Silver stubble, a rough voice, and worn jeans that hug his thick thighs. I’ve always been turned on by guys like Caesar.
Not that I’ve ever gone for it with an older man, let alone one who looks like a biker. But the fantasies have kept me company plenty of nights.
The hotel room is quiet around me. I push my hand into my pants, then let out a satisfied hum when I grip my hard cock. I try to slip into some old fantasies, but Caesar intrudes into my thoughts. I keep remembering that intense flare in his silver eyes when he looked at me.
I imagine dragging my hand across his stubble, and a shiver arches my spine.
There’s been so much dragging me down, so many dead ends, but when I lose myself in my body’s burning need, it all goes away. I can feel Caesar’s rough hands all over my skin, and the sensation zings through me, electric as I hit my climax.
But when my head clears and my breathing slows, I’m alone again in a strange city, no idea where to turn next.
CHAPTERTWO
CAESAR
I takethe sketches from my apprentice, Rafael. I like the kid, and, as always, I’m impressed by his work. He’s been here over a year, and his natural talent is maturing nicely. He’s got a hand for intricate detail, a skill that still surprises me.
On top of that, he’s a sweet guy. Gentle, eccentric in his own way, and strong, too. He’s developed the confidence he needs to do this job, and that pleases me.
“Fine,” I grunt, then hand the stencils back to him. “Now tell me how you’re going to do this hatching. What needle are you using?”
Rafael swallows, then spits out a perfect answer. I can tell I still make him nervous, although he’s loosened up a lot since he started.
Hell, I know I make everyone here nervous. It’s a perk of being the boss.
But as my apprentice adjusts his glasses and goes on about the technique I’ve drilled into him, the conversation I had with Red the other night comes back. I’m proud as hell of what the shop has become, and my old friend is right—I’ve stacked it full of amazing artists.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if I told them that a little more.
When Rafael finishes, I nod, then reach out and clasp his shoulder. He tenses, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and lets out a little gasp.
“Good work here,” I bark.
I swear, his eyes get even wider. The kid’s like a fucking cartoon sometimes. “Wow,” he says. “I mean, thanks, Caesar.”
Do I really never tell him that?
Hell, I never heard a compliment from my old man, not the whole time he was teaching me to ink. But that was common in his day. He was an old school tattoo artist, from an age when you didn’t share your technique with anyone. Tattooing was a secretive boys’ club for years, until my generation came along and we developed our own styles, our own way of doing things.
New-school tattooing is vivid, bold, and unique. It’s also freely taught to others, as it should be.
I’m teaching Rafael what I know, but have I been acting like my father the whole time? The thought frustrates me.
Rafael gives me a strained smile, and I realize I’m still gripping his shoulder. “Right,” I say and pull my hand back. “Take a couple walk-ins today, huh, kid? Have fun.”
He grins. “Thanks again,” he says, then hurries out of my room before I can take any of it back.
I cross my arms and chuckle to myself. Whether he realizes it or not, Rafael lightens my days. I could probably use a little more of that.
This sentimental mood I’m in starts itching at me again, and I indulge myself by taking a slow stroll around the shop. Billie’s hard at work, her machine buzzing and rock music humming on her speaker. Her biceps flex as she draws her needle with a steady, mechanical precision, her short green hair tied back.
Right after Billie started working for me, I figured out that she was the right person to take over this shop one day. I’ve never doubted it, but I became even more confident when she took on her own apprentice, Stone. He’s at work in his room, but he’s left the door partially open. I see his boyfriend, Matty, lying face-down as Stone inks his back, adding to a sprawling, colorful mosaic.
That’s another thing I’m proud of. There were always gay people in the tattooing world, and women, too. But there was also a hell of a lot of hate and ignorance, and men like my father did what they could to make their shops hostile.
My mind flickers back to Mack again. He was so many things to me, and my gut twists when I think again of what I was to him.
Fucking nothing.
