He hesitates. “Actually, yeah, three weeks can work.” He shifts his weight, then grins. “Cool. I’m going to take a summer vacation in the city.”
Seeing him happy pleases me, which stirs that other feeling again. He’s a sweet guy, gentle and thoughtful in a way his father never was. The urge to take care of him is strong, but I know that’s just a fucked-up impulse, woken by memories of his old man.
I always did think I could take care of Mack’s crazy ass, straighten him out and keep him out of trouble.
It’s not fair, though, to put that on Drew. The kid never even knew his old man, for fuck’s sake, and here I am, seeing Mack in his sandy stubble and broad nose, thinking it means something.
“Thanks for giving me an excuse to stick around the city,” he says. “And for fitting in a tattoo. It’s really nice of you.”
I clench my jaw. His gentle voice and smile are doing me in, and now he’s talking to me in a way no one talks to me. The room usually gets quiet when I walk into it, but the way Drew looks up to me with those wide eyes…
Fuck. I need to get a hold on this.
“It’s fine,” I grunt, then turn on the machine. “You ready?”
Drew swallows. “Sure,” he says. “I’m ready.”
* * *
Drew
Caesar presses the needle to my skin, and reality splinters.
The sharp, repetitive pain sparks, and a throbbing ache travels down my bicep. All my muscles go tense, and my breath catches. I’m not particularly good with pain, and I have to fight the urge to yank my arm away from him.
“Easy,” Caesar tells me, then pulls the needle back. “Nice and easy.”
His voice is rough and low, intimidating and reassuring at the same time. I release my breath, and a strangely nice ache heats my skin, and when I glance at my arm, I see the dark line, beading with red droplets of blood.
It’s going to be on me forever. This tattoo is going to be on my body for the rest of my life. I can’t even remember how I got myself into this position, hundreds of miles from home, held in a stranger’s hands.
But I am here. I’m in Caesar’s hands, and I really, really like that.
I like the rough callus of his fingers against my skin, the firm, strong grip. Caesar’s imposing size lumbers above me, and I feel caught in his gravity, protected in his shadow. I’ve been floating through my life for months, aimless in a sea of grief and confusion, but as Caesar returns the vibrating needle to my skin, the sensation of his presence and the sharp pain ground me back in my body.
I gasp softly, then breathe as he goes back to work.
“You good?” Caesar asks.
“I’m good,” I manage to answer, and it’s the weirdest thing, but I really am.
Maybe it’s just a fantasy, this sense that Caesar is taking care of me. But here in his hands, pain rattling my arm, it’s easy to lose myself in the dream.
He works in silence, marking my skin, and the rhythm of it takes me. He draws the needle steadily, buzzing it across my body, and the sharp pain gives way to something numb, but still aching.
“Pinball machines?” Caesar asks, breaking the meditative quiet.
I pull my thoughts back together. “I’ve restored a couple,” I answer, although I’m not sure if that’s what he’s asking. “Do you like to play?”
“I don’t mind.”
I catch myself smiling. I have the impression that’s Caesar’s way of expressing enthusiasm. “What games do you like?”
He pulls my arm up, repositioning me in a way that slides his body closer to mine. “My favorite was an old one, a machine in that bar down the street,” he says, not really answering the question.
“Oh yeah?” I wince as the needle stabs me, then let out a shaky breath. “You played a lot?”
He works in silence, his knee pressing to mine as he lifts my arm. His smoky scent hits me, and I feel his touch everywhere, like electricity.
