“A writer?” I grunt as I apply pressure to the stubborn lug nuts. “Anything I might have read?”
Her laugh, light and musical, goes straight to my dick and it swells to half-mast. “Maybe. I write smutty romance novels.”
Damn, that’s hot.
Now her name rings a bell. I pause and squint up at her through the rain. “No shit? One of my tattoo artists, Lizzy, reads your books. She’s obsessed. Been talking about maybe writing one herself.”
“She should.” Noia leans against the SUV. “What shop?”
“Skin & Ink Tattoo.” I move to the next lug nut, which turns more easily than the first. “Been there almost ten years.”
“A tattoo artist.” She sounds intrigued. “I’ve always thought about getting a tattoo, but I’ve never been brave enough to actually do it.”
“What’s really stopping you?” I ask, working methodically around the wheel.
“Fear of pain, mostly. And commitment issues.” Her laugh is self-deprecating. “Once it’s on there, it’s on there, you know? Just want to make sure it’s the right one.”
I smile up at her. “The pain isn’t as bad as most people think. And as for commitment...” I gesture to the intricate designs covering my forearms, visible beneath my rolled-up sleeves, “...sometimes the things that stay with you forever are the best things in life.”
She studies my tattoos with open curiosity. “Those are beautiful. Did you design them yourself?”
“Most of them, yeah.” I remove the last lug nut and pull off the flat. “What kind of tattoo would you get? If you ever worked up the courage?”
“Something meaningful. Maybe a phoenix?” She brushes a lock of wet hair away from her face. “I’ve been through some shit recently. The whole rising-from-ashes thing appeals to me, but it’s overdone and seriously cliché. One of my favorite books as a kid was Alice In Wonderland, maybe something along those lines.”
I nod in understanding as I position the spare tire. “I could draw something up for you. No pressure, just to see if you like it.”
“Okay. That would be nice.”
Two days later, nervous but determined, she shows up at my shop.
“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” she says, fidgeting in the chair as I set up my station.
“You don’t have to go through with it if you’re not ready.”
She shakes her head. “No, I want to. I love the design you created. It’s perfect.”
The Cheshire Cat is whimsical, but with an edge of darkness.
During the four-hour session, we talk about everything—her writing, my time in the Marines, our favorite books, music and movies—even the douchebag that left her at the altar.
By the time I’m finished with the outline, I know I want to see her again, and it gives me an idea.
“How about I help you with your writer’s block?” I offer as I bandage her fresh ink. “I could take you out on adventures, give you new experiences to write about.”
Her smile is like sunlight. “What kind of adventures did you have in mind?”
“Maybe a ride on my motorcycle. There’s also a bookstore the next town over that specializes in rare first editions we could explore.”
Her lips curve into a teasing smile. “Are you offering to be my muse, Ryder Blackwood?”
“I’m offering to help you remember what it feels like to live in the moment.” I hold her gaze. “See where it goes… no strings.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
noia
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