She turns her head, eyes moving over me—and it’s not flirty. It’s not shy. It’s… assessing. Like she’s trying to figure out what kind of creature just wandered into her holy little world.
Sup, I’m Trey Baker. Ladies call me the organism of orgasms…
Her eyes settle on my hands first—on the rings across my knuckles, the black ink weaving through my fingers. Then her gaze travels. Up my arms. Across my chest. Up my neck to the jawline.
She doesn’t even try to hide it. She stares at me like I’m sin wrapped in skin.
I wonder what she sees.
The tattoos? The metal? Or the hollow carved out underneath it all?
I shift slightly, let her look. Let her try to unravel whatever version of me her mind is building. I’ve been stared at my whole damn life—offices, hospital rooms, rundown motel rooms with smoke-stained ceilings. Broken TVs. Beer bottles on the floor. Empty fridges. Empty stomachs. But this… this feels different. Not judgmental. Not yet. Just… unfamiliar.
“My father says people with tattoos worship the devil,” she says, eyes forward again. “That they’re lost souls.”
Well, your daddy is also a little bit of a see you next Tuesday.
There is no venom in her voice. Just scripture repeated by someone raised on fear.
I huff a laugh. “Guess I’m doomed then. I’m definitely lost. But worshipping the devil? Nah. Feels like the ones who preach hate carry more of him in them than the ones just trying to survive.”
She blinks. Surprised. Like no one’s ever said that out loud in her world.
“Devil worshipper,” I add with a shrug, flexing my fingers. Silver flashes in the candlelight. “I don’t worship anyone. Not even myself—though I fake it pretty well. Some might say people worship the band I’m in…”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile.
“So… you’re in a band?” she asks, “Do you play locally?”
That one makes me grin. She has no idea.
“Nope,” I shake my head. “We could, but we’re not from around here.”
She tilts her head, curious.
“We’re on tour. Played L.A., New York, Chicago… all the big cities. Big venues. We’re kind of… loud.”
Her brows shoot up. “You travel?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
“With music?”
“With music,” I confirm, watching the gears turn in her head.
“You must be really good,” she says, like it just occurred to her.
I glance at her. No sarcasm. No ego-stroking. Just… honest.
It hits different.
I nod once. “We’ve worked hard.”
She looks down again, fingers twisting in her lap. Like maybe she doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t fit inside her father’s sermon-shaped box. Or maybe… she’s wondering what it would feel like to finally step out of it.
I let the silence stretch.
She doesn’t seem bothered that I’m the devil her daddy warned her about.
