On Solid Ground Page 4

  “Wow, uh . . . I’m . . .” he covered his mouth with his hand, but I could see the corners of his lips pulling up into a slow smile. “I love it,” he said at last.

  When Marcus left the shop a few hours later, a portrait set in black and white rested right over his heart. When he slid his wife’s dog tags back around his neck, they sat atop the newly tattooed image of them, but where the physical tags rested in the middle of his chest, the newly inked ones anchored the corner of the family portrait, a shield protecting them, just as his wife would.

  With only fifteen minutes left before Dax arrives, I only need to do a few small changes to add in this final touch. I won’t be able to re-paint the sketch, but he should be able to get the feel of what it will look like when it’s all put together.

  “Oh, Beck,” Lexie’s sing-song voice calls out to me from the front. “Your eight o’clock is here.”

  When I step out of my office, I see Dax immediately. Idly flipping through the boards up front, he points at something and laughs. Looking just as good as I remember from the other day, I use the fact that he hasn’t seen me to my advantage and take a second to look him over.

  Muscles. Check.

  Hard jawline. Check.

  Capable hands. Double check.

  All of those checks fly out the window when a woman slides up next to him and loops her arm around his waist. He drops an arm over her shoulder and kisses the top of her head.

  Hmm, so much for him being gay, I guess.

  Oh, well. At least I still get to touch him.

  “Hey,” I walk up to the happy couple and Lexie shoots me an ‘I told you so’ look. Of course, she’s referring to the debate we had over his sexuality after he left the shop. In my defense, she started it.

  “Beckett,” Dax pumps my hand, “this is Chloe,” he introduces the girl standing at his side.

  “This one,” she shoots her thumb at Dax, “is a big baby, and I’m here for moral support.”

  Dax laughs, a loud boom of a sound, as he steps away from Chloe. “You freaking liar!” His face lights up with a huge smile as he calls her out on her bluff. “You’re the one who has issues with needles.”

  With an overly dramatic eye roll, Chloe admits she is a little afraid of needles. Pinching her finger and thumb in front of her face, she downplays her fear because Dax mirrors her motion, except he’s stretching his arms to each side.

  Standing with my arms crossed over my chest, I can’t help but laugh at their playfulness. Moving his attention away from Chloe, Dax turns to me asking, “So are we still good for tonight? I know I said I’d give you more than a few days to work on a design.”

  “Yeah, of course we’re good.” Angling my head back to my station, I add, “Come on. I’m excited to see what you think.”

  As they follow me into my station, my heart pounds in my chest—and it’s not doing that only because I’m anxious for him to see my design. As I slide him both designs across the counter, I notice his eyes widen in what I hope is approval.

  “I was thinking,” I explain as I slide the image of the dog tags into the opening that the circle of the insignia provides, “that we would work something like this. You mentioned you were in the Army, so I added these. The tags could sit right here in the middle and we can adjust the size of the whole thing depending on where you want to put it.”

  Dax stands silent and motionless. It isn’t until Chloe leans over and takes a look at my work that he says anything.

  “Oh, Dax. It’s. . . .” Chloe gasps, covering her mouth. Gazing up at him, she’s assessing his reaction just like I am.

  “It’s perfect,” he completes her unfinished sentence. His response is both assertive and appreciative—an odd mix that worries me just a little.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, hating the self-doubt that tinges my voice. “I mean I can change anything,” I offer fruitlessly, because as soon as the words are out of my mouth, his hand falls to my tattooed forearm.

  His eyes hold mine in a hard stare. “No,” he says with an air of finality that chases away my uncertainty over the design. “I want this, just like you have it. It’s perfect, really.”

  “All right, then,” I agree, reluctantly pulling my arm from under his hand. “Give me a few minutes to get the stencil ready and we’ll be all set to go.” Dax nods at me before I leave to walk back into the rear work area.

  Once I’m back there, I drop my hands to the table, bracing myself as I take a few deep breaths. Before I can even calm myself down, I’m jumping out of my skin. “What the?” I nearly scream, my feet actually leaving the floor when a hand falls to my shoulder.

  When I spin around, I see Lexie’s smirking face, twisted in laughter at me and my reaction. “Chill, man!” She leans back against the counter, resting her elbows on the table. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. You looked a little shaken.”

  Despite the fact her words sound like they’re born out of concern, I can see the wry look crinkling in the corners of her eyes. That and the shit-eating grin pulling her lips into a thin line tell me she’s here to rub my distractedness in my face.

  “Why are you giving me that look?” Eyeing her suspiciously, I arch a brow at her, waggling it for extra emphasis.

  “Eavesdropped,” she says without an ounce of guilt. “Unless you think those rumors of me being a witch are true . . .” She mirrors my arched brow, and loses herself to a fit of giggles. “Listen,” she straightens herself, handing me a sheet of tracing paper and a pencil, “I’ll help you figure him out.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief.

  “The girl,” she declares, before strutting out of the drawing room.

  Shaking my head at her antics, I can’t deny the rise in anticipation at what she might discover.

  “Here’s the final stencil,” I announce, walking back into my room. Chloe is sprawled out on the chair, tapping away on her phone while Dax is flipping through my sketchbook that I left open on the counter.

  My private sketchbook.

  As I move across the room to hand him the design, I inconspicuously close the book and tuck it back into the drawer where it normally sits.

  “You’re good,” he says as he takes the sheet of tracing paper from my hand. “Your work, I mean,” he chokes a little on the words, forcing a smile to curl my mouth. “Looks great,” he declares. “Now what?”

  “Where do you want it?” Arching a brow, I try my best to not sound overtly sexual, but I can’t help it much.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” he answers shyly. “I guess I hadn’t thought about that too much. Took me two weeks to even work up the courage to come down here,” he laughs off his response.

  “If you don’t want to–”

  Cutting me off, he stands up straight. “No, I want it,” he says definitively.

  Angling my head to Chloe, she nods subtly, reassuring me of his answer.

  “I was thinking up here,” he reaches a hand over his shoulder, tapping the space where blade meets upper back.

  “But then you won’t be able to see it, not without a mirror at least,” Chloe adds her two cents and I’m thankful for it. That’s usually what I would tell someone who is doing a piece this meaningful. There’s something so much more touching about a work of art that you can see without the use of a mirror.

  Without even having to think about it, it’s there.

  As if it’s always been a part of your life.

  It becomes a part of you.

  Nodding at Chloe, I silently offer her my thanks at her explanation. Mine might not have been welcomed as easily.

  “Guess I hadn’t thought about that.” Stroking his chin between his thumb and forefinger, Dax considers some other options.

  With the words, “how about your upper arm?” on the tip of my tongue, he dismisses the option himself.

  “I just don’t think I’m willing to deal with people seeing it all the time,” he confesses, a fleeting look of sadness pa
ssing over his face.

  On that, Chloe bounces up out of the chair and stands next to Dax. Placing a hand gently over his heart, she says, “So put it here.”

  Dax nods before letting the traces of a smile appear on his face. “Will that work?” he asks, eyeing me hopefully.

  “Absolutely,” I gulp, thinking about touching his hard chest. At least Chloe will be here to keep me in check.

  “Let me just get a few things together and we can get started,” I explain, excusing myself from the room one last time.

  What the hell is going on? Berating myself in my own head, I feel like an ass. Gone is all sense of cool confidence I usually possess. Forget snarky and rough-edged Beck; he seems to have flown the coop today.

  Maybe it’s the enclosed space of the room, but I feel like a fool around him.

  Maybe it’s the warm, spicy scent of his strong body.

  Maybe it’s that he reminds me of every dream of which I felt I never deserved.

  Fucking loser.

  Instinctually, my fingers move to my upper arm, where Nikki’s tattoo is inked onto my skin. Some scars never leave you—and not all of them are tattoos.

  Shaking away those thoughts, I take a deep breath and walk back into the room where Chloe and Dax are waiting for me. Promising myself I’ll stay cool and collected, and act like my usual fucking self, I feel put back together and ready to get down to business.

  Holding a disposable razor in hand, I lift an eyebrow. “You want to do it, or would you rather have me do it?”

  Chloe’s hand flies to her mouth, hiding her amusement at Dax’s shocked face.

  Shaking his head with a shy look on his face, Dax pulls his shirt up over his head, leaving his neatly combed hair in disarray. “I’ll let you. No need for me to screw things up before they even get started.”

  There’s strangeness to those words—some kind of hidden sadness or something. I can’t put my finger on it, but it makes me wonder what’s beneath his surface.

  The shaving cream spurts out of the bottle, spraying Dax in the face. Swiping a hand over his mouth, he laughs.

  “Sorry,” I join him in the laughter and try my best to keep my hand a bit steadier this time. The last thing I want to do is nick him, or slice off a nipple. That definitely won’t make a good impression.

  His light, fine hair doesn’t make much trouble for the razor so with a few careful strokes across his skin, he’s all prepped and ready to go. After he approves the final stencil placement, we finally begin the real work.

  Unfolding his long body into the chair, I watch as he casually crosses his ankles and rests his head in his hands as they fold behind his head. With my stool only inches away from him, I rub a touch of Vaseline over his skin to ease the movement of the needle. A sharp intake of air passing over Dax’s full lips breaks the anticipation-laden silence settling in the room.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just cold,” he deflects as his skin prickles under my fingers.

  The few test buzzes of the gun set his body in a rigid line. Lifting a brow at him, I ask, “You’re not afraid are you?”

  “No,” he jokes, but I notice the movement of his Adam’s apple on a large swallow.

  “Good, because here we go.”

  The pain is not nearly as bad as I would have thought. Aside from shading in the black parts, the worst part is the hypnotic silence the buzzing machine creates. My mind wanders, drifting off to places I’d rather not visit in public. Luckily, the pain keeps me present, prevents my mind from slipping away completely. Now I understand how people could become addicted to ink.

  Angling my head to look down at the progress he’s made, I realize he’s only about a quarter of the way done. Chloe looks at the same time I do, just as Beck is wiping my skin clear of the blood dotting the surface. “You don’t look so hot,” I say to her rather green face.

  Beck stops his hand on my chest, but doesn’t remove it. “There’s a vending machine down the hall. Maybe a little sugar will help you. Lexie will give you a hand. Or maybe some fresh air will do you some good,” Beck offers casually. Obviously, plenty of other people have been affected in a similar way.

  As she stands, I notice her legs wobble a touch. Wimp, but I know better than to actually call her that. “Want me to go out with you?” Shimmying up in my seat, I suggest taking a break more out of being there for her than for needing a timeout from the tattoo.

  Swatting away my concerns with a flick of her wrist, she leans against the door. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Going to grab a coke and some fresh air, and I’ll be right back. You two play nice now,” she jokes, exiting the room.

  “You holding up all right?” Beck asks as he dips the needle into the well of black ink.

  “Sure,” I nod, twisting in my seat. “Actually, I think my ass fell asleep. Mind if I stand up for a few minutes?”

  “As long as I can grab a smoke while you stretch, we’re good.” Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his top drawer, he nods as he leaves the room. The drawer is still open, revealing the sketchbook I was looking through earlier. Now he’s put it away, I wouldn’t dare pull it out, but it doesn’t mean I can’t ask him about it when he comes back in.

  My back pops and cracks as I reach my arms over my head. I wouldn’t call the heated feeling on my chest painful. It’s odd to explain and I would imagine it sounds extremely foreign to someone who’s never felt it on their own skin. It’s like millions of little electrical wires with tiny pulses of fire jumping across the synapses. There’s no pain, just fire, and life.

  Looking down at Delaney’s family insignia—a quarter filled in, while the rest lays in wait—sadness fills the quiet. Guilt washes over me at being here. Sure I’m paying tribute to him, yet, ironically, I’m using it as a step to move forward in my own life. My head jams up with the opposition of my feelings. Without warning, the room begins to feel smaller, shrinking all around me.

  In two long strides, I’m out of the room and making my way down the hall where the vending machines should be. Not finding anything immediately, I only see a narrow hall leading to the back where I assume the bathroom is. Female voices carry down the hall, followed by ripples of soft, feminine laughter. One voice is Chloe’s. The other, I assume, is Lexie’s.

  “You offered Dax what?” Chloe gasps, letting her laughter billow into a riotous fit.

  “You act like it’s a big deal. Lots of guys have their dicks pierced,” Lexie’s voice is calm and casual, like she’s talking about the weather and not a piece of metal being shoved through the tip of your dick.

  Now that thought scares me more than any battle scene ever would. But, I can’t say I didn’t appreciate looking at the pictures the other day. I just knew I couldn’t express my approval of them. Or at least I felt like I couldn’t. Lexie and Beck certainly don’t strike me as the type of people to be close-minded. Doubtful that a former military man who is also gay is the most unusual of their clients, I shrug and focus my attention back on their conversation. Sure my goal is more than a little sneaky, but I want to see if Lexie will reveal anything about Beck.

  Catching the tail end of Lexie saying how it’s not her most common piercing request, Chloe makes a retching noise in her throat. “You mean you actually get to t-touch them?” Chloe stutters her words, much to Lexie’s delight.

  “Cocks? Yeah, well, I mean how else would you get the barbell through–”

  “No, I don’t want to think about it?” There’s a shaking quality to Chloe’s voice. Imagining her face twisted in disgust makes me stifle a laugh. Yeah, okay, having a needle running through the tip of my own dick isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but I can’t lie and say it didn’t pique my interest.

  “Not like it really counted, the picture I showed Dax,” Lexie’s words are muffled as a can of soda makes a loud thunk in the vending machine.

  “Huh? What do you mean?” The can cracks open, a soft fizz echoing Chloe’s question.

  Another clumsy thunk of anothe
r can fills the small space. Another soft fizz of carbonation. Then words that make my head feel more than a little dizzy. “My hands don’t exactly make him rise to the occasion, if you know what I mean,” Lexie whispers with a conspiratorial tone. Trying my best to stay hidden from their view, I can’t confirm it, but I imagine her winking at Chloe to add to the secrecy.

  The image from the other day flips through my brain, like some kind of erotic replay.

  That was Beck.

  Holy fuck!

  Chloe offers no response, but I swear my heart is thudding so wildly in my chest they must be able to hear it. “You mean?” Chloe finally asks.

  “The only hands that usually even get close to his junk—besides his own—belong to other men. You didn’t know he was gay?”

  The sounds of Chloe choking on her soda are followed by a few swift thwacks on her back. When she’s able to breathe normally again, her “Uh, no,” is uttered in disbelief.

  “Oh, hell yeah. It’s not like I’m telling his deepest darkest secrets, you know. So you can wipe away that look of shock. He’s actually pretty open about it.”

  “Must not have been part of his introductions this time around, I guess,” Chloe jokes.

  “Yeah, ‘Hi, I’m Beck. A gay tattoo artist. Now take off your shirt so I can shave you,’ isn’t really the most welcoming of greetings from someone holding a needle to your skin, huh?”

  Chloe chokes on her soda again. When she regains the ability to breathe normally again, she adds, “Makes sense. I mean not everyone wants that known about them. Right off the bat anyway.” The saddened tone of her voice lets me know she’s talking about me without actually mentioning my name. It kills me that she feels so sad for me and my non-identity.

  If I’d had a shirt on, I would have jumped right out of it. A hand falls to my shoulder and a muted voice quietly whispers, “Anything good goin’ on?” nearly making me yell out in shock.

  Spinning around on my heels, my fists clench. Being surprised from behind sets my soldier instincts into overdrive, but when I see Beck standing behind me, hands held up, palms out, surrendering to my ready fists, my pulse calms marginally.