One palm on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, Nick glances over at me. Damn him for looking so sexy like that. He cocks a brow. “But what? Something wrong?”
He is not going to make me say it.
The car rolls to a stop at an intersection, and then his big hand is on my thigh and, oh, God, I love how it feels. If he moves his fingers up just a little higher . . .
“Out with it,” he orders, and though I can hear a trace of his trademark surliness, I know better now. The man keeps his emotions on lockdown, yes, but he’s got such a way of making me feel like I can open up and be myself with him.
So, I open up and tell him exactly what’s on my mind: “I want you.”
His hand tightens on my leg, fingers pressing in, all the while keeping his gaze locked on the road as he navigates the dark streets. “How bad?”
I smile, and then throw down the verbal gauntlet. “I’m wet.” A small, deliberate pause on my part. “Does that answer your question?”
“Fuck.”
English profanity. God, I love it when his control slips. I can’t be the only one riding the hot-mess express. A girl’s got to have company, after all, and Nick . . . he’s A-grade company.
“I know,” I say, patting the hand he’s still resting on my thigh, “an unfortunate predicament but one I’m sure you’d be happy to remedy.”
“After.” His voice sounds like he’s swallowed a dozen nails, choked and ragged.
“After what?”
“Patience, Ermione. Find it.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a strip of stores with neon signs and a narrow parking lot separating the storefronts from the street. One in particular catches my attention immediately.
My head juts forward, hand clapped on top of my beanie, as I crane my neck to look up at the glowing sign. “Downtown Tattoo?” I whip around to stare at the man in the driver’s seat. “Are you serious?”
As if uncomfortable, Nick rubs the back of his head. “You said this is what you do. Your outlet or whatever.” His hand falls to clamp down on his thigh, and he gives me a look that I can’t even begin to read. “I’ll do it with you.”
My mouth falls open.
He’s back to rubbing his head, but not before swiftly averting his gaze. “Don’t look so shocked, Mina.”
Impossible.
This is him we’re talking about. Rule-following Nick. I-like-things-orderly Nick.
I fling my arm toward the tattoo parlor. “Those are real tats.” It’s honorable he wants to get inked with me, but . . . “As in, the non-sticker variety. They don’t wash off.”
He barks out a sharp laugh. “You mean, they’re not peal-and-press?” He slaps his leg with mocking gusto. “Well, damn, there goes that idea.”
I scrunch my nose at him. “You’re making fun of me.”
“You’re askin’ for it, koukla.” He dangles a wrist from the steering wheel, then makes a point to look me straight in the eye when he speaks. “Let me ruin whatever clean-cut image of me you’re so determined to keep on that imaginary pedestal of yours.” In the dark of the car, his gray eyes look positively black as he stares me down. I feel a shiver of want slip down my spine, heating me up—or maybe that’s the butt warmers he turned on during the drive. “I can be shy,” he growls, “and I can’t stand small talk. I know how I come across, Mina. I’m not clueless as to how people look at me.”
“I know you aren’t.”
“A guy can be nice without being weak,” he tells me, and I hear the deep conviction in his voice. “I help people because at one time, no one could help me. Not the kids in school who made fun of me and Effie for our ratty hand-me-downs from Goodwill. Not your parents, who took us to Greece while my own parents worked themselves tirelessly to give us more than they had themselves. Although please know that I appreciate what yours did for me and my sister—trust me, I know I’m indebted to them for opening their doors to us for years.
“But it doesn’t negate the fact that I still struggled. There wasn’t anyone to help when I was working more jobs than I could handle, all because I was determined to open up Stamos Restoration on my own terms without investors having a say in my business.” His molars crack together when he scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling roughly. “I’m not a walking rulebook, Ermione, ready to take you to task—unless it’s to spank that gorgeous ass of yours. I love hard, but I promise you, I fuck even harder.”
Oh. My. God.
I . . . I have no words.
For the first time in my life, I’m completely speechless. There are so many things I want to unpack about what he’s just said—and, because there’s nothing I love more than a philosophical debate about life and self-identity, I’m dying to know if anything he admitted correlates to his belief in dreams being just temporary longings.
I want to give voice to it all, but the parking lot of a tattoo shop isn’t the right place. So, I crack a big smile, all teeth, and tease, “I love hard and fuck even harder. That’s tattoo material right there.”
I don’t mention that I can’t wait to find out the truth behind those words.
He says nothing, shoulders tense under his light coat. Gradually his expression eases, and I heft out a big sigh of relief. “Inside of my thigh,” he says, patting his leg.
“With an arrow pointing straight to your crotch.”
Nick snorts. “Nothing says classy quite like a dick tattoo.”
“That’s the spirit.”
As one, we reach for the door handles to climb out of the car. I pause as I crank open my door, one foot planted on the cracked concrete. I look over my shoulder at the man who, in theory, should only be my best friend’s older brother but who is quickly becoming so much more.
As though sensing my hesitation, Nick, already out of the car, drops down so he can peer through his open door at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Let me choose yours.” I say the words quickly, like I’m ripping off a thick bandage.
Nothing in his expression so much as twitches. “My tattoo?”
“Yes.” Nervous, I lick my dry lips and then drag my clammy hands over my jean-clad thighs. “You choose mine and I choose yours. Trust, both ways.”
He considers me silently with one of his unreadable looks. Just when I’m certain he’s about to turn me down flat, he thumps his hand on the car’s roof. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Never,” I vow.
24
Mina
Nick and I meet with two tattoo artists. We sit down separately, each detailing exactly what we want the other inked with, all while casting glances at each other from across the room. I’m careful to keep my voice low, except for when I boldly claim, “Yeah, we’re gonna need a bigger arrow than that.”
Nick jerks in my direction, those pillow-soft lips (now confirmed for softness!) pulling to the side in a sexy smirk. Do it and die, he mouths.
I toss him a kiss and turn back to the artist who’ll be working on Nick. Carefully, I explain to him my thoughts, going so far as to head to Pinterest on my phone and scope out a specific example. It has to be perfect, something Nick will look at years from now and always remember this night.
Always remember me.
“There’s a lot of detail work here,” says the bearded artist, Zach. He has ear gauges big enough for me to stick my finger through and dark, messy hair combed over to the right. He looks like the quintessential tattoo artist, save for the fact that he has no visible ink.
I nod at his assessment. “I know. Do you think you can pull it off?”
His rugged features crease with a wicked grin. “’Course I can. So long as your boyfriend here doesn’t mind it on his arm or ribcage. I need a good canvas to work with.”
Boyfriend.
I guess, technically, we are dating. According to the online world, at least.
Still, the word elicits tingles I’d rather it not as I lean back on the rolling stool and shout at my boyfriend, “Any boundaries on your body off-limits?” When his gaze flashes with heat, I thrust a finger at him. “Anywhere else besides The Great One, I mean?”
Nick throws his head back with a deep, rumbling laugh. “I’ll leave that one to you, koukla. I’m at your expense.”
“Disposal.”
He stares at me blankly.
“The saying is ‘I’m at your disposal’ not ‘expense.’” I pause, then mutter, “You know what? Just add it to that book of yours.”
Turning back to Zach, I plant my elbows on the table. “The ribcage will do nicely, I think.”
Nick chooses script for me.
After all my other tats, I recognize the familiar sensation of the needle treading back and forth in the shapes of letters. The more the machine buzzes, the less I feel much of anything, so I force myself to relax and loosen up.
Flat on my back on a cushioned table, I’m sprawled out, topless, with my hands covering my nipples. Thank you for that one, Nick.
The artist who’s working on my ink drags a damp cloth over my bra line. “You doin’ good?”
His Boston accent is so thick, he’d give Mark Wahlberg a run for his money. His name tag reads Calvin. To be honest, I expected more of a Matthew or a Sullivan to match his red hair. Calvin works just fine, though.
“All good,” I tell him, dragging my gaze up to the ceiling. “How many words are we doing?”
Calvin laughs. “I’m under strict orders not to tell you anything.”
Dammit. I think fast. “Well, what word are we on now?”
He makes a point of rolling his lips shut, then gets back to work. I’ll give him another few minutes then make my next move.
Tipping my head to the left, I search out Nick on the far side of the room. He’s posted up in a chair that’s positioned to face me. Hugging the back, he sits still while Zach works diligently to bring my vision to life. As Calvin needles my skin, alternating between swiping the damp cloth and ink away, I focus on Effie’s older brother.