No way I’m letting him in enough to share that story, especially not when it already feels this good to touch him.
“Sorry your gym teacher sucked,” I add, pushing the needle against his skin and adding shade and depth to the striking flowers he’s chosen.
“I think most of them do. I just wish I understood that at the time.” He twitches, and I go easy on the shading until he relaxes again. “Like my dad,” he adds, his quiet voice almost getting lost in the buzz of the machine. “I just kind of assumed he was right about stuff because he was my dad. And so when he thought I was too weak and nerdy, it made me think that, too.”
I notice the past tense, and my heart aches a little for him. Then Milo glances down at the tattoo, and his eyes light up. “That’s gorgeous!” he says brightly and quickly changes topics again. “Hey, if I start talking about my dad, will you stop me?”
I half-smile. “No problem.”
It’s true, though. That is the fucking problem with family. You assume they’re right about things, and when you grow up and find out that’s not always true, it can be real fucking confusing.
I want to tell him I know exactly what he’s talking about, honestly. It still makes me feel like a sucker that I bought my dad’s bullshit for so long and helped him out with his lies.
But I tighten my jaw and bury all that back where it belongs.
“Anyway,” Milo continues, then hums quietly under his breath while he closes his eyes. I know the constant pain of the needle must be doing something to him now, especially as the shading forces me to go over the same area again and again. “What was I saying?”
“People suck sometimes,” I say, squinting at the work.
“Right,” Milo laughs. “I guess that sums it up.”
I wipe his arm, cleaning away the ink and blood. The work is going nicely, and I’m proud to see the detail that will live on his body long after we part ways.
While I’m paused, Milo’s eyes flutter shut, and he lets out a slow breath. There’s pink under the golden brown of his cheeks, and his chest rises and falls while he steadies himself.
Even though I don’t need to position him right now, I place my hand on his shoulder and rub slightly. It’s just a little gesture, but I’m drawn to support him, so I let myself have this one moment.
It sucks that people treated Milo like they have. It reminds me of when I was in junior high, and I got interested in cooking. Except cooking wasn’t the kind of thing a man was supposed to be interested in, so I got made fun of by my dad until I quit bringing it up, and now, I barely know how to make myself a basic meal.
The difference is, Milo has enough integrity to be himself even when other people beat him down. I just caved to the pressure and pretended that I didn’t care.
I grunt at the tattoo. “It’s taking nicely, but I might be a little slower with the shading than I thought. We can finish you off today, but let’s make sure to take a couple of breaks. Stretch our legs, drink water, that kind of thing. Sound good?”
“Sure,” Milo agrees. “And I’m in no hurry. Like I said, I probably won’t get another tattoo for a long time, if at all. I want to experience this while I can.”
I’m impressed. He’s talking like someone who’s been getting work done for years, and that makes me even more interested in covering his body with ink and exploring every inch of his skin.
For now, though, I’ll just appreciate the permission to draw this out. There’s a charge between us again, an energy I want more of. Feeling Milo’s quivers, hearing the gentle hums beneath his breath when I hit a sensitive spot, all of that rewards me.
So yeah, I’ll go slow this afternoon. I’ll go slow as I can, and I’ll make sure he leaves looking as good as anyone who has ever sat in my chair.
“Back to work?” he asks.
I lift the machine and nod. “Back to work.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
MILO
I standin front of the double mirrors in the lobby of the tattoo shop, admiring my new ink. My skin is hot, and I’m dizzy from all the work I’ve had done, but the tattoo is so gorgeous and literally perfect, I can’t think about anything else.
“Here,” Joey says, pulling a roll of plastic wrap from behind the counter. “Ready to cover your ink?”
“Yeah, I think I got enough pictures,” I say, wagging my phone in the air. My eyes catch on the many unread messages from Matty, which I finally open up. “I guess there was a snowstorm today,” I say after a second.
“Huh.” Joey hands me the plastic wrap as he walks over to the door. His untucked flannel fits nicely around his solid frame, and for the hundredth time that day, I become painfully curious what tattoos he’s hiding under the clothes.
“Oh shit,” he says, and a gust of snowy wind whips into the shop. When I peer out, I see snow drifted against the building, higher than Joey’s knees. He pushes the door quickly shut, but white fluff plops to the floor behind him. “You’re not fucking kidding that’s a snowstorm.”
