Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(19)

“Jesus.” I exhale a shaky breath, my shoes slapping onto the floor as I lock my screen. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

Aiden grins. “You’re very cagey, you know that?” I don’t respond, and he extends his hand. “It’s your turn.”

My eyes scan the visible stretch of skin beneath his sleeve. “What did you get?”

Turning his left hand up, he shows me where black plastic is taped to the underside of his thumb. “Tit for tat. I’ll show you mine after you show me yours.”

I’m not sure how badly I care about new ink on him, when he’s almost completely covered in it, but I nod anyway, letting him lead me to the tattooing station.

Stepping into the crowded space, I wait for instruction as Gio sits on a stool with his back to me, fiddling around with the utensils on a plastic cart. Black ink sits in a little paint dish, and the electric gun is beside that; my eyes glue to them as I take a seat on the padded table, swinging my legs beneath me.

“You’ve eaten recently?” Gio asks, rolling around to face me.

“Uh, yeah. Like half an hour ago.”

He jerks his chin in acknowledgment and picks up the stencil on the cart. “Where are we putting this?”

Gripping my knees, I let out a sigh, trying to expel the fear from my lungs. “My hip, I think.”

Aiden makes a sound in the back of his throat, and I turn to glare at him.

“You can’t watch.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why the hell not?”

“That’s… too much. Too intimate, for strangers.”

Pressing his lips together, his nostrils flare, and he leans over the partition. A muscle in his jaw thumps, and I can tell he wants to protest, but after a prolonged stare down, he growls in defeat.

“Fine, but I’m not leaving you alone back here.”

“Whatever.” I wave my hand pointedly. “But don’t you dare look.”





9





With my throat suddenly thick and dry, I try to force a swallow, but my gut rages on.

My body’s revolting at the idea of intentionally causing myself harm, bits of memory trying to worm their way in.

Tattoos are basically colored scars, Boyd told me once, when I asked if I could get one for my seventeenth birthday. Aren’t you sick of being identifiable?

Hypocritical, yes. But maybe my brother had a point.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to decline when Gio snaps on a pair of blue latex gloves and holds up the stencil, cocking an eyebrow. I blink, and then spring into action when I realize he’s waiting for me.

Hopping up, I awkwardly shimmy the sweatpants down to my knees, avoiding eye contact with the artist as he leans forward. The lacy nude thong Mellie made me wear does nothing to shield me from the cold table, and I grit my teeth as I sit my bare ass back on it.

Aiden’s hoodie, at least, is long enough to cover the scar on my abdomen. I hold the hem in place for good measure, though.

Swiping an alcohol wipe over the spot, he lets it dry for a moment before placing the stencil on. I hiss as the paper makes contact with my skin, but then he’s pulling back and using his hand to fan the purple ink.

He holds up a little circular mirror. “Like it?”

My brain is a bit hazy as I nod, my eyes trailing over the design; it’s higher and farther in than I’d imagined, in that soft crease where thigh meets hip, but it looks good.

I’m buzzing, something that feels a lot like excitement pumping through me when Gio tells me to lie back and relax.

I do quickly, turning my head to stare at the back of Aiden’s. His dark hair sticks up in an array of angles, perfectly tousled, and I want to tangle my fingers in it. Tug on it the way he’s done all night, see if I can cure my fears with him.

God, what is wrong with me? I didn’t want the slimy businessman’s hands anywhere near me, but the thought of Aiden James even thinking about touching me has my temperature rising.

Gio dips the tattoo gun in his ink, and I feel his eyes on me. “Ready?”

The muscles in my chest pull tight, and I force a shaky nod. He switches the gun on, and instinctively, I stiffen, my breaths growing shallow. Rickety.

They rattle from somewhere deep in my chest and sweat percolates across my forehead as shame and panic swirl around my insides.

My heart bangs into my ribs so hard I’m worried it might bruise. Worried the black and blue skin will bleed through and reveal my insecurities.

“Relax,” Gio grunts as he leans over me, and I’m trying, really I am.

Fuck, I’m trying.

My eyes shoot to the ceiling, tracing squares in the popcorn material. The buzzing sound fills my ears and invades my senses; it vibrates through my body, and I clench my teeth shut to try and ward it off, but it just travels along my spine instead.

Thick bile teases the back of my throat, cutting off my air supply, throwing me further down the stairs of terror.

“It’ll be over in a minute.” Gio’s voice is low, meant to be soothing, but for some reason all I can hear is the gravelly baritone of my mother’s ex-boyfriend as he pins me down.

The image is unclear, but his words come through as if he’s whispering them in my ear all over again. It’s mostly muffled Italian, but that exact phrase, “it’ll be over in a minute,” replays over and over, the only English he cared to utter.