Full Contact (Redemption #3)(26)

“I’m good.”

When I turn to switch cartridges, Ray shifts in the chair. “You don’t talk while you work?”

“Clients talk. I listen. I’m not really one for spilling all the details of my life to strangers. Rose, on the other hand, usually has them in the back room in less than five minutes to show off her tit tats.”

Ray snorts a laugh, and I wait until he’s still again so I can continue my work. “Feel free to talk, though. It won’t bother me. I’m used to it.”

“Not a big talker. But you can ask me a question.”

“You want me to ask you a question?”

Ray nods. “I got nothing to hide. Ask me anything.”

I return to inking his outline. “Okay. What do you drive?”

“Harley-Davidson Softail.”

“Biker.” I shake my head. “I should have known. I wanted to get a bike, but Tag helped me finance my vehicle, and I wound up with a Volvo instead. Not quite the same.”

His eyes sparkle, amused. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Volvo girl.”

I pause and check my cartridge. “True. I’m more of a Nissan 370Z girl, or maybe an Audi TT. A sports car, but not a screamer. I don’t want an eat-my-dust kind of sports car, but something more refined. Not that I have the money to buy one, but a girl can always dream.”

“Ask me another one.”

“Where do you live?”

“Loft apartment in a converted warehouse off Temescal Alley.”

“Wrong side of the bridge,” I say, half joking. Wrong because he’s so far away from me. “I’m in the Upper Haight. Coming out here is one hell of a commute, but since it’s only for a short time, I can manage.”

He licks his lips, as if my answers are a tasty treat. “More.”

“Favorite band?”

“Forest Rangers.”

My head falls back and I groan. “Sons of Anarchy wannabe. Was that before or after you got your motorcycle?”

A half smile tugs at his lips. “Always had a bike.”

“Of course. I’m sure you were born on a bike, like all bikers.” I turn off the machine for a moment to give my hand a break. “Where did you grow up?”

“Army brat.” His jaw clenches, almost imperceptibly, but I’m watching him so closely I see his corded neck tighten when he swallows. “Both parents. We moved so many times, I can’t remember every place we were stationed. Also can’t remember how many times we were all together, because they took turns going on tour. Both very strict. Very disciplined. Very focused on duty.”

“Sounds tough for a kid.” I give his arm a sympathetic stroke.

“Kids adapt. And when I turned eighteen, I did what was expected. Followed the family tradition. Enlisted as soon as I could.”

“But you’re not in the service anymore?”

His muscles tighten under my palm. “What about your parents?”

Puzzled by his reluctance to answer but not willing to pry, I shrug. “Mom is a florist. Very uptight. She came from a wealthy family, but she fell in love with my dad and her parents weren’t happy about it so we never see them. Dad’s a cab driver. Pretty laid-back except when it comes to me. Then he’s overprotective to a fault. Small house in the suburbs. Never moved. Pretty normal until a few weeks ago when Mom lost her job, and then Tag and I found out they’d been living from paycheck to paycheck. We’re helping them out with the mortgage so they don’t lose the house, which is why I work the long hours and take on any client I can get.”

“Nothing normal about you, Sia.” He rubs his knuckles over my cheek and I melt beneath his touch. “More questions,” he says, his voice gruff.

“Biggest vice?”

“You.”

A hot wave sweeps into my belly, but I can’t believe he’s being serious. Me? After he told me the other night was a mistake?

I turn on the tattoo machine to finish the line work, and the fresh scent of ink mixed with musky male makes me shiver. “I meant it as a serious question. My vice is potato chips. Put a bag in front of me, and it will be gone in five minutes. I can’t keep them in my house. The minute I see a bag of chips within reach, I lose all control. That’s what I mean by a vice.”

“Definitely you then.”

His words do strange melty things to my stomach, and my voice flattens as I roll my artist’s chair closer to his soft, black leather seat. “I’m nobody’s vice. Arm on my lap, please. I’ve finished the outline and I just need to sterilize and bandage.”

Ray drops his arm to my lap, but this time his fist doesn’t clench on my hip. Instead, his fingers stroke my thigh, sending zings of sensation straight to my clit. The temperature rises and the air between us sparks, like the calm before a storm. But I’m not letting it get to me. Maybe it’s just a casual brush of his hand as he settles it in my lap. Or a nervous twitch.

The bandaging takes forever, especially since my concentration is focused on the soft stroke of his fingers on my thigh. Good thing women are good at multitasking. Finally, I’m done. I give the bandage a last check and force a smile. “Okay. All finished.”

Ray doesn’t move.

“Usually when I say ‘all finished,’ my clients leap up from the chair, determined to rush home and rip off the bandage to see what’s underneath.”