WhatLiesBeneath (4 page)

Jericho couldn’t wait to get home, have a few beers and
catch something on TV. If he was honest with himself—a brutal habit he forced
himself to maintain—he knew he wouldn’t make it through one beer. The
titanium-cored resolve that kept him focused and dedicated enough to build a
one-of-a-kind career as a tat artiste had also kept him from hanging out in
front of his shop each morning in hopes of seeing the woman he had come to
think of as His Blonde. Instead, after each night’s restless sleep, he was up
by six and at the gym until nine. He got to the studio around ten and worked in
his office until one, when his client hours began. Vix had no trouble keeping
his schedule full until nine, meaning it was after ten by the time he closed up
shop. A month of rigorous self-control was starting to wear on him, and tonight
he wanted nothing more than to get drunk enough to forget the woman driving him
insane.

“That’s nice work, J. How many more sessions before we’re
done?” Alfonse “Nickelback” Jimson posed in front of a full-length mirror.
Peering over his shoulder, he examined the tattoo stretching across his back. A
tight end for the San Francisco 49ers who’d earned his moniker after scoring
five touchdowns during his inaugural game, Al had become a good friend during
the hours spent together while Jericho worked on him.

“Three, maybe four more.” Jericho motioned for his client to
turn around. “Let me get it cleaned up.”

While Jericho washed the area with antibacterial soap and
applied a thin layer of antiseptic ointment, Al talked.

“It would be nice to have it finished in one or two. The
only reason I can get it done during the season is because this ligament thing
has me out of commission for the next few weeks.”

“You know the drill. Four hours is my max.” He secured a
bandage over the freshly inked skin and clapped the football player on the
shoulder. “You have a hard enough time sitting still for that long.”

“If you weren’t the best damned ink slinger in the country,
I wouldn’t put up with your diva shit.”

Al held up a hand and the two high-fived.

Pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap, Jericho flexed his
fingers. The constant vibration of the electric needle held in a tight grip
often left his hands cramped and achy. That was another reason he limited his
appointments. Each was scheduled with a thirty-minute bridge between it and the
next so he could stretch and loosen up. He’d worked late on Al only because the
last client of the day had cancelled.

“Talk to Vix on your way out and double-check your next
appointment. She should have you booked through the end of the month so you
won’t have to walk around with half a dragon on your back much longer.”

“Thanks, man.” Al gingerly pulled on his shirt, careful not
to dislodge the bandage, and left.

Jericho cleaned up on autopilot. Disposable ink cups and
sanitary paper cloths into the trash, needle into a biohazard sharps container,
tattoo machine components readied for sterilizing in an autoclave. A quick wipe-down
of the surfaces and equipment with disinfectant and he was done. He headed to
the front of the studio to check the calendar for tomorrow.

“Hey, Vix, I’m—”

Stunned.

Shocked.

Speechless.

His Blonde—pearls and all—sat in one of the lobby chairs,
one leg crossed over the other.

“You didn’t read my text, did you? I sent you three messages.”
Vix folded her arms and glared at him. “Miss Fine has been waiting almost
forty-five minutes.”

“Sorry. My phone was turned off.”
Miss Fine
. Well, at
least now he knew half of her true identity. Her first name had to be
Very
.

“I updated your calendar late yesterday afternoon. May I
assume you didn’t bother to check it this morning? I can’t keep you organized
if you don’t cooperate.” His assistant cocked an artfully plucked eyebrow. “I
was able to save Amanda a six-week wait, thanks to Mr. Taylor’s cancellation
this afternoon. Lucky thing I wrote down her name and number when she first
called for an appointment and asked if you had a waiting list.”

Amanda Fine
. Warm satisfaction coiled in his stomach.
She wasn’t a nameless stranger anymore. He wondered how long ago she had
called, annoyed he may have been suffering needlessly.

“I appreciate your efforts to keep me organized, Vix.”
Jericho was too distracted to let her admonishment bother him. “Are there any
other changes I should be aware of before I get started on Miss Fine?”

Boy, what he wouldn’t give to really get started on His
Blonde.

“No.” Vix frowned. “You do remember I asked to leave early
tonight?”

“Yes. I’m usually on top of things once I’m aware of them.”

Again, he picked up on the unintentional innuendo in his
statement. He was very well aware of Amanda Fine and more than willing to be on
top.

Then it hit him.

She had made an appointment to get a tattoo.

He was going to be touching her.

Professionally.

Time to get a handle on the X-rated thoughts running through
his head.

“Lock up when you leave and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Turning
to Amanda who had silently watched their exchange, he introduced himself.
“Welcome to Body of Art. I’m Jericho Creegan. It’s nice to see you again. Are
you ready?”

Amanda wasn’t sure if she was ready for a tattoo but she was
more than ready for a chance to seduce Jericho. She was relieved he hadn’t
offered to shake hands—she would have been appalled to offer a sweaty palm.
When he invited her to follow him to a private room, it took a second to get
her shaky legs under her.

During the short walk back, she took in every delicious
detail of his backside—lean, denim-clad legs, tight ass, gray T-shirt stretched
across muscular shoulders, thick, black ponytail that lay along the indentation
of his spine. She’d been able to reacquaint herself with the front side during
his conversation with the receptionist. Those amazing hazel-ish eyes. The
jawline stubble that made him seem a little bit rough. Full lips that softened
the harsh masculinity of his strong facial bone structure. She liked the way
his shirt fit…just snug enough to reveal the definition of his pecs. The same
could be said for the boot-cut jeans that cupped a nice-sized package.

Giddy excitement blurred her vision, mimicking the rush of
lightheadedness brought on by a strong martini, the mental disconnect making
everything surreal. This exhilaration was a hundred times more powerful than
the kick she got thinking about the Abbess Collection. The daring audacity
marked a leap from her comfort zone into the unknown, the unfamiliar, the
unconventional.

Amanda had not experienced this sense of naughty titillation
and antsy anticipation since she was fifteen and had snuck out of her parents’
house for a date with the nineteen-year-old brother of a girlfriend. Her
parents would have been livid had they ever found out. But breaking the rules
was a huge part of the thrill.

Jericho allowed Amanda to precede him into the room and she
looked around in interest. The fixtures and furniture echoed the same glass,
chrome and leather of the reception area. She noticed the room was a bit warmer
than was comfortable and the overhead lighting was dim. Uncertain as to what
constituted proper tattoo-getting etiquette, she stood and waited.

“Is this your first time getting inked?” Jericho straddled a
rolling stool, gripping the front edge of the seat with both hands.

She resisted letting her eyes drop to his crotch. “Um, yes.”

“You have something in mind?”

Did she ever!
“Uh, yes.”

“Would you like to share it with me?”

If he kept up this line of questioning, they’d be naked
sooner than she’d planned.

The hint of a smile lifted one corner of his lush mouth. “I
usually see two types of newbies. Those who are nervous because they’re having
second thoughts, and those who are edgy because they can’t wait to get
started.”

Something in his tone bugged her. It wasn’t quite
condescension but close.

“I’ve chosen a phrase that has personal meaning to me for my
tattoo.” She pulled a piece of paper from her purse, handed it to him and set
her bag on a chair.

While he read it, she turned her back. Slowly she lowered
the zipper on her jeans, the measured snick of each tooth being released
rebounding off the silence. Feigning nonchalance, she bent at the waist and
arched her back as she pushed her jeans down, wiggling just…a…little…bit…to get
the white denim over her hips. Kicking off the three-inch heels that nicely
lengthened her legs, she daintily stepped out of the jeans, folded them and
laid them on top of her purse.

She’d practiced the maneuver several times at home—one, to
make sure she didn’t fall off her heels, and two, to make sure the sexy reveal
of her ass carried a punch worthy of Mohammed Ali. Pivoting on the ball of her
foot to face Jericho, she smiled inwardly. The hunger in his eyes confirmed the
rehearsal had been well worth it.

“Is there anything else you need before we get started?” Fighting
a rush of sexually fueled adrenaline, she kept her tone light and her movements
deliberate.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat before answering. “No.
We’re good to go. Just tell me where you’d like it.”

She bit her tongue to hold back her initial response.
“Centered, at the base of my spine.” She twisted, offering a view of her
backside, and nudged down the Y-shaped waistband of her thong. “It’s very
private, so I want it where no one else will see it.”

He braced her hips in his strong hands and stroked his
thumbs over the dimples on either side of her spine. “Right here?” He inched
the fabric down a bit more.

Self-control melting under his warm touch, Amanda rallied
her last bit of chutzpah and met his eyes over her shoulder. “That’s a good
place to start.”

Jericho found that if he focused on the tip of the tattoo
needle and the trail of black ink unwinding behind it, his cock didn’t throb
quite as frantically as when he allowed his gaze to roam over the smooth skin
of Amanda’s ass and legs. Hard as he tried to concentrate on the elegant
flourishes of the delicate script she’d chosen for her tattoo, he couldn’t
shake the sexual tension that had begun mounting the moment he saw her waiting
for him.

Some degree of physical intimacy, even nudity, was par for
the course in tattooing. He’d inked virtually every inch of human anatomy,
including breasts, vulvas and penises. Most of his clients were exceptionally
good-looking, especially the women, and while he would have to be dead or gay
to remain immune to their allure, he had never experienced anything as powerful
as his craving to get down and dirty with Amanda.

She felt it too. Her loquacious body language gave her away—the
prolonged eye contact, the provocative postures, the nipples jutting through
the thin fabric of her tiny silk blouse, the little gasps that underscored the
flex and release of her muscles when his touch strayed into an erogenous zone.
And if that wasn’t convincing enough, all he had to do was inhale. Amanda’s
sweet, musky aroma wafted beneath the familiar scents of disinfectant and eucalyptus.

Every signal from her glowed neon emerald-green and his
engine was revving in the red zone but Jericho refused to take his foot off the
brake.

He had his professional reputation to consider. Like rock
stars, professional athletes and plastic surgeons, tattoo artists tended to
attract groupies. From the start, Jericho had known he didn’t want that kind of
image associated with his work so he’d learned to tactfully deflect such
unwanted attention. Part of his strategy included keeping
personal
relationships separate from
business
relationships. That had worked so
far, but he could feel his foot slipping off the pedal.

The electric tat machine slowed before resuming a steady
hum. His foot really was slipping. Sweat dampened his hairline. Inside the
latex gloves, his hands were damp. It was unlike him to lose control this way
but everything about the situation with Amanda triggered unusual actions and
behavior. Unwilling to jeopardize her safety or the integrity of his artwork on
her body, Jericho called a time-out.

“Let’s take a break.” Rising from the stool, he tugged off
his gloves and put some space between them.

Amanda, lying belly down on the adjustable tattoo table,
lifted her head from her forearms. “I could stand to stretch a bit.”

Hopping down, she raised her arms overhead. Her shirt inched
upward. Jericho admired the flat plane of her abdomen before his gaze fixated
on the scrap of fabric riding low on the concave depression between her
hipbones. The longer he stared, the more uncomfortable his jeans became.

“Can I see what you’ve done so far?” Amanda waited for his
quick nod before padding over to the mirror. The same one Nickelback Jimson had
used earlier.

“The redness and swelling will fade in a couple of days, so
it may be a little difficult to get the full effect until then,” he told her.
“I’m going to get something to drink. You should have something to stay
hydrated.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine. Thanks.” She seemed
distracted, busy examining the partially completed inscription near the small
of her back.

After splashing water on his face and retrieving two chilled
bottles of juice from a refrigerator Vix kept stocked with drinks and snacks,
he returned. Amanda perched on the edge of the chair, which had been opened
into a flat work surface. Accepting the container he offered, she twisted the
cap off and took a sip. He chugged his down and put the bottle aside. Motioning
with his index finger for her to lie back down, he then pulled on fresh gloves
and settled himself on the stool.

With some relief, Jericho noticed the atmosphere in the room
had lightened. The sexual awareness was still there, just less overwhelming
than minutes ago. He wondered if it was due to some change in Amanda…or if it
was the decision he’d made while looking at his reflection over the sink in his
private bathroom.

As soon as he had satisfied his professional commitment, he
planned to satisfy his personal compulsion.

Both his body and mind felt buoyant now that he was no
longer battling his conscience. It wouldn’t take long to finish the tattoo but
there was no reason to rush. Call it foreplay. Or maybe payback for Amanda’s
sexy enticement.

“Tell me. What’s the significance of this statement? ‘Love
without passion is life without breath.’ Did you come up with that?” Jericho leaned
over her backside. He dragged the thong’s narrow band halfway down her ass
cheeks then allowed his fingertips to drift upward, barely caressing the crease
between them.

She sucked in a breath and held it until the buzz of the
tattoo machine reverberated around them. Her muscles relaxed under his hands
but her voice was breathy when she answered.

“It’s a line from my favorite story, a book published a long
time ago. The first time I read the author’s sentiment, it struck a chord with
me.”

“So you value passion?” Midway through the tattoo, close to
her tailbone, he was working on an area known to be sensitive and, therefore,
more painful. He used every bit of skill to minimize the discomfort but she
seemed unaffected by any pain. Perhaps the conversation was distracting her,
the same way it was distracting him.

“Yes, but in a broader sense than just love. Why waste your
life laboring at a job you detest or living somewhere just because you happened
to land there? There are so many opportunities and adventures out there.” Her
voice deepened with the strength of her conviction. “As much as possible, I try
to fill my life with dynamic people and pursue activities that inspire me.
Without enthusiasm and excitement, life is nothing more than going through the
motions. That isn’t living. That is simply existing.”

Her words surprised him. She didn’t sound like a woman
accustomed to having the good things in life handed to her on a silver platter.
Her words resonated with perception and appreciation. They reminded him that
even the wealthy and privileged endured difficulties of one kind or another.
Although his attraction to her was purely physical, Jericho was glad Amanda had
a little depth to her. Sex with a hot babe was nice, but sex with a hot babe who
had a bit of complexity was even better.

“What brought you here?” He slowed the needle to complete an
intricate curlicue on the F in “life”. “Is this your next adventure? Daring to
get a tattoo that no one will ever see?”

She stiffened, and he realized how his question must have
sounded. Critical. Judgmental. Patronizing.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He flushed and was
relieved she couldn’t see his embarrassment.

“Why did you?” Her tone held no anger, only curiosity.

“I guess I’m as temperamental as any traditional artist,” he
admitted. “Tattoos have become trendy, which means some people get them just to
have them. They don’t put any thought into the meaning, so in five or ten years,
they’re paying to have it removed. Tattoos have held cultural significance for
thousands of years, commemorating rites of passage or denoting social status.
In some civilizations, the markings were considered the physical manifestation
of a person’s soul.” He lifted the needle to wipe away tiny beads of blood
pearling the line of freshly applied ink. “Polynesians endure hours of
excruciating pain when undergoing traditional hand-tapped tattoos to prove
their strength and virility. Compared to that, the college kid who goes on
spring break and comes home with a cartoon character on his backside seems
pretty trivial.”

“The pictures in the front of your shop. Is that your work?”

“Yes and yes. The tats and the photography…” His words
drifted off.

Relaxed now, Jericho was in The Zone—that mental space where
outside distractions faded and all of his senses attuned to his work. His touch
adjusted to apply just the right amount of pressure to lay the ink beneath the
epidermis. The drone of the tattoo machine filled his ears. The metallic tang
of blood and ink filled his nostrils. His eyes scanned the image developing
beneath his hand to measure the accuracy of each line and the shading of each
color. When he entered this space, he felt both invigorated and at peace.
Everything was
right
in his world.

Intuitively he recognized when to stop. Thanks to an
instinctive flair for tattooing, he knew when one more stroke, one more line,
one more bit of detail would throw the piece off. As the needle rounded the
final flourish, Jericho’s hyper-focused attention rebalanced. He leaned back to
assess his work.

“Done?”

Amanda’s question startled him. “Oh uh, yeah. Sorry.
Sometimes I get distracted.” He rolled away from the chair so she could get up.
“Take a look and then I’ll get it covered up.”

While she admired his handiwork, he went over instructions
on how to care for her new tattoo. As he watched her move around the room, a
purple-tinged haze of lust settled over him. God he wanted her!

As he affixed the last strip of medical tape to a bandage
and rolled back on the stool, Amanda spoke. “You didn’t hear a word I said
while you were working on me, did you?”

She turned from where she’d been leaning over the chair’s
flat work surface, his face level with the small of her back. Now he was
nose-to-navel.

“Did I miss something important?” Anticipation thrummed deep
in his chest.

“You asked why I came here, if it was my next adventure.”
She ran her palms over his shoulders. Excitement glittered in her eyes. “I
guess that’s up to you.”