“The shop is open from nine to five on Saturdays,” Clay states, returning his attention to his dinner.
I think about it. I have work in the evening and some studying, but I’m sure I can bring my laptop and study during the lulls when no one calls or walks in. I get that this is a cheap trick to get me my cream without just pushing it on me for free. But my tattoo is becoming itchier by the hour, and that cream would be a relief. Besides, as Clay said, if Xander needs to concentrate on his client, it’s not like he’ll be there by my side chatting for hours. And if he really needs some help, I can do this for him. After all, he came for me too.
“Sure, tell him I’ll be there at nine,” I say, focusing on my plate.
“Great! He’ll love that, kitten. You’re saving his ass,” Clay says.
“Kitten?” I glance at him.
“Yes, kitten. You’re like a black, feisty little kitty cat. Rawr,” he teases, forming claws with his hand.
“Oh my God, that’s just embarrassing,” Sophia mutters.
“I don’t know if I prefer that to Karen,” I say flatly.
“You do because best friends call each other pet names.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
“Sure,Clay,” I say, making him laugh.
TWENTY-FOUR
Darkened Dermis is still closedwith no lights on when I arrive ten minutes early.
I’m nervous. It’s not about handling the customers. I’m confident I can do that. What makes me nervous is spending hours with Xander. I don’t know him, even though he has been nice to me the few times I’ve seen him.
I’ve gotten to know Clay a little, and I trust that he wouldn’t have a boyfriend who is an asshole, but still, I worry that things might get awkward or uncomfortable. Hopefully, Xander really will be occupied with his client the entire time.
I wait a few more minutes, peering into the windows and admiring the artwork on display. Xander’s talent is truly remarkable. Then, at nine fifteen, a black Ford, which I recognize as Xander’s, parks in the reserved spot in front of the shop.
He gets out, looking incredibly grumpy, and my stomach twists with anxiety.
Did Clay set me up?Did he arrange this without Xander’s consent?Fuck.
Xander mutters a brief “Morning” and opens the shop, quickly disappearing inside. I manage to slip through the door just before it closes on me.
He heads into the room on the right side of the shop, and I stand there, uncertain if I should take off my jacket. “Fuck,” he growls out from the room, and I quickly make my way over, peeking inside. He has taken off his jacket, and his tight white T-shirt is stained with blood on his left shoulder.
I drop my backpack and swiftly get out of my jacket, hurrying over to him. “What happened?” I ask, concern filling my voice.
“I was fixing stuff under the car and accidentally pulled out something sharp that fell on my shoulder,” he says, words strained.
“Do we need to get you to the hospital? Should I call Clay?” I ask, worried, but he shakes his head.
“No, it’s just a small cut. It hurts like hell, though,” he says.
“Show me,” I say, assuming he will just pull over the collar of his shirt to let me see the wound on his shoulder. Instead, to my surprise, he pulls the shirt over his head, baring his chest and all his tattoos. I find myself momentarily stunned, unable to tear my eyes away until I notice a small line of blood trickling from his shoulder.
“Do you have more light outside?” I ask, and he nods.
We make our way to the tattoo stool, and I bring my backpack.
“Sit down,” I instruct, assuming he will take a seat on the tattoo chair. But he sits on the small stool with wheels he uses while tattooing. This places us at eye level, and I notice he is even more beautiful from this angle. I get my first-aid kit from my backpack and open it, grabbing the necessary items to clean the wound.
I stand in front of him, uncertain about how to do this, but he spreads his knees, inviting me to step between them so I can getcloser to inspect the wound. His breath brushes against my neck, sending a shiver through my entire body.
The cut doesn’t appear deep, but the surrounding area is red and has a faint bluish sheen. “It hit that spot with force,” I note, and he nods. “This is going to suck balls. I’m sorry,” I apologize before preparing the solution to clean the wound. As I clean it, he hisses and grips my upper arm tightly. “I’m sorry, but this needs to be done so you don’t get an infection. And you’ll need to hold onto something else, or I won’t be able to work here,” I tell him with a smile.
He nods, and his large hands move to the back of my thighs, gripping them. The touch sends butterflies through me, but I try my best to appear unaffected as I continue disinfecting his wound. He hisses again and tightens his grip, his fingers pressing firmly into my thighs. I work as quickly as possible, not only to hurry this for him but to create some space between us.
