Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(6)

But that was growing up for you. Not only your body changed; your

head did, too.

Staring at his friend, the loss of innocence seemed a crime.

And on that note, the receptionist behind the counter caught Blay's

attention. She was leaning on the glass display of piercing supplies, her breasts swelling against the black bra and black muscle shirt she was wearing. She had two sleeves, one in black and white and one in black and red, and she had gunmetal gray hoops in her nose, her eyebrows, and both ears. Amid all the tat drawings on the walls, she was a living example of the 27

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work you could get if you wanted. A very sexy, hard-core example . . . who had lips the color of red wine and hair the color of night.

Everything about her matched Qhuinn. She was like a female him.

And what do you know. Qhuinn's mixed eyes had already locked on

her and he was smiling tightly in his trademark gotcha way.

Blay slipped a hand into his leather jacket and felt around for his pack of Dunhill reds. Man, nothing made him jones for a smoke more than

Qhuinn's love life.

And clearly he'd be lighting up another couple coffin nails tonight:

Qhuinn sauntered over to the receptionist and drank her in like she was a long, tall beer fresh from the tap and he'd been working in the heat for hours.

His eyes locked on her breasts as he traded names with her, and she helped him get a clearer picture of her assets by easing forward onto her forearms.

Good thing vampires didn't get cancer.

Blay turned his back on the Spice Channel by the cash register and

went over to stand next to John Matthew.

"That's cool." Blay pointed at a dagger sketch.

You going to get ink ever? John signed.

"I don't know."

God knew he liked it on skin. . . .

His stare shifted back over to Qhuinn. The guy's huge body was

arching into the human woman, his broad shoulders and his tight hips and his long, powerful legs guaranteeing her one hell of a ride.

He was amazing at sex.

Not that Blay would know firsthand. He'd seen it and he'd heard it . . .

and he'd imagined what it would be like. But when the opportunity had arisen, he'd been relegated to a small, special class: denied.

Actually, it was more of a category than a class . . . because he was the only one who Qhuinn would not have sex with.

"Um . . . is it going to sting like this forever?" a female voice asked.

As a deep male rumble replied, Blay glanced over to the tat chair. The blond who'd just been worked on was gingerly tucking her shirt in over her cellophane bandage and staring at the guy who'd inked her like he was a doctor telling her the odds of surviving rabies.

The pair of girls then went over to the receptionist, where the uninked one who'd changed her mind got a refund and both of them checked out

Qhuinn.

It was like that wherever the guy went and it used to be the kind of

thing that made Blay worship his best friend. Now, it was a never-ending rejection: every time Qhuinn said yes, it made that one single no louder.

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"I'm ready if you guys are," the tattoo artist called out.

John and Blay headed to the rear of the shop and Qhuinn dropped the

receptionist like a bad habit and followed. One good thing about him was the seriousness with which he took his role as John's ahstrux nohtrum: he was supposed to be around the guy twenty-four/seven, and that was a responsibility he took more seriously even than sex.

As John sat in the padded chair in the center of the workspace, he took out a piece of paper and unfolded it on the artist's counter.

The man frowned and looked over what John had sketched out. "So

it's these four symbols across your upper shoulders?"

John nodded and signed, You can embellish them any way you want,

but they have to be clear.

After Qhuinn translated, the artist nodded. "Cool." He grabbed a black pen and started making a picture box of elegant swirls around the simple design. "What are these things, by the way?"

"Just symbols," Qhuinn answered.

The artist nodded again and kept sketching. "How's this?"

All three of them leaned in.

"Man," Qhuinn said softly. "That's vicious."

It was. It was absolutely perfect, the kind of thing John would wear on his skin with pride--not that anyone would see the Old Language characters or all that spectacular swirl work. What was spelled out was not something he wanted widely known, but that was the thing with tats: they didn't have to be public, and God knew the guy had plenty of Tshirts to cover up with.

When John nodded, the artist stood up. "Let me get the transfer paper.

Copying it onto you won't take long and then we'll get to work."

As John put a crystal jar of ink on the counter and started to take off his jacket, Blay sat on a stool and held out his arms. Given the number of weapons John was packing in his pockets, it wouldn't do anyone any good for him to just hang his shit up on a hook.

When he was shirtless, John settled into a forward lean position, his heavy arms resting on a padded bar stand. After the tattoo artist got the image on the transfer paper, the guy smoothed the sheet over John's upper back, then peeled it off.