”
I feel chills
break out behind the warm path of his touch and I bite my lip. When he looks up at me with those amazing
blue eyes of his, I nod.
“Okay, then
let’s start with you on your stomach,” he says, stepping on a pedal on the
floor that raises the foot and lowers the back of the chair, making it flat
enough to lie prone. “Hop up there and
unbutton your shorts,” he says casually.
“Pardon?”
Hemi’s laughing
eyes meet mine. “Which part didn’t you
get?”
“You need me to
take off my pants? In here?”
“No, I just
need you to unbutton and unzip them a little.
Just enough that I can comfortably get to the area you want inked.”
“Oh,” I say,
feeling like an ass. “Okay.”
I climb up onto
the flat surface and reach for my button and zipper. I loosen them and then turn to stretch out on
my stomach. I feel like burying my face
in my crossed arms, but I don’t. I stare
straight ahead until I see Sarah enter my vision and plop down in the chair
across from me, promptly ignoring me for the phone in her hands. I watch her for a few seconds, but I’m far
too interested in who’s at the other end of me to pay her attention for
long. Finally, I turn my head to look down
at Hemi, resting my cheek against my folded arms. He’s sitting on a chair with wheels now,
facing me at the level of my waist, with a long-necked lamp aimed at my lower
body.
I catch and
hold my breath when he reaches out and curls his fingers into the waistband of
my shorts. Hemi tugs the material down,
wiggling it over my hips and lowering it just enough that he can easily access
the whole area. The only thing between
him and my skin now is my underwear.
I watch as he
slips a finger under the lacy elastic of my panties and pulls them down as
well, leaving nothing between us but the heat of his hand. Slowly, he rubs his palm over my hip. Back and forth, he does this several times
before he looks back at the sketch and then starts to trace one fingertip over
my skin, as if he’s drawing it out in his head.
“You know,” he
says, looking up at me, his palm coming to a rest, his thumb making an absent
arc on my hip. “I think it would be
better if we came up a little farther toward your waist with the shell and then
let the butterflies spill out, curving to run up your side in a loose
serpentine pattern, like this,” he says, moving his fingers up over my ribs in
a languid snaking path. “I think it
would look better than a straight line.”
In my head, I can
see exactly what he’s saying. And I agree. It’s just that I’m having a hard
time thinking and responding with his hands on me like they are.
“Sounds good.
Whatever you think. You’re the expert.”
Hemi grins and
winks at me. “Oh, I like the sound of that.”
He reaches back to the table that sits behind him, grabs a little prep
kit, a marker and my sketch. He lays the
drawing up on my butt. “This is your
first time, isn’t it?” He’s not watching
me when he asks; therefore he can’t see the color that burns in my cheeks. He has no idea how right he is. In many ways.
Being the daughter of a cop and the little sister to three more makes dating a
challenge to say the least. Add to that all that happened when I was little,
and you get a twenty-one year old virgin.
To tattoos as well as most everything else, too.
“Yes,” I reply
in a small voice.
At this, Hemi
finally looks back up at me. “Don’t
worry. I’ll take good care of you.” And for some reason, I believe him. “We may have to break this up into two or three
sessions, though. I don’t want to
overwhelm you, and there’s quite a few butterflies to do. Plus, ribs can be a little more tender and
tricky.”
“So you won’t
do it all tonight?”
“I don’t think
so. Let’s start with the shell and one
or two butterflies, and see how you’re doing.
Then we can go from there. We
don’t want you in the chair too long. You
can make an appointment to come back another time to get the rest.”
See him
again? Yes, please.
“Sounds good.”
Hemi pauses,
with no grin on his lips and no teasing in his eyes. This time they seem
just…warm. “Are you always this easy?”
Before I have
to try to formulate some pithy or flirtatious (or stupid) reply, Sarah speaks
up for the first time since I laid down.
“Hell no! She’s stubborn as a mule.”
“So it’s just
me then.” He stares at me for several
seconds before his grin returns. “Just
easy for me. I like that.”
The next thing
I feel, aside from the damnable heat in my face, is the cool swipe of an
alcohol pad as Hemi preps my skin for what’s to come. I barely notice the moisture. All my attention is riveted to the warm hand
resting against my hip, holding me still.
Keeping me steady.
Later on in the book, you'll learn why she chose butterflies and why they're such a theme for her. And you'll get why I put them on all the swag, like the t-shirts (and key chains and mugs and bracelets and necklaces... LOL)
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