But as he stands there, my exterior cracks, something pushing through my professional gruffness. Maybe it’s the smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. He’s excited, almost playful when I ask about the game, and I like that.
“It’s called Nebula Invaders,” he says. “Have you heard of it?”
I grunt. “Yeah, that’s right. I thought I recognized the pattern somewhere.” It’s an old arcade game, one I remember playing in the 90s.
“Oh cool,” Drew says, his eyes lighting up. “I love that you know it. It’s not the most popular game.”
“Yeah, I think I played it once or twice,” I grumble, then turn to my machine and the needles I’ve prepared. “You know what you’re in for? Any questions?”
“No, Rafael answered them all up front, I think,” he tells me.
“Good.” About ten years ago, I hit a wall. I just can’t fucking explain how to care for a tattoo again, not one more time.
Since I own the place, though, and my clients are desperate for my time, I don’t usually have to.
Maybe it’s Mack’s memory, but when I turn back to Drew, I am drawn to him differently than I am to most clients. This is his first ink. I’ve been working on old tattoo addicts so long, I can almost forget what the first piece means to a person.
Better slow down and do this right.
“What’s so special about this game?” I ask.
Drew is sitting on the edge of the long tattoo chair, and he kicks his feet a little when he answers. “Well, this will probably sound weird, but I actually restored a console for it. Like, I tracked down a bunch of busted machines and salvaged the working parts, repaired them and Frankensteined them together, and now I have the game as part of my collection.”
His voice lifts while he’s talking. It’s nice, but also strange. There’s a deeper tone to his voice that reminds me of Mack’s low growl, but Drew speaks in a higher register, adding more song to it.
It pleases me to see him smiling, more than it probably should. “You collect those things?”
“Arcade games and pinball. Only ones I’ve restored, though. The restoring is the part I really care about.”
I lift up the tattoo needle, and when I squeeze, it whirrs to life. “Nothing like messing around with a machine.”
Drew smiles. His eyes are on the needle, though, and I see that there are little beads of sweat on his temple. “Right. Nothing like it,” he says, a slight tremble in his voice.
I set the machine down. It’s time to place the image on his arm, something I do with clients all the time. But when I touch Drew, his warmth spreads through me. I lay one hand on his shoulder and the other on his bicep, and instead of positioning him, I freeze.
Drew trembles in my hands. It’s the smallest thing, probably nothing more than nerves, but I can feel it in my core.
Fuck, I like that.
It’s been years since I bothered to get off with another guy, but I know this stab of lust is not all I’m feeling. I touch clients all day long, but I never respond like this.
I realize my fingers are sinking into Drew’s flesh, and I clear my throat and relax my grip, then apply the stencil. My dick is swelling in my jeans, and my breath comes out rough. Drew looks caught off guard, his lips slightly parted, needy eyes on me.
Mack’s fucking kid, I remind myself, although an annoying voice in the back of my head points out that they never even met, so what does that matter?
I try to force my attention back to my job. “The linework,” I tell him, pointing to the stencil, “the outlines of the ships here, the shooting stars. We’ll get that all done today.”
Drew straightens his back. “Today?”
“We can fit the second session in before you leave town, shade it then.”
“Second session, right,” Drew says, and I realize this is news to him.
I’d wondered why he sent in such a detailed image, considering he’s an out-of-towner.
“I guess I can stick around for a while,” Drew answers.
“Three weeks too long?”
