All the Pretty Lies (16 page)

“He’s not a criminal. Of any kind, small time
or otherwise.”

“And how, exactly, do you know this?”

“Because I just know. I know
him.”

“The only way to be sure is to let us run a
background check.”

My mouth drops open. “You can’t be
serious.”

Steven looks at me like he can’t believe I’m
questioning him. “Of course I’m serious.”

“You can’t just
do
stuff like that,
Steven. God!”

“Why the hell not?”

“You…you…it’s…You just
can’t.”

“Well, your sound logic has never stopped me
before.”

If possible, I’m even more astonished. Which
I’m pretty sure is physically impossible for me at this point.
“You’ve run checks on people I know?” I say quietly. Steven, so
righteous at the moment, doesn’t notice that I’m
dangerously
quiet.

“Yeah. So?”

“Like who?” I’m telling myself to remain
calm. At least until I can get an idea of the true extent of this
betrayal.

“Like…everyone you’ve associated with for the
last five or six years.”

I am beside myself with anger and resentment
and…
shock.
I never would’ve dreamed my crazy family would go
to such extreme measures. Never ever.

My hands are shaking I’m so mad. When he
continues, I’m still considering punching my brother as hard as I
can right in the stomach. The desire is only heightened at his
matter-of-fact tone, like he’s done nothing wrong.

“I would’ve already done it on this guy, but
he’s a little harder to pin down. Which is cause for concern.”

“Well you can just give it the hell up then!
I don’t want you to pin him down. Or investigate him. Or even so
much as
look
at him. I want you to stay
out of my
life!”

Steven stares at me as though I’m a silly two
year old, throwing a childish temper tantrum. “Tough shit. We’re
your family. We look out for you. It’s what we do.”

My anger is diffused a bit by his
obliviousness to why I’d be upset. “Steven, this isn’t normal. Or
healthy. Y’all can’t treat me this way for the rest of my life. You
have to
let me grow up. You
have to
learn to trust
me. And my judgment. You
have to
let me make my own
mistakes.”

“No, we don’t.”

I squeeze my head between my hands, wishing I
could ease the pressure that’s pounding right at my temples. I
close my eyes and wave my hands at him. “I give up. If this is how
you’re going to be, then don’t expect me to respect this insanity.
Because I won’t. I won’t because I shouldn’t have to. It’s over the
top and completely unacceptable.”

“Sloane, with your history—”

“Stop right there. You’ve got to let me go,
Steven. I’m spreading my wings whether you like it or not. Don’t
make this harder on all of us than it has to be.”

I see an uncharacteristic hint of sadness in
my brother’s jet black eyes. “Do what you have to do. And we’ll do
what we have to do.”

Without another word, Steven takes his
sandwich and walks away.

********

I get ready and I dress for “work” on
Saturday night with great care. There is, of course, the suspicion
(and the hope) that tonight will be the night Hemi takes my
virginity. I’ve always considered it an embarrassing thing. Like
I’m some kind of freak. But now, I’m glad no other guy has ever had
the balls to take it from me. I’d much rather be deflowered at the
hands (and mouth and body) of someone like Hemi than an overzealous
teenager.

I smile as I study my reflection in the
blacked glass of the door to The Ink Stain. My hair is in a loose
pile on my head, like Hemi seemed to like it, my lips are painted a
deep red with a light sheen of gloss on them, and my outfit (I
hope) is the perfect combination of sexy and chaste. That’s what I
was going for because that’s how I feel—like a girl who is about to
become a woman.

The bare skin of my arms and legs is smooth,
lightly tanned and buffed to a satiny sheen from head to toe. I’m
shaved from ankle to armpit. I chew my lip for a few seconds,
hoping that shaving
everything
wasn’t a mistake. But then,
knowing that there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it now, I
jerk open the door and make my way inside.

There are customers in the chairs in the
lobby. They must be waiting. I head for the back room, making note
of the three other artists that are working tonight. I’m thankful
Paul isn’t one of them, but I’d like it even better if Sasha wasn’t
either. But she is. She glances up from where she’s tattooing to
narrow her eyes on me.

That’s new,
I think, wondering if she
already knows that something is going on with me and Hemi. I give
her my brightest smile and walk right on by, heading for the little
cubby out of which Hemi works.

It’s empty when I round the corner, so I bend
to put my purse under the cabinet where it’s stowed when I’m here.
When I stand, before I can turn around, I feel a hard, hot body
pressing against me from behind. Hemi’s big hand comes around my
waist to flatten over the low part of my stomach as he leans into
me. I can make out every firm inch of him, even the growing bulge
that I can feel at my butt where he’s grinding his hips.

“Oh, shit, this is gonna be a long night,” he
whispers into my ear, his fingertips digging into my stomach. I
feel breathless. Instantly breathless. “You can’t be bending over
like that in front of me, got it? I’ll drag that tight little ass
of yours into the bathroom and your first time will be memorable in
a totally different way than what I have in mind.”

His voice is dark and deep and hoarse. In it,
there are hints of sensual promise that turn my bones to jelly.
Carefully, I turn around in his arms, pressing my chest into his.
“And what would be so wrong with that?”

“I’d hate for your first time to be like
that.”

“Why? I wouldn’t care. As long as it’s with
you, I don’t care where we are.”

I hear the air hiss through his gritted
teeth. “Don’t say shit like that if you don’t
really
mean
it. I’ve been thinking all day about burying my tongue inside you,
of tasting your sweet come pour out onto it. I’m about two seconds
away from taking you out of here tonight.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

He half growls, half grunts. “Grrr, because I
have clients coming in tonight. And I have somewhere I want to take
you tomorrow. I just need to make it until then.”

I can’t help but smile. “Well, don’t feel
like you have to wait on my account.” I pull my bottom lip between
my teeth when I see his eyes drop to my mouth.

“I might’ve been right,” he says quietly.

“About what?”

“You might be more devil than angel.”

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

With that, I ease out from between him and
the cabinet and I make my way to the lobby to check the schedule,
glancing back over my shoulder at Hemi as I go. His dark eyes are
glued to me. Suddenly, I feel hot all over.

This flirting business is all kinds of
fun.

********

As it turns out, working alongside Hemi with
this insane tension between us, with the excitement and the
anticipation hovering just around the edges, is exhilarating. And
frustrating. As I watch his hands as he works on the limbs of other
people, all I can think about is what it felt like to have them on
me, about how I can’t wait to feel them again. It’s for that
reason, I’m glad when his last appointment of the night
cancels.

“I guess that leaves us some free time before
I close up shop,” Hemi says with a gleam in his eye. My heart
thumps and my pulse races at the wild tangent my imagination takes.
“Wanna try your hand with the tattoo gun?”

“Really? On what?”

“Yes, really,” he says with a grin. “On
me.”

I feel the smile come. Not only am I thrilled
to be able to feel the gun in my hand—finally—but to be able to
touch Hemi in the meantime…yes please!

“That sounds…interesting.”

With lips curved into a suggestive smile,
Hemi lowers the chair into its flat position and scoots up onto it.
“Then get ready to do some shading. And hurry it up, little girl.
Time’s a wastin’.”

For some reason, it’s not insulting when Hemi
calls me “little girl.” Not anymore, anyway. It has become an
endearment of sorts. Sexy. Provocative. Like I’m the innocent he
wants to teach naughty things to. And, actually, I am. Maybe that’s
why I don’t mind it.

As I go through every motion that Hemi has
taught me about preparing for a tattoo—from alcohol and razor to
sterile needles and bottles of pigment, to readying the
electromagnetic machine, which is what he prefers to use for
shading—I notice the fine tremor in my hand. I don’t know if it’s
excitement or nervousness, or the searing heat that I feel from
Hemi’s eyes on me as I work (because I
know
they’re on me),
but something has me all keyed up.

I lay out everything before I turn my
attention to him. He’s sitting, shirtless, facing me. Watching me.
Waiting.

“I want you to prep this side,” he says,
indicating the ribs that already bear ink. “I told you I wanted to
eventually add some shading here. This is a good way for you to get
a feel for a gun before you start out on a blank slate.” I nod as I
look at his trim waist and flat stomach. “That way I can guide you.
Teach you. Show you how it feels.” My eyes fly up to his. They’re
intense and his voice is husky, the double entendre clear.

“Then, by all means, show me.”

Hemi stretches out on his side. With him
looking on, his incendiary words haunting my every motion, I
prepare his skin for the tattooing. When I’m finished, he sits up.
“Grab that shader and come here.”

I do as he asks, rolling the little table
closer to him and taking the tool in my hand before I glance up
into his face. “What now?”

Hemi winds his arm around my waist, pulling
me into the V of his spread legs and wrapping his fingers around
mine. He places our bound hands high on his thigh and rests them
against the material of his jeans, where it’s stretched snug over
his bulging muscle. “Get the feel of the weight of it in your hand,
the feel of using it like a pencil or a piece of charcoal. Shading
is the easiest way to start. Just let your fingers move naturally,
fluidly. Back and forth.”

He begins to move my hand over his thigh in
smooth, small circles. I put all my effort into focusing on the gun
and what Hemi is saying, but my mind keeps straying to him making
small circles like this on my body. With
his
fingers. And
what they did to me. Where it led. And where it might lead
again.

“Do you like the way that feels?” he asks. I
turn my head to look at him. There’s heat in his eyes. He’s no more
talking about the gun than I’m thinking about it. He’s thinking of
something else, too. Something much more intimate. And much more
satisfying.

“I love the way it feels.”

“I knew you would,” he replies hoarsely. “Are
you ready?”

“Yes,” I say, again speaking of so much more
than what I’m about to do in the next five minutes. “I’m very
ready.”

“You’d better be,” he responds meaningfully.
“Because I’m a selfish bastard and I always get what I want. Even
if I have to take it.” I wonder if he’s still considering dragging
me off to the bathroom. Because, if he is, I want him to know I’m
game. I’ll go. Anywhere he wants to go, I’ll go.

“Is it still selfish when someone
wants
you to take it?”

“I don’t know. But I think I’m past the point
of giving a shit.”

“Then take it. Take what you want.”

“Be careful what you wish for, little
girl.”

“I don’t want to be careful.”

Hemi watches me for a few long, intense
seconds before he releases my hand. “Then show me what you
got.”

Easing me back a little, Hemi stretches out
on the table then turns on his side, facing me. I sit down on the
stool and lower the bed until my “canvas” is at just the right
height. Instinctively, as if he knows what I need (which I’m pretty
sure he does, in
every
possible way), Hemi inches toward the
edge of the table, toward me.

It’s my turn to ask him. “Ready?”

“Hell yeah.”

I dip the tip of my gun into black ink and I
set my foot near the pedal on the floor. Finding a comfortable
position for my arms, I lean into Hemi, holding the gun less than
an inch from his skin. I take a deep breath and depress the pedal,
tentatively grazing Hemi’s smooth skin with the sharp point.

He doesn’t jerk or make a sound, but I feel
the muscles beneath my arms and hands clench in response to the
first prick of the needles. I pause, feeling him calm instantly,
before I resume.

It doesn’t take long to learn the feel of the
gun, of how to move it over skin, of the rhythm of inking and
wiping, inking and wiping. And Hemi is the perfect canvas, his skin
smooth and tight, his body perfectly formed beneath my hands. After
a few minutes, I lose myself to what I’m doing, to watching the
shading bring his tattoo to life in a new and wonderful way.

I don’t know how long I’ve been bent over
Hemi’s side when I glance up at this face. His eyes are on me, and
they’re glowing with…something. We are kindred spirits. I sense it,
as I’m sure Hemi does. Or at least I
hope
he does. We both
love art. We’re both consumed by it. And happily so. We both escape
in it. Hide in it. Hide from the reality of our secrets.

Once again, as I think back to my brother
saying that Hemi is hard to pin down, I find myself wondering what
it is that Hemi’s hiding from me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR- Hemi

I’m not surprised that Sloane takes to the
art of tattooing like a fish to water. I could see it in her from
day one. What
does
surprise me is what the feel of her hands
is doing to my concentration. And that’s unacceptable. I’m here for
one reason and one reason only. This was the type of distraction
that I
knew
I didn’t need. And yet, here it is.