False Start Read online

  Jared was easy to talk to and interesting. I’d never met anyone like him in my small town of Canyon Lake, Texas, for sure. There are benefits to being a good listener. We made our way over to the chairs to continue the conversation.

  “What grade are you in?” he asked.

  “I’m a senior.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I’m serious. I’m graduating two years ahead of schedule. I busted my ass in summer school and took tests over the last three years to skip classes.”

  “How old are you?” he asked, his brows drawing together.

  “I’m fifteen.”

  His eyes widened. “Your parents are okay with you going off to college?”

  “I wouldn’t say Mom’s happy about it. But I got a full scholarship to St. Edwards. It’s a Catholic university over in Austin, so it’s close enough I could drive there every day if I had to. Though, that would be a shitty commute. How old’re you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  I nodded and stayed silent for a moment. I wondered if our age difference bothered him.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I eyed him warily. I wasn’t certain that we were at the secret-sharing stage yet.

  He held his hand next to his mouth and said in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m drinking apple juice.”

  I laughed. “No way.” I grabbed his cup and sniffed it. Sure enough, it was apple juice. I studied him as I handed his cup back to him. “You normally raid the fridge for apple juice at parties?” I eyed him over my cup as I sipped my beer.

  “I’m no thief.” He smiled deviously as he pulled a flask from his back pocket.

  I burst out laughing. I had tears in my eyes. “Oh, Lord! I’ve never met anyone who snuck nonalcoholic beverages into a party. In a flask, no less.”

  He shrugged, a gentle smile still in place. “I’m not a big drinker, and I most definitely never drink and drive. I don’t know anyone here that well. I wanted to swing by and meet more than just guys from the team.”

  “From what I’ve seen so far, you absolutely suck at mingling.” I scrunched up my nose.

  “My goal wasn’t to meet everyone from school, just the interesting ones, and I think I’ve excelled at that.” He took my hand, brushing his thumb over my knuckles.

  My heart skipped a beat. Jared pulled me toward him, and my mind went blank, my eyes drifting shut. His fruity breath rolled over my lips, the fingers of his free hand skimming over my cheek before diving into my hair and grasping the back of my neck. Tingles traveled through my body at his touch, and I may have whimpered. Then reality came crashing back.

  My eyes popped open. “Stop—I have a boyfriend.”

  He dropped back in his seat, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “Lucky bastard.”

  “I’m sorry. I think I should find him. I didn’t realize we’d been out here so long.” I skittered out of my chair and backed toward the door of the house. I tried to give him a smile, but it was weak. If I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to leave him and wanted him to kiss me more than anything I could remember. “I guess I’ll see you around. It was nice meetin’ you, Gerald.” I winked, turned on my heel, and walked back into the house.

  Now

  I’m sitting in a reclining chair at Dex’s station, trying to ignore the heat and sensations of his body pressed against my arm and his elbow pressed against my ribs as he works on the new tattoo on my left wrist. The vibrations of the needles penetrating my skin aren’t distracting enough. At least we’re both facing the same direction in this position, and I don’t have to avoid his eyes. I just stare at the industrial ceiling tiles above, watching the texture blur and distort as my eyes unfocus. The hum of Dex’s tattoo gun joins the hum of others nearby, filling the silence.

  The shop is, for the most part, an open space with six stations separated by half-wall partitions, and a door centered on the back wall to what looks to be a hallway. Each of the artists has their unique style decorating their little sections, but Dex’s is surprisingly bare. There are two other artists currently with clients, but I can only see the one across from me, now that I’m sitting.

  Through the smudges of black ink, I can see the bar of music, done in my own handwriting. The lines aren’t straight or perfect, but it’s me and what’s very close to my heart—music.

  “What song is this?” Dex asks.

  Dex has been silent since we decided on the size and placement. I’m not normally one for small talk. Shit! I already forgot what he just asked me. I stare at the side of his head. Shaggy waves of dark brown hair curl up behind his ear. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s about my age. A year or two older at the most.

  “You okay? Still with me?” He stops and turns his head toward me, his brows drawn together. His face is no more than six inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I meet his eyes with a sharp inhale. His gaze drops to my lips and back up.

  “I’m good. I’ve a high pain tolerance.”

  Overshare much? That stupid flush creeps over my cheeks, and I bite down on my lower lip. Now, Dex is smiling.

  “Is it from your favorite song?” he asks.

  “Oh, well… umm, sort of… It’s, uh… ‘The End of What I Knew’ by Stateside.” I know why I don’t want to talk about it, but do I have to sound stupid in the process?

  He nods but remains silent.

  “It has a special meaning for me,” I add.

  “I don’t really know their stuff. But I remember them from the news a while back when that guy was murdered,” Dex says.

  That guy. It’s hard to believe that people can be that removed from it. Hell, the only reason the media let it go was because that kidnapped girl escaped after being held for ten years. She gave them something else to feast on.

  “Wasn’t the guitar chick from that band a local?” the tattoo artist in the next station chimes in, leaning over the half wall that separates us. “What was her name?”

  “No clue,” Dex shrugs.

  “Ugh, it’s on the tip of my tongue,” he says, frowning. “Whatever, I’ll remember it.”

  “Hey,” Dex says. “Since you’re here. Is that your sketch?” Dex points to a piece of paper resting on the half wall.

  The tattoo artist picks it up and studies it. I can see through the paper with the overhead light shining through—it’s a sketch of a hummingbird.

  His face scrunches in confusion. “Nope, not mine.”

  “It was sitting on my chair when I got in earlier,” Dex explains.

  The artist shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “I can ask the other guys.”

  “Cool,” Dex says with a nod.

  I hold my breath for a few more beats, but he doesn’t go back to the previous topic or look at me again. The tattoo artist leaves to talk to the other artists. I exhale slowly. I feel like I’m melting into a puddle as all the tension drains from my system.

  “What kind of music do you listen to?” I ask. I’m not all that interested, but I feel like I have to divert attention from going back there.

  “Lots of stuff.” From the side of his face, I can see his nose scrunch up like he is deep in thought. It’s cute. He stops working and turns to face me. “There’s not much new stuff that I’m into these days, but right now I’ve been listening to a CD my brother gave me from an old band of his. I guess my mood has been more in the punk realm lately.”

  My breath catches, the tension returning with a vengeance. The punk music scene in Austin is small—it was even smaller back then. Chances are good, he knows. He has to know who I am, or this is the world’s most freaky coincidence.

  My mind whirls. “Have you ever see any live shows?”

  “I wish. I’m usually too busy to go to any concerts. You listen to punk music, too?”

  I nod.

  Holly rushes into the room like she’s running from the law and plants a smoothie in my free hand. She
pauses, studying Dex with a keen interest before leaning over me to inspect the progress.

  “Looks good,” she says with a smile before retreating to the long counter against the back wall and hopping up. The door chime sounds again, and I can hear voices by the front desk.

  I smile back. Holly jerks her chin toward Dex and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. I shake my head. She rolls her eyes at me.

  Looking to deter Holly, I say, “Matt said you were good at photorealism—”

  “Shit. I forgot. I was gonna give you this,” he says as he sets down his tattoo gun and rolls toward the counter. Removing his gloves, he retrieves a binder and places it in my lap. “Matt?” he asks, tipping his chin down.

  “Matt Durham. He’s a bouncer at the club where I work,” Holly interjects.

  Dex stops and looks at her, eyebrows raised. He has a scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. It transforms his pretty-boy face into something more masculine and rough around the edges. Obviously, he knows the place. I’m used to this reaction by now. It comes with having a best friend who’s a stripper. She garners certain looks, and I’ve developed a protective instinct the size of a mama polar bear over the years.

  "Hey, Pretty Boy, back to the tattoo," I say with mild annoyance. It’s just a job; she’s not a degenerate.

  His eyes snap to me for a moment, a crooked smile gracing his face before he grabs new gloves and rolls over to my arm.

  Placing my smoothie between my knees and opening the binder, I suck in a gasp at the sight of the first drawing. Dex looks at me curiously. I run my fingers over the sweeping lines and turn the page.

  “These… they’re amazing,” I whisper, staring at the book.

  “That’s my portfolio. It may help you in deciding exactly what you want to do next time.”

  I think I murmur, “Okay,” as I study his sketches. The amount of detail is awe-inspiring. Some are dark and moody, some are cheerful and happy, but all are so realistic they almost look like photos. One of those rare photos, like Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother, where the emotion slaps you in the face and stays with you long after you stop looking. A couple of the pages have pictures of finished work on actual body parts. They look like someone took a picture and somehow injected it into skin. It’s amazing.

  “Wow, you’re good. The detail…” I point to a picture of a tattoo covering someone’s rib cage that’s roughly the size I’m looking to get done. “How long did it take you to do that one?”

  He pauses and leans over the binder to get a better look at the picture. His arm presses further into my ribs, and the back of his shoulder brushes the bottom of my breast. The tips tingle and tighten in response. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips. His body stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t move or look at me. Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. I feel like I’m sexually assaulting him with my whacked-out hormones.

  He shifts on his stool and moves to work on my wrist, brushing past me again, and I suck in my lips and bite down to keep from reacting.

  “If I remember correctly, that one took about eight hours.”

  My gaze fixes on Holly. Her lips smash together, and her shoulders are heaving in silent laughter. I send her my best die-bitch death glare, which only makes her worse, and she tries to cover her audible laughter with a cough. I close my eyes to try and shut out this whole—everything.

  Collecting myself, I continue with my questions.

  “Really? That seems fast. Do you do it all at once? I can’t imagine sitting here being stabbed with tiny needles like this for that long.”

  “Nah, I believe we broke that one up into three sessions, but it just depends on what you feel comfortable with.” He shrugs. “If we break it up, you’ll have to wait three weeks between each session. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll have to look at my schedule,” I choke out. I can’t imagine how I’d survive sitting through this three more times over a month and a half. And that’s got nothing to do with the tattoo, and everything to do with him.

  He gives me a searching look and goes back to his work. I look at Holly, and she knows what I’m thinking. I know she knows because we’ve been friends long enough that we share that quasi-telepathy thing. She starts making immature kissy faces, feeling up an imaginary lover like kids in elementary do to make fun of their friends. It’s stupid, but I happen to love her brand of stupidity. I fight to suppress my laughter with an overly serious scowl until we can’t contain ourselves anymore. Both of us burst into a fit of laughter. We really are a pair of overgrown children.

  He turns to look at me, and I cock an eyebrow at him. I press my lips together to keep from laughing in his face, but my shoulders are still shaking with silent laughter. His demeanor changes.

  “Believe me, I’ll take my time,” he says in a voice low enough that only I can hear. “You get the best I have to offer.”

  His tone releases a flood in my nether regions. Is that a suggestive tone? I’m momentarily confused, my brain trying to catch up. Is he still talking about the tattoo?

  “And since you’re charged by the hour, I’ll make sure to drag it out,” he says with a wink, a small smile playing on his lips.

  “I wasn’t—” I start, then stop. Fuck, my brain is officially fried. What the fuck do I say to that? What is wrong with me?

  A skinny dude with dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, and more piercings in his head than I can count, unintentionally comes to my rescue when he walks up to Dex’s station. He leans over to see my tattoo in progress. His eyes wander over my body before he notices me watching, and he looks away.

  “Hey, man, you got a call in the back office.”

  Dex leans back and sets his gun down, wipes a wet paper towel over my arm, and pulls off his gloves with a snap. “Well, I suppose it’s good that I’m done here.” He rolls to the trash can to deposit his gloves and turns toward me. “You have time to hang out so I can take this call before we finish up? I still need to wrap it and give you aftercare instructions.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply as I study my first tattoo. My skin is red, and the lines of ink are raised. The surrounding area is still smeared with some black ink, but I can already tell that I love it. It’s so fucking cool. The first of many, I hope. I can’t stop the smile that spreads on my face.

  He leaves the room, and Mr. Ponytail walks to the front counter. The second Dex is out of sight, I feel a tension ebb from my body that I hadn’t realized was there. Like the room cleared and there is more air. I’m not sure why I’m reacting to him this way. Sure, he’s attractive, but I know a lot of attractive guys. None of them turned me into a bumbling idiot. Holly hops down from the counter as I stand to stretch my legs. Her hand snakes out and yanks my arm closer for inspection.

  “I love it,” she says, smiling at me.

  “Me, too,” I agree. “Why were you running when you came back from the smoothie shop?”

  “You’re jokin’, right? I couldn’t miss the show. Seriously, I haven’t seen you give more than a passin’ glance at a guy since he who shall not be named. And you’re not disappointin’. This’s quite the spectacle.”

  “Whatever, it’s not like that at all.”

  “Ummm hmmm,” she murmurs. We stand there for a minute before Holly places her head on my shoulder. “I’m bored.”

  Strains of “House of the Rising Sun” play over the shop’s low-volume speaker system.

  I turn to Mr. Ponytail. “Hey, can you turn the music up?”

  He looks at me curiously and shrugs, then turns up the radio. I look around to survey my audience. There are four artists, two customers, Mr. Ponytail, and two young girls flipping through binders of flash art in the waiting area. I hook Holly’s waist with my arm and pull her to me. Our hands clasp together, careful with my new tattoo.

  “Dance with me,” I command in a low, manly voice.

  She’s used to this. Random dancing is a specialty of mine. I lead her through a ho
rrible version of a waltz I learned long ago in a dance lesson. She keeps up, occasionally tripping or stumbling against me. Toes are stepped on twice, but her head is thrown back and laughing. I try to keep a serious face and chastise her when she messes up in a mock version of the voice that old Mrs. Turner used during those long-ago lessons. When she’s laughing so hard she can’t keep up, I dip her and grind my lips hard into her cheek. I stand her up and realize that everyone has stopped what they’re doing and are watching us.

  I play along and pull the sides of my sweatpants out and drop into a curtsy. There are some laughs and claps, and one of the guys starts catcalling.

  I blow kisses and drop a few more curtsies.

  “Thank you, thank you. I’ll try not to be here all night.” I turn to head to Dex’s station and halt in my tracks.

  Dex is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, looking sexy as hell. He has a sly half smile, revealing one adorable dimple, and he’s staring directly at me. My face heats at the realization that he’s been watching my little performance. I’m not sure why it bothers me. One would think I hadn’t spent time performing in front of tens of thousands of people in a stadium. Even if it was only a brief stint in the spotlight. I drop my gaze to the floor and hurry back to the chair. He follows me, grabbing gloves, ointment, and plastic wrap and sets to bandaging my wrist without a word.

  “Tell me about this other work you want done,” he says when he’s finished, rolling to the counter to put away his tools.

  He nods attentively as I describe the other tattoo and explain where I want it and what size. He listens, makes some suggestions, and overall, I feel like he understands what I want. We make arrangements to meet up later in the week to go over his initial sketches. I search the calendar on my phone for an available time this week. I’m too busy for my own good. We finally settle on a time we’re both available.

  “That’s it? I guess I’ll see you Thursday afternoon?” I ask.

  He nods in confirmation and smiles. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Laine,” the artist from the next station shouts.