Under His Skin (3 page)

“Okay, do you live here in Dallas? Or did I meet you on the road?” His foot bounced under the sheet she’d tossed over him to keep him warm.

“Stop moving. Do you want me to draw a line across your stomach?”

“No.” He smothered his smile and stilled. “You from around these parts?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Are we seriously playing twenty questions?”

“It’s not like we’re pressed for time. Come on, it can’t be that bad. This one time, we were opening for this little band, Dropkick Murphys, you might have heard of them. Anyways, I had to pee so I ran into the port-o-potty behind the stage and took a piss. I was still doing vocal warm-ups.”

Pandora let up on the pedal and the machine stilled. Phantom vibrations raced up and down her arm. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. Taking the opportunity to wipe down the area she’d worked on, she gently swiped at the raw flesh.

“I’m standing there, taking a leak and singing, and they never muted my mic. So there’s, I don’t know, forty thousand people out there, and they all get to hear the sound of me tinkling and signing do-re-mi.”

“Oh my god, are you for real?” She shook her head and picked out the next part of the outline to tackle.

“One hundred percent. They recorded the whole thing. I have a copy somewhere.”

Leaning back over him, she pressed the pedal and the machine clattered to life. “That’s fucking funny.”

“Yeah, so whatever you did, it can’t have been as embarrassing as relieving yourself in front of a stadium full of people.”

She didn’t reply and he didn’t needle her. In the years since she’d met him, Brian had done and seen so much. He couldn’t remember her. And besides, she’d been young and dumb.

To avoid looking at him, she leaned in and focused on the spot she was working on. “Fine. I spilled coffee on you. On your bass. And all over your lead singer.” Inwardly she groaned at the awkward girl she’d been. That wasn’t all that had happened, but their meet-cute was innocent enough.

He crossed his arms behind his neck. “That’s not that bad. I don’t even remember it.”

The muscles in her chest relaxed as she exhaled. “Do you need a pillow for your neck? I can give you my hoodie for now.” She put the tattoo machine down to hide her shaking hands. Grabbing the jacket, she balled it up and thrust it at him. “Lean away from me, will you? I need to get a better angle on your side. Perfect.” Standing, she flexed her hands and took up the machine once more.

“Wait.” Before she could start, he half rolled back over to glance at her, his brows drawn down into a line. “You used to work for Robert?”

Brian looked at her, recognition written all over his face, and what she wouldn’t have given for the ground to open up and swallow her. Holy shit, he did remember her.

She’d grown up.

They stared at each other. What was she thinking? How could she stand to be around him?

Brian remembered the awkward coffee shop girl who also ran the front of the tattoo parlor Ike had camped out at for three days. Her beautiful face contorted, shock, embarrassment and fear all rolled into one. He could understand after what had been done to her. Ten years and he still wanted to beat the shit out of his former band members. Maybe it was wrong, but he hoped that karma bit them hard.

“Your art’s gotten better,” he said to fill the silence between them.

Her features smoothed as she got herself back under control, but she couldn’t hide the red stain across her cheeks. The blush was like that of the girl he’d met then, fresh-faced and sweet. She shouldn’t have been around them. They’d been in their early twenties and stupid, for the most part. His former band mates had been of the worst variety of human scum.

How old would she be now? He couldn’t imagine she’d been more than nineteen when she’d almost burned his dick off with hot coffee.

“Thanks.” She adjusted the machine and looked anywhere but at him.

“Did I ever apologize about—?”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She leaned over him, focused on the tattoo.

He didn’t interrupt her. The events of that weekend hadn’t been his fault, but he’d known she had a crush on him. He hadn’t yet become jaded or a jerk. That was one nice thing about the memory. He’d still had a heart when he met her, though not enough of a brain to protect her from the other guys in the band.

His skin ached as if he were suffering the worst kind of sunburn. And they were only on the outline. He took a deep breath and shifted his legs, careful not to move too much. Pandora seemed intent on the tattoo, which was a convenient way to ignore him. Her earlier reaction made sense. He was a physical reminder of that night. Honestly, he was amazed she hadn’t told him to go fuck himself and refused to do his tattoo at all. She was made of stronger mettle than he was to carry on as she was.

After a while of his conscience eating at him, he had to say something. He’d once imagined what he’d say to her if he could ever apologize, but the words had left him. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry that happened. You didn’t deserve it.”

“No, I was dumb and young, and they were assholes.” She spoke quietly, concentration centered on the needles gliding over his skin.

Being prepared for the pain was one thing, experiencing it was another. Though the endorphins had kicked in a long time ago, he still winced as the needles skated over the sensitive area on his side.

She straightened and wiped the tattoo with the rag. He hissed at the contrast of the cold cloth against his hot skin.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Can I ask you something though?”

“Sure.”

Her gaze latched on a spot on the floor and her lips compressed into a tight line. “What happened to the pictures?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I burned them. Right after. They never saw them develop.”

Nodding, she exhaled. “Good to know I’m not part of some gross trophy wall. I was glad to hear you kicked that ass-wipe out of the band.”

The fist he’d balled up in her jacket slowly unclenched. “I wasn’t sorry to see him go. From what I hear, he’s been in a few other bands but nothing ever took off for him. We don’t keep in touch.” He glanced down the line to where Robert was tattooing a woman’s shoulders with wings. “How could you stand to work for that guy?”

“He’s a dick, but he’s talented and I learned a lot from him.” Her voice was too nonchalant to be convincing. If he had to hazard a guess, there was probably a sordid history there. “If you can hold still for about ten more minutes, I’m going to let you up for a quick break. How you hanging in there?”

“Not so bad now.” He exhaled as the pain leveled off. Glancing down, he confirmed she was indeed tattooing the area near his scars. “Not much feeling down there.”

She chuckled. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Hey now. My dick feels just fine.” He winced as she hit a spot he could feel. The pain radiated all the way down to his toes.

Smirking, she looked up at him from where she was bent over his hip. “I’m sure it does,” she purred, her eyes half-lidded and seductive. “Hold still.”

It was hard to merge the image he’d hoarded in his head of the girl from memory and the woman in front of him. He’d imagined finding her after the incident and making it up to her. The dreams had faded with time, but he hadn’t forgotten. As the bass player, girls didn’t flock to him. That was the role reserved for Ike, and he’d been fine with it. But she’d been his first. The girl who looked past Ike’s blond hair and perfect teeth to be interested in him.

The muscles in his side seized and he hissed when she laid a fresh rag against him. She cleaned up the tattoo, wiping away excess ink and blood. He glanced down at the delicate lines of the ship. Even as an outline with a little shading, it was good work.

“It’s not much now, but it’ll look better filled in,” she said with a dismissive shrug.

He didn’t know why he did it, but he grabbed her wrist. His fingers easily circled the delicate bones and overlapped. A jolt shot through his body. He’d never touched her before. Her gaze rose to his, lips parted slightly. This close he realized the black spot he’d taken for a mole above her mouth was actually a piercing. She had a faint dusting of freckles over her nose he’d never noticed. Somehow, she became more real and less a memory.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” She blinked and tried to tug her arm from his grasp.

“Don’t talk down about what you do.” He squeezed her wrist gently before letting her go.

“Okay,” she said slowly. Stepping back, she stripped off her gloves and dropped them in a trash can. “I’m going to take a quick break.”

He sat up, wincing as his skin bent and folded the new tattoo. “Can you, ah, hand me my pants?” The sheet was cool against his skin still. In a few places the scar still ached, but it was phantom pain.

Pandora paused, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted as she recalled his plight. “Oh, crap.”

He swung his legs off the table and flexed his feet, feeling the stretch and pull of the muscles and sinewy bits that had been pieced back together. Never walk again, his ass. Running was out of the question, but he could damn well walk.

He knew the moment she registered the scars. Maybe she’d ignored them earlier, was too jittery or hadn’t wanted to look, but she saw most of them now. Ugly incision marks from surgery, the scars and warped flesh from coming in contact with burning metal. It made his left leg pretty ghastly. Hell, it had burned one tattoo clean off his thigh.

She snatched up his clothing and froze.

Gesturing for his pants, he shoved down the sudden anger. Pandora would wonder next if he was as capable as he claimed, and the truth was, he didn’t know. He hated being treated like the walking dead though.

“Give me my damn pants,” he said, rougher than he meant to.

“Let me help you.” Her voice had taken on that pained note, the one all nurses, family and some doctors got when they wanted to alleviate some of the strain. But it was the strain, the push to do it himself, that got him this far on his own two feet, no matter one of his legs was only half bone anymore.

“I’ll get it,” he growled, swinging his arm out to snatch his jeans back.

She thrust the pants at him. “Dude, I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need a fucking nurse.” He wanted to eat the words the moment they left his lips. Pandora jerked back and didn’t make a move to help him again. Shame boiled in his stomach, making it difficult to lift his head.

“Sorry,” she muttered, averting her gaze and turning away from him.

“No, it’s me.” He buckled his jeans and reached for her, placing his hand at the small of her back. He had no business touching her, but it grounded him in the now. Her shoulder bumped his chest as she shifted from one foot to the other.

“You’re sorry, I’m sorry, we’re both sorry.” She threw her hands up, almost catching him in the face.

He caught her hand and forced her to turn toward him. “Give a cripple a break.”

Her jaw went slack. “Don’t say that.”

“Then don’t be pissed off at me.” He mustered a smile. Girls always liked it when a guy smiled.

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with him. “I’m not.”

“Good.” He rubbed his thumb over the pulse in her wrist. He could feel it jump, and his kicked up in answer.

She tugged on her hand, scooting away from him. “I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes, okay?”

He let her go reluctantly and nodded. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“Cool.” She turned and walked away, stepping off the stage and ducking under one of the swag chains that partitioned the contestant area from the general public.

He watched her retreating backside encased in skintight denim. She wasn’t the kid he remembered, but he liked the person she’d become. If only he could say the same for himself.

Chapter Three

Stencil: The design of the tattoo printed on paper to be transferred to skin.

Pandora swirled the glass of Tuaca and downed it in three gulps. The smooth brandy slid down her throat and sent warm fuzzies coursing through her body. She couldn’t get drunk fast enough.

“Hey.”

A weight settled against her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, chanting,
No, no, no!

“Why aren’t you up there getting ready for the awards?”

She turned on the stool, keeping one hand on the bar for balance. She should never have allowed the girls to dress her up in the first place. The red wiggle dress fit her like a second skin, and the underwear served only to annoy her. She’d never understood garters.

At least focusing on that distracted her from what Robert had done this time.

“We were disqualified,” she said, slurring her words only slightly.

Brian’s jaw dropped. If she had the coordination, it would have been the perfect opportunity to kiss him, but she didn’t trust herself leaning that far forward.

“What? How?”

“I drew the tattoo on you. I didn’t make a stencil first.”

“That’s bullshit.” The way his eyes flashed and arms flexed as he clenched his hands into fists made her a little hot. Then again, there wasn’t anything about Brian that didn’t turn her on. What would her ex-fiancé think if she told him it had been Brian she thought of when they’d had sex?

“Yup. I said that too. The rules are written all vague and shit. Robert and the West Coast Shop assholes pressured the organizers. All of us who drew instead of tracing are disqualified.” If she was able to string that many words together and slur only a little, she wasn’t drunk enough. Turning to the bar, she signaled the bartender for another.

Brian wedged himself between her stool and the next. “There’s got to be someone you can complain to.”

As she reached for her new glass, Brian picked it up first and sniffed.

“That’s mine.” She made a wild grab for the glass.

He caught her wrist, making a shackle of his fingers. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Have not.” Releasing her hold on the bar, she made another attempt to snag the brandy.

Brian lifted the liquor out of her reach and forced her other arm up while trying to grab her flailing appendage with his fingers. She pitched forward, sliding off the barstool. Her heel fell off the rung and her skirt trapped her legs. Stumbling forward, she winced, already seeing herself sprawled across the floor. Instead, she planted her face directly into Brian’s chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezing her against his untattooed side.