Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(17)

8





Growing up, I admired my brother.

Kind of worshiped him, as pathetic as that sounds.

Because while life had not been kind to him, he never seemed to let adversity keep him down. It didn’t matter that our mother used him, letting her friends abuse him as payment for the drugs her body craved, or that she treated him as an emotional scapegoat even after sending him to live permanently with our aunt Dottie.

On the outside, Boyd kept his cool. Waited things out and went on to become rich and powerful.

For a long time, I thought that made him strong. He was invincible to me, and I looked forward to the sparse moments when he’d stop by mine and our mom’s little trailer to give me money.

He’d barge into the shoebox I called a bedroom and make small talk, before cutting a check or stuffing cash in my backpack, where our mother wouldn’t find it.

God forbid she even pretend to be interested in my schooling.

I’d spend most of that time studying the colorful artwork spanning Boyd’s skin, though with the suits he wears, I was never able to get a very good look at them. A skull on one hand, dice on the other.

A canvas of experience, he’d once called them. Said every single piece had some modicum of meaning to it, and that was the only reason he didn’t regret getting them.

His body told a story.

One he’d created from scratch to erase any evidence of the life he’d been written into.

That sentiment struck a chord, though he’s always been strictly anti-tattoo when it comes to me. If he even knew I was standing in a shitty parlor beside an inked rock star, waiting for them to gather paperwork, Boyd would certainly have a coronary on his way to the airport.

The thought of his rage is almost enough to quell my spontaneity.

Instead, I steal a look at the man beside me, watching as he smooths his thumb over the bulky watch on his wrist. He’s discarded his hat and glasses, and his eyebrows are drawn in.

Anxiety flares up between my ribs at the thought that I’m keeping him from something.

Or someone.

“We don’t have to do this.”

Aiden’s eyes slide to mine, and my trepidation melts like butter when our gazes lock. Mine twitches, itching to focus elsewhere, but I’m trapped.

“Having second thoughts? It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as your brain makes you think.”

“It’s not that,” I say, although now it is a little. A loud buzz splits the air, coming from one of the little cubicles behind the receptionist’s desk, and it makes my teeth chatter.

“Okay.” He crosses his arms, turning to look at me head-on. “Then what’s the problem?”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I shrug. “Maybe there are better things we could be doing with our time? I doubt this is what you had in mind when you bid on me earlier.”

His eyes narrow, and he takes a step toward me. My heartbeat picks up, pounding like a snare drum inside my chest, resisting his magnetism even as it tries to yank me into him.

“You don’t know what I had in mind when I saw you at the gala.” Those gray irises grow heavy. Dark with something unspoken that I feel in my core. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

My head shakes.

His jaw tics. “You want a tattoo, right?”

I nod, my throat tightening.

“Then you’re getting a goddamn tattoo. Stop making excuses, angel, and do whatever the fuck you want tonight.”

What I want and what I can actually have are very different things, I almost say. Desire unlike I’ve ever felt before surges up in my chest as he turns away, carding a veiny hand through his hair.

I wonder what his hands would feel like on my skin.

Gliding, touching, pleasing.

An image flashes of his lips on mine, traveling lower, slicking down my navel. I rub my thighs together, trying to relieve the ache between them.

My stomach twists, knowing these are fantasies I can’t act on, regardless of what he tells me. Aiden and I are from totally different worlds. He deserves better than what mine would do to him.

The pixie-haired receptionist comes out from the back with two clipboards in hand, lips smacking as she chews on a piece of gum. She shoves one at me and tosses a black pen on top, then turns to Aiden.

“You’ve been here before,” she says, tilting her head as if just recognizing him.

“Every time I come to the city. No one I trust more than Gio to slice me open.”

My face flushes and the receptionist runs her tongue over the stud in her upper lip, giving me a bland expression. “That’s not how tattoos work.”

Turning on her heels, she takes the other clipboard with her to the back, and I sit down on a bench in front of the window, filling out the questionnaire.

Aiden doesn’t come over, eyeing the glass behind me carefully, as if he’s afraid of someone peeking in and noticing him. I tap the pen on the edge of the board after writing my name.

“I used to own all your albums,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence that starts settling in around us. “Herculean Effort was my favorite, for a long time.”

One of his brows arches. “Oh yeah? The way you’ve acted tonight, I assumed you weren’t a fan.”

“I’m not.”

“Ouch.”