“So, about your design . . .”
He reaches into his back pocket and slips out the folded piece of paper, handing it to me again. I can’t help but frown with disdain. Instead of taking it, I grab the sheet I tore out from my sketchbook, waiting on a side table. “I was thinking something like this would look better on you.”
He stares at the sketch I pulled together while watching the waves come in off Ocean Beach this morning, after I’d emptied my soul and mind onto a shitty old brick wall in the Mission District. It’s a risky design and one he may not want on his body. I know that even as I mentally cross my fingers and hope that he’ll say yes, because I really don’t want to ruin his beautiful torso with something as generic and common as what he has suggested.
He stares at the sketch for so long that I start to fidget and backpedal. “You don’t have to go with this. I just thought—”
“It’s incredible.” He shifts his gaze to me, and a flicker of warmth burns in those cold irises of his. “When did you do this?”
I stifle the grin that wants to slip out. He thinks it’s incredible. “This morning. I had some time to kill.”
He looks at me like he knows something I don’t. “I want this one.”
I swallow, the intensity of his gaze and his presence seeming to suck all the air out of the room. “And the size. You want it . . .”
“I’m sure you have an opinion.” He watches me intently.
I rarely give a damn about anyone or what they do with their lives, but I always have an opinion when it comes to body art. And this one, especially, I want to be flawless. “I think we should start it here”—I reach up to tap his skin, my fingertip just a curl away from a solid pectoral muscle—“and end down here, with the bottom of the scythe cutting into your bone right here.” My other hand slides across the base of his waist, at that delicious spot where his abdominal muscles meet his pelvic bone, forming the one side of a V that disappears below his belt.
My hand is trembling.
My fucking hand—the hand of a tattoo artist about to leave a giant, permanent marking on this perfect canvas—is trembling. And he must be able to see it. If I were him, I’d throw my shirt on and head out that door and never look back.
His fingers, the skin hot and dry and ridged with history, seize mine, squeezing them under his thumb. My hand looks childish next to his.
I open my mouth, ready to fire off excuses for the shakiness—need for caffeine, though the remnants of a Starbucks Venti is sitting on a box next to us; too cold, though the AC is shut off and it’s suddenly stifling in here—when he says, “How about a little farther back, like here?” He shifts my hand an inch over.
“That will work, too.” He releases my hand, and I exhale with relief. “This is going to take seven hours in black, more if you want color. That would put us at”—I glance at my phone—“ten tonight. Are you sure you can handle it? It takes a lot out of people, and the rib cage is especially sensitive.”
“I can handle it. Can you handle it?”
I snort. “Yeah, I can handle it.”
“I figured you could.” He nods toward the front. “Then go and make that transfer so we can get started.”
Normally I’d bristle, having someone tell me what to do. But right now getting away from him and his bare chest and the masculinity that radiates from him sounds like a smart plan. So I bolt to the front of the shop, both elated that he’s going with my design and uncomfortable with how easily he’s been able to slide under my skin, with nothing more than a look.
The computer is the only thing I haven’t packed up, and that’s solely because I knew I’d need to make a transfer for Sebastian. After tonight, I’ll have to move it to the house, just in case these painters are stupid enough to take a coffee break and leave the place wide open and unattended. This isn’t the kind of area you can do that in without coming back to find yourself cleaned out.
Letting the scanner warm up, I study my design with a smile.
She’s lethal but sexy, quiet but strong.
I’d like to think that she’s a little bit like me.
TWELVE
SEBASTIAN
She’s doing her best to hide that she’s attracted to me. If I hadn’t just witnessed her hand shaking as it grazed my hip, and the slight flush of her cheeks when she realized it, I might not have believed it. She’s good at hiding her emotions.
Just like I am.
I smile. Aren’t the two of us a pair.
I peek around the corner to see her back to me, her left boot tapping to the beat of the music as she studies her sketch. Now I know what she was doing on the beach this morning. It’s impressive that she could work so quickly, after no sleep, and produce such an exquisite piece of artwork. As foreboding as the sketch is, I can see elements of her surroundings in it—the reaper’s cloak curling at the ends like crashing waves, the crows dipping and diving from above like the seagulls had.
That she would actually have the nerve to redesign my tattoo—with a female reaper, no less—surprised me.
Ivy has surprised me twice, actually. The first time was the uncanny resemblance to me that she sketched out on the wall with nothing more than two brief encounters. I should be concerned that my face—and therefore evidence of my presence in San Francisco—exists.
But I don’t have time to be surprised or concerned right now. I have only a few minutes to search this room. All the boxes are sealed with original package tape. I can’t very well tear into those before she gets back. That leaves me with the six rectangular ceiling tiles above me that I can search now. Hopping onto the leather table that I’ll be spending a long time on tonight from the sounds of it, I pop the first tile off its frame and ease it down. Using the flashlight on my phone, I stand tall enough to see into the space above and scan the interior. The walls are interior structures and not load-bearing, so there’s nothing to obstruct my view far beyond just this room, other than the darkness, and plenty of wires, cobwebs, rodent droppings.
No videotape.
I pivot around, searching as far as the light carries. There’s nothing.
“What are you doing?”
Fuck. I should have expected that. She’s a damn ninja, moving so quietly. I should have remembered that from the other day, at her house. “I heard something running through here,” I say, my voice calm and unconcerned about getting caught. The sound of an innocent man, just trying to be of help.
“So you figured you’d dismantle the ceiling and, what . . . catch it?” she mocks. Not so much as a suspicious inflection in her voice, at least.
“You said you were selling, didn’t you?” I finally look down, to find her small face peering up at me. “The last thing you want to be doing is trying to sell a place infested with rats.”
“Rats?” She pauses, her demeanor suddenly shifting. “Did you see something up there?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s just . . .” She folds her arms over her chest, hugging herself tight, reminding me that she’s hiding a curvy little body under that loose T-shirt. “. . . They have those beady eyes and long tails . . .” She glares at the ceiling as if one’s going to suddenly drop down on her head.
The girl who will crawl through gaps in boards and spend an entire night spray painting by lantern, with every kind of junkie and vermin—including rats—within a hundred-yard radius of her, is now freaked out.
“What?” she snaps, scowling at me, and I realize that I’m staring at her. “I just really hate rats. That’s normal.”