June . . .
I pull my old, black, Volkswagen Beetle into the parking lot of Inked aKross The Skin and park, killing the engine. To some, this car would be classified as an antique, but to me, not so much. Yeah, this car is nothing fancy and old as shit, but it’s paid for and still runs . . . most of the time. It’s also all I can afford. I worked my ass off for it senior year of high school—literally—although, it was a lot newer back then, at least to me.
Growing up and paying rent and shit is harder than I wish it was, taking most of what I make. On weekends, I feel like I make bank at the bar, but bartenders are a dime a dozen, especially in a large city like Atlanta, and we all fight for weekend shifts.
City living is much higher than the country, and my one-bedroom apartment isn’t exactly budget-friendly, so there definitely isn’t money left over for a car note when you count on tips as your main source of income. Truth be told, this old car is on its last leg, or for better terminology, wheel, but unless a miracle happens I’m stuck with it. It’s either that or pick up a second job, in which I’m considering if I don’t get this gig. I want it so bad that I can taste it. Tattooing is what I’m made for. I know it. I just need someone to give me a shot.
And I’m trying my damnedest not to go back there, even though I know he’d hire me back in a heartbeat. But I’ve lost too much over it, which is why I spent the last of my savings years ago for bartending classes. A girl like me doesn’t have opportunities for Harvard or Yale. Even a four-year-university is out of my reach. I’m not going to say I’m dumb, but I was lucky to graduate with a high school diploma. School never was my thing. It’s boring. I’ll die from hard, laborious work before I go back.
That particular job is hard not to consider, though, because it’s damn good money on busy nights and a hell of a lot easier to stack the cash than this is going to be, should I get the job. I can’t deny that. My pride is dreading this more than I ever did with that. Reputation means nothing on having a soft cushion in the bank. I can live with the slutty accusations more so than I can live feeling like a complete failure.
I highly doubt being an apprentice at a tattoo parlor is going to cover even half of the bills, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to work enough at the bar to make what I do currently, or what it takes to pay my bills and survive. Unlike my best friend Lux, I pride myself on my independence. I’ve never been able to take handouts, no matter where they come from. I understand her need for a sugar daddy to acquire what she’s never had, but it’s a way of life I’ll never adopt, no matter how hard it becomes for me. So, here I stand, in the parking lot of the tattoo shop where I received the most recent work of art still healing on my body.
Tattoo . . . Kross.
Out of all the tattoos that I’ve gotten in my adulthood—and there are many—that was by far the most memorable. His hands on my body, covered in latex . . . the pain of the needle piercing my skin, followed by the smearing of ink.
I sigh, following through with a shiver even though it’s warm outside, making it even hotter in this car. Every time his biceps and forearms flexed from permanently marking my skin, hunched over my body, the muscles between my legs convulsed with need. It was an experience I’ve never known. It has to be the lack of sex talking.
I stare at the glass door, the name embedding into my thoughts, readying my mind to walk inside. Yep, this is most likely financial suicide, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. “Suck it up, buttercup. You’ll do what you have to do to make this work.”
I take a deep breath, trying to even out my breathing. My hands are shaking. I’m so damn nervous I don’t want to get out of this car. I’m not a nervous person. This interview could change my life, though. I just hope I don’t fuck it up. So far, I’ve been pretty good at doing just that in my life.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to release some of this nervous energy. Seconds pass. I grab my purse and my keys, before pushing my door open. It makes a sound as it opens: metal against metal. I step out and shove the lock down, shutting it back roughly to ensure it catches. The parking lot looks pretty empty to only be a quarter before twelve.
“Don’t be a little girl. You’re stalling,” I mumble to myself. My Converse shoes start to trudge forward, pulling me toward the same door I entered last night with Lux. I’m reminded, yet again, of that night with each movement of the sensitive, freshly tattooed skin. I do believe this one is my favorite to date. I’m just not sure whether it’s the design or the artist I favor so much.
I can still feel his touch lingering, as if his hand never left. I’ve never felt like I was on fire by only contact, but every place he touched felt like it was being singed and burning to ash. I kept waiting for that putrid smell of burnt skin to come, but it never did.
I open the door. It looks exactly the same—navy blue walls showcasing the finest framed work under spotlight, and a hell of a lot of pink neon—including the blonde behind the counter that looks completely out of place. I shouldn’t dislike her, but for some reason I do. She’s beautiful, friendly, and most likely everything I’m not; at least not to the average person. She looks like a happy person. You know, the ones us moody people despise because they’re fucking chirpy every waking minute of the day. She has flawless skin to match—in color and texture—a beautiful body, and her hair is the perfect shade of blonde.
I’m staring.
Is he fucking her?
I bite my tongue, hard, attempting to inflict as much pain as possible for the thought that is none of my business. Come to think of it, looking at her, I’m not sure I’m even dressed appropriately for an interview. When I got dressed my thought was, what would Kat Von D wear? What I never processed was that this is the most unorthodox tattoo shop I’ve ever seen, yet its reputation is the most immaculate. It’s not punk or grunge, not anything that I’m into really. It’s—my nose crinkles—professional, and what the fuck is it with all the damn neon? Don’t get me wrong, I favor the art of neon lighting myself, and even have a little of it at my apartment, but this is extreme.
I look down at myself. Maybe wearing cutoff denim shorts and a crop top wasn’t the proper way to dress for a professional interview no matter what the job title. Fuck my life. I’m already starting off on the wrong foot.
“Delta, right?” The blonde pulls me from my thoughts, the place I’ve been lost in without even knowing. Maybe if she thinks I’m emo it’ll never faze her as weird. She looks like a girl that doesn’t know what that truly is anyway. A lot of people mistake us dark in nature as ‘emo’, like we’re all one in the same.
I look at her, only this time my brain is working like a normal human being. She has a rather large smile spread across her face, standing and pulling her purse on her shoulder. “Um, yes. I had an appointment with Mr. Brannon at noon. Cassie, wasn’t it?”
“That’s me.” She laughs. “Word of advice from someone that’s already been down that road, don’t call him that to his face unless you want an asshole comment in return. He’s full of them, and he hates it.” Funny, he didn’t seem like an asshole last night . . . “He’s waiting in the studio for you. I’m headed out to lunch. Had to wait on you first to lock up.” She pushes her chair underneath the neat and orderly desk and rounds the counter with a set of keys in her hand. “If you’re gone when I return at two then maybe I’ll see you around.”
Two? Damn, that’s a long lunch break.
She walks past me without stopping. “Wait . . .” She stops. “Does someone cover you for lunch?”
She winks. “Shop closes from twelve to two for lunch. Longer night hours make for weird schedules. Last night was just an early night for all of the guys. Some famous artist in town or tattoo event. I’m a little hazy on the details. Not part of my job description, you know? The boss makes them stay up to date on new trends in the inked world. Plus, Mr. Brannon never meets with applicants during business hours.” She takes a breath. “I’m being a Chatty Cathy. The result of working with all men, I guess. Being down here away from the action can do that to you. Limited human contact and all. Good luck, Delta. It’d be nice to have another woman around here. I’m a little outnumbered.”
She walks out the door and closes it, before shoving the key into the lock and turning it, locking us in—him and me. This isn’t awkward at all. Not.
My adrenaline spikes to an all-time high, my nerves shooting off like Roman Candles. I look toward the closed door on the wall, trying to pull myself together before I go up there. I need a fucking cigarette or I’m going to hurl. Maybe I should chew a piece of gum. Would that be rude?
Nausea sets in. I start fanning myself with my hand. I stop breathing. “Are you coming or are you going to stand here in the fucking lobby all day?”
Warm air tickles my neck. Shit . . .
“I was just trying to prepare myself.”
“For what?”
“The interview.”
“There isn’t anything to prepare for. You either have what it takes or you don’t. I’m a cut and dry kind of guy. I do not teach the unteachable. I only give those with wings a place to fly. Got it?”
Oh, and that makes me feel so much better . . .
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m ready, Mr. Brannon.”
Fuck.
His hand snakes around my waist, careful not to migrate to or touch the sensitive skin from the fresh tattoo. He flattens his palm against my stomach, causing chill bumps to emerge. The rapid fluctuation of my abdomen from my increased breathing rate is giving my nervousness away. “My name is Kross. Use it.” He slams me against his front, the calluses on his hand brushing against my skin. “I’m not a doctor, I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not a businessman. I sure as hell am not old enough in comparison to you to be a mister. Step forward.”
He drops his hand, no longer touching me. If I didn’t want this job so bad I’d tell him to fuck off. Arrogant asshole. Who the hell does he think he is? Kross fucking Brannon, that’s who, the god of ink.
I don’t suppose you get the kind of reputation he has by being a nice guy. He may have me at a disadvantage right now, but he will soon learn who the fuck Delta Rohr is. Right now, though, I need to get my foot in the door. It’s not that easy to find someone to mentor you and take on an apprentice.
I do as he says and walk toward the door. “How did you even get down here? I thought you were upstairs.”
“I’m everywhere.”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. What a douche thing to say. It makes me want to gag. I don’t care how hot he is.
He reaches around me to grab the doorknob and pulls open the door, revealing the staircase to the upper floor. I climb them one by one, quickly, to create some space between us. I hear a dry laugh behind me as I reach the top step and continue into the studio.
I turn around and place my hands on my hips, slightly paranoid. It’s not time for my period or anything. I second-guess myself and discretely brush my hands down the back of my shorts as if they are wrinkled or out of place. “What’s so funny?”
“Do I make you uncomfortable when we’re alone?”
“No. Why would you make me uncomfortable?”
“Because I usually have that effect on people. That and you looked like you were about to trip over your own two feet to get up the stairs before me.”
This could be a test for respect. You need this fucking job.
I put on my best Georgia girl smile and dramatically sway from side-to-side. “I’m peachy,” I say sarcastically in humor. “Just nervous about this interview, sir, like any normal person would be. Where do you want me?”
He walks toward me slowly, his eyes burning into mine. My skin elevates in temperature. It’s getting a little hot in here. The nerves have to go.
He stops when he reaches me. “First, why do you want to be a tattoo artist?”
His tone is more serious than before, catching me off guard. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking? Part one—the verbal interview. You have one shot to sell yourself to me. You pass, you move on to part two, which is physical. It’s pretty simple. My time is valuable. If you don’t impress me, you’re out the door and I move on to someone else. Everyone is replaceable.”
“Right. Sorry.” I pause, thinking of the best possible answer. I’m at a loss for words here. No one has ever asked me why. The fact that I’ve always just wanted to with everything that I am has been good enough for me.
Honey brown eyes stare back at me. It’s unfortunate that he’s so sexy. It’s easier to consider working for someone that’s unattractive. I don’t even know where he’s originally from, but I’ve heard of him, hence why I booked an appointment the second I heard he was opening a shop in Atlanta months ago. I wanted to know if the rumors were true. From what I can tell, they are. He’s hard, and not in the sense that a girl would normally be referring to a man.
My smartass personality is not going to get me this job. There is only one thing that will accurately answer this question, and that is to let my guard down for a few moments and let him see the real me: the one I hide. The girl that would do anything for this opportunity.
I straighten my posture and look at him, trying to lay down my pride. I really look at him, in the eyes, unlike last night when he was touching my body while he permanently branded it in black, white, and pink, shading it perfectly where needed.
His hair is the darkest shade of blond, almost brown, and shaved short all over except the top where it falls slightly longer. His face is in the beginning phase of stubble, outlining his plump lips, which I can imagine feels amazing against another pair.
His earrings only enhance his face, showing his ears are gauged in size, but just barely, and his demeanor remains serious, giving him mystery. I can imagine this broody look he carries is the sexiest one he owns. I’m not sure he’d hold the same sex appeal with a huge, cheesy grin.
He’s a sexy man. That is a truth I can’t deny, and that’s what makes this situation harder, but this is so much more important than some hot guy I barely know, so I’m shutting down my thoughts or else I’ll falter all over my words just from the sight of him.
My eyes travel from his lips back to his eyes, locking into place. I hook my thumbs behind the front waistband of my shorts, giving them a prop to avoid an awkward stance, before going for the introduction I couldn’t muster last night. “I’m Delta Rohr, the girl that’s going to be one of the best in a man’s world. Ink is my life. I wear my portfolio on my body. I’m an artist, only I want my canvas to be skin. I want my artwork to be worn. The thing is, I’ve wanted an opportunity like this for a long time, and I’ll give up anything to get it, but I need the tools to get there. I need the best fucking mentor there is. I need you, Kross.”
He remains standing there, staring at me while my intestines start twisting into knots, saying nothing at all. Maybe my answer wasn’t adequate enough. I’ve never been good under pressure. I’m not sure if I should say anything else or leave it at that.
His stance finally breaks and his arms rise and fold over his head, his hands gripping the back collar of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, baring his torso a few inches at a time until it’s completely off. “Oh, hell.”
His body looks better without clothes. He obviously works out, his chiseled form confirming it. I would love to know his body fat percentage. Let’s not forget about the normally covered ink spread across his chest and running down both arms. The lower part of his sleeves and the ink that peeks out of his collar, running up part of his neck, are the only things I’ve noticed until now. Now that he’s standing here shirtless . . .
He tosses the shirt over his shoulder, freeing up his hands. I finally swallow my drool and the words come to me. “What are you doing?”
I immediately notice the silver, square, belt buckle in a dull metal finish cutout to form a raised skull and crossbones in the center—my favorite emblem, and the masculine opposite to mine. That exact symbol is also what he tattooed on my body last night at my request, complete with a pink hairbow.
The black elastic band of his briefs is peeking out of the waistband of his jeans. I want to rub my hands up and down his body, which would be completely inappropriate right now.
Get your shit together, girl.
He works to unbuckle his belt, letting each end hang, before going back for the button. He pops it through the slit of the faded wash denim and then slides down the zipper, revealing the royal blue underwear hugging his hips. My eyes widen the closer they get to his . . . “Do it, do it.”
“What?” his deep, broody voice interrupts my thoughts.
“I didn’t say anything.”
One brow arches. His eyes dip briefly as he stares at me like he was going to narrow them and then stopped himself. “I’m not deaf. Even whispers can be heard. I could repeat it if you’d like.” I don’t like his sarcasm. “What is it that you want me to do?”
My mouth falls. I thought I was chanting that in my head. Can I make myself look any more like a Psych patient today? God, but look at him. Would anyone really blame me? Who wouldn’t want to lick his tattoos?
I’m doing it again. Maybe I should just walk away and pretend none of this ever happened, go drown myself at the bar, and go sleep for like three days.
“Kross, what are you doing?” I ask again, needing an answer. My heart is beating faster with each movement he makes.
“Starting part two.”
“Which is?” I’m becoming nervous again. Is he just using me for sex? Dammit, I feel so stupid; not that he would have been the worst person to use my body. Stop it. I actually thought this was a real interview. I should have known someone like him wouldn’t take on an amateur. The whole time it was just a setup.
“Letting you tattoo me.”
I regain focus. “Say what?”
“I don’t repeat myself. Listen the first time.” He pushes the band of his underwear down his body, along with his jeans already folded down, leaving them sitting just above his dick.
“It’s hard to listen with you stripping naked! You’re a guy and I’m a girl. It’s human nature to look. Tattoos are a huge turn on for me and you have them covering seventy-five percent of your body. Cut me a damn break.”
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward his station. “The second part of this interview is to see you give it a shot. To me, tattooing is a natural talent. Those meant to do it generally know how it works before they ever apprentice. It takes more than the ability to trace an object and follow an outline to be a good tattoo artist. Sometimes you have to think on the spot, adjust, freehand, and do cover ups from previous shitty jobs. An artist is well rounded in all areas: drawing, tracing, visualizing, shading, design and color, all while having a steady hand. You may be good at drawing with a pencil, but it’s a little more difficult with a vibrating gun in your hand puncturing the skin hundreds of times per minute. You’re dealing with ink, blood, and three-dimensional mostly soft objects as your canvas. I’m not wasting my time to make shit more pleasant. I’m making great flawless.”
He releases my arm and steps over the chair in a straddling stance, drawing my attention to his black, high-top Converse shoes that match my pink ones, before grabbing a thin see-through sheet of paper off the counter space. My nerves are on overdrive now. “I’ve already drawn you out a design that matches the one I tattooed on your pelvis last night, minus the fucking bow. It’s a pretty simple design but a good one. Basic skull and crossbones fit my personality, so I’ll deal with it on my body. Wouldn’t be the first version anyway and I doubt the last.”
We’re going to have matching tattoos . . .
He’s defying everything I thought I knew about learning how to tattoo. “You don’t want me to practice on pig skin first since it’s the closest to human?”
“Do I look like a teaching shop? I don’t keep that shit on hand. My artists have years of actual tattooing experience. I don’t teach. It’s a choice.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I want to own you, and so I will. If I’m right, I know you have it in you to be a legend. I’m never wrong. In time I will make you like me, so for the first and only time I’m forced to teach. It’s a fucking dark road and you’ll likely hate me more than you’ll like me.” He grips my face in his tattoo-covered hand and pulls my lips close to his. “If you choose this, you can’t go back. The kiss of death cannot be reversed. I have no soul. You walked into my shop and now I want you. You will be mine . . . in every fucking way.”
I have no idea what any of that shit means. He’s a little scary, and maybe even borderline weird; most definitely controlling, but the first and last line are the only two that have seared themselves onto my brain.
My heart is pounding. My stomach is twisted in knots. Death is a scary word no matter the context, but for some reason, with him, it’s also appealing. I know one thing to be true: this, no matter what I have to do, is what I want. “Where do you want it?”
He smirks, but it’s so brief it’d be easy to miss if I wasn’t paying attention. He’s hot and cold. I noticed that last night. You only get a glimpse of personality before he’s back to the emotion-lacking guy he seems like at first glance. “Since this is your first, it’s going somewhere I can cover up if you fuck it up. My sleeves are sacred, my masterpieces. Only the best adds to it. You earn the right to leave your mark there.”
He pushes his pants down until the top half of his firm ass is bare. If he pushes them down any lower, I’ll be able to see his dick.
Without breaking, he applies the transfer of ink from paper to skin below his waistline, and low enough he can cover it by simply buttoning his pants. He cannot possibly expect me to give him a tattoo that close to his dick, especially my first. That important phrase ‘lack of experience’ means a lot in this situation. Come on . . .
He grabs a pair of black, latex gloves off the tray, handing them to me. It looks like everything is already setup. “If you want to be the best in a man’s world like you said, then you better be serious as fuck about learning and perfecting. It takes practice. Even when it looks perfect, in your head it’s shit, and you start all over again. There are some that have made it and done well, but tattooing has always been primarily a man’s art. Most would say you have big shoes to fill for the women that have made their mark, but I say that’s bullshit. Only the real artists strive to be better, to be more memorable. I’m not showing you how to setup or prep today. You’ll be able to do that with your eyes closed should you get the job. I saw your ability to draw when I looked at your body last night. A large percentage of the population can draw; that doesn’t mean they could tattoo for shit. I want to see technique. I’m a hands-on learner, so that’s how I teach. Your current window is about two hours. All of my artists will be back at three today. I gave them an extra hour for you. Don’t abuse it. It’s a rare occurrence. That gives me time to clean up after you’re done.”
I pull the gloves on my hands until they form a tight fit. “Is this how you choose all of your artists? How do you have any blank skin left?”
His face remains serious. “Nope. You’re the first.”
My nerves were at a good five. They were just bumped to ten. “Uh, then why do you want me to do it this way?”
“You lack a client portfolio, that’s why. I’m going to see if you can work under an uncomfortable pressure.” He sits down on the chair, leans back, and slightly bucks his hips forward as if trying to get comfortable. “Since you’re a girl and I’m a guy, tattoos may turn me on too.” Then he laces his hands behind his head. “Tattoo me.”
I am totally and inevitably fucked . . .
