Page 136 of Deacon

Ink stepped aside with a short nod, and we followed her toward the bay. Jackson’s voice caught me before I made it past him. “Don’t wander off, Princess.”

I kept walking. “I’m not your problem.”

His answer came low behind me, easy enough to heat my skin anyway. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

I resisted the urge to turn around and kick him in the shin.

Ink’s bay was more intimate than dramatic, enclosed on three sides with dark partitions and black brick while the open front faced the main aisle. Bright task lighting cut across the chair in the center, and framed designs covered one wall. Blue settled into the seat with the determination of a woman voluntarily choosing pain for romance. Evan dropped into one of the side chairs and crossed a leg over the other, managing to look artfully bored before anything had even happened.

Ink noticed him. He said nothing as he adjusted Blue’s armrest, prepared his station, and arranged everything with the same precise control he seemed to bring to every part of his life. Blue removed her bracelet and offered her wrist. Ink cleaned the skin, pressed the stencil into place, then showed her the script.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

It was. Priest in elegant lettering, delicate without losing anything of what the name meant.

Ink only nodded. “Told you.”

Evan sat three feet away and didn’t look at him once.

That was when I knew the indifference was deliberate. Usually there was some current between them the second they shared a room, whether it came out as a look, a comment, or one of Evan’s shameless little flirty performances. Today he gave Ink nothing. No grin. No flutter of lashes. Not even a sigh engineered for maximum irritation.

Blue noticed too. Her mouth twitched before she got it under control.

Ink settled onto his stool and started the first lines. Blue hissed softly, then breathed through it. Evan finally looked over. “You okay?”

Blue gave him a bland look. “Fine.”

His mouth tilted. “That sounds fake.”

Blue smiled without moving her wrist. “It’s small.”

Evan settled back again. “That’s what people always say right before regretting everything.”

Blue snorted, and Ink kept his attention on the line beneath his hand. “You talk too much.”

Evan lowered his sunglasses just enough to look over the top. “Interesting. You didn’t seem to have a problem with my mouth before.”

Ink’s hand paused for less than a second. Then it moved again.

Before either man could make the air any tighter, Evan leaned his head back and looked around the bay. “I’ve actually been thinking about getting a tattoo.”

I turned toward him. “You?”

He gasped as if I had insulted his ancestors. “I can contain multitudes.”

Blue laughed.

Evan put one hand to his chest. “One small, tasteful, emotionally devastating piece. Something that says I am mysterious and beautiful but also impossible to own.”

The tattoo machine kept buzzing until a male voice came from the hallway, easy and amused. “If the cute guy wants a first tattoo, I’d be happy to volunteer.”

All of us looked toward the open doorway.

The new man I had noticed near the front leaned one shoulder against the frame, gloves gone now, dark hair pushed back from his face. A half-smile sat easily on his mouth, the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how he landed in a room.

Evan straightened and lowered his sunglasses. “Is that excellent customer service or a line?”

The man smiled wider. “Why not both?”