“Oh yeah,” I say enthusiastically. I turn and raise my shirt, showing him the watercolour dragon that stretches from my shoulder blades to just above my arse. “I had this done last year in Amsterdam.”
He whistles, and I feel a finger run down my spine, tracing the lines of the tattoo. It’s not intrusive—the gesture is completely removed from everything apart from professional interest. “I love that he’s breathing flowers. This is Marcus Sampson’s work.”
“How do you know?”
“The colours and style. No one does watercolours like him.”
I lower my shirt and turn around. “Yeah, it was him. One of the highlights of last year was getting this done.”
“You’re lucky. Marcus doesn’t take on many clients now. He’s too busy with his show.”
I wink at him. “I’m hard to resist.”
“Yes, Reuben mentioned that too.” He seems to find my blush fascinating, chuckling as I glare at him. “Well, now you’ve had one done, you’ll get another. It’s a bug.”
“I can’t get any more while I’m modelling.”
“Can’t they cover them up with makeup?”
“They can. They just don’t always want to. Plenty of pretty men have plain skin.” I wander over to the flashboards that are resting against the wall. “Is this your uncle’s stuff?” I call. He nods, and I look closer and whistle. “Wow. These are amazing.”
“He’s very talented. Taught me everything I know.”
I run my finger down the picture of a rather cheeky-looking mermaid. “The lines are so good on this. It almost looks real. It’s so hard to get personality on a living canvas.”
When I turn back, his eyes are alert. “You know your stuff?”
I shrug. “I watch tattoo shows when I can’t sleep, which is a lot of the time, and I like to draw.”
“I remember Reuben saying you were a very talented artist.”
“Did he?” I can’t conceal my startled pleasure.
He asks, “That’s more of a compliment to you than him mentioning your looks?” When I nod, something sparks in his eyes. “Draw me something.”
“Pardon?”
He gestures to the old laminate counter, where a pad and a pen lie. “Draw me a pin-up in the fifties style.”
“Okay,” I say, humouring him. I quickly sketch a mechanic in overalls smoking a cigarette and flexing his huge muscles. When I hand it to him, he laughs. “Not quite what I was imagining when I said pin-up.”
“Then you should be more specific.”
He examines the little image and whistles. “This is fucking good.”
“Really?” The compliment sends warmth through my chest because he doesn’t look the sort to offer flannel.
He nods. “See this line here?” I nod. “That’s wrong. But the rest is good.” He pushes the pad back to me. “Draw something else.”
“Like what?”
“Make something up. Whatever comes into your head.”
I think and then sketch a snail wearing running clothes and a pink bandanna.
He drags the pad over and laughs in delight. “That’s epic.”
“It’s just a snail.”
