Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(20)

Pinching my eyes shut, I try to force the memory away, but it doesn’t budge. My hands grip the edges of the table. If Gio notices my apprehension, he doesn’t say anything.

Maybe because he thinks it’s all pre-tattoo jitters, and that I’ll get over it when we get started.

A lead weight settles in the center of my chest, and the buzzing gets louder. Blots out everything else as it slinks up and down my skin like a familiar knife.

And then, the needle is on me, slicing or punching or whatever it is that tattoo guns do. Pain sizzles where the tool touches, radiating outward until I’m suffocating in it, my lungs giving in to the burn.

“Jesus Christ,” Gio curses as an ear-piercing mewl rips out of my throat. He snaps back, switching the gun off, and I can practically hear Aiden trip over himself to turn around and assess the situation.

I don’t open my eyes, struggling to regulate my breathing; fear has me in a choke hold, its claws digging into my throat and refusing to let go.

“What happened?” Aiden demands, his tone sharper than it’s been all night.

“Nothing. I did one line and she’s having a fucking panic attack. I thought you said she was good.”

No one says anything for several beats, and my skin warms even more knowing they’re watching me.

Waiting.

Forcing a swallow, I peel my eyelids back and blink up at the fluorescent lights, sucking in three lungfuls of air as I push into an upright position.

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as my arms tremble. Crossing them over my chest, I glance down at the tattoo; black streaks across my skin, a single line mixed with a droplet of blood, and I look away before the urge to vomit resurfaces. “Seriously, I am. Let’s… can we try it again?”

I don’t know why I ask, since it’s painfully obvious that I’m not okay, but I don’t want to seem like a baby in front of a freaking celebrity. Especially one covered in tattoos.

Embarrassment scalds my cheeks, and I stare down at the ground, wishing it’d crack open and swallow me whole.

“Clearly you’re not, and I’m not tattooing you if you’re going to fucking pass out. I could have my license revoked for that shit.”

“You can’t leave her with an incomplete design,” Aiden says.

“I can if it means not risking her safety. She’s in no shape to continue.”

“G, come on—”

Tears sting my eyes, and a solution rushes past my lips before I have a chance to consider the consequences. “What if Aiden finishes it?”

Lifting my head, both men are watching me with wide eyes, like they’re surprised I suggested such a thing. I’m not even sure if that’s something he’s allowed to do, although I remember reading a few years ago about how he’d occasionally step into some tattoo shops around the country while on tour and fill in as a guest.

Though not an artist, he can at least trace over a simple stencil, and fans used to line up down the street for the chance to have Aiden James scar them with ink.

They’re staring, clearly waiting for me to elaborate. “I think… I think I can do it, but not with a strange man looming over me, you know?”

Sliding his gaze from me, Aiden looks at Gio and lifts a shoulder. Gio frowns so hard a dimple forms in his right cheek, and then he throws his hands in the air, shaking his head.

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense, but whatever.” Removing his gloves, Gio tosses them in the trash bin next to the table and stalks out of the cubicle. “Make sure you sign that liability release. And I want VIP tickets to your next show in Philly.”

“Done.”

“She gets even a little paler, or starts gagging, you quit. Got it?”

We nod, and Gio disappears through the back with the receptionist while Aiden takes his spot on the stool. He doesn’t look at me while he preps, methodically sliding his rings off and pulling on a new pair of gloves.

My ears ring in the silence that follows, and I feel extremely stupid. This is such a bad idea.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks, turning toward me.

I shake my head, pressing my legs together as the reality that I’m half naked sets in. My fingers pull on the hem of the hoodie, reflexively ensuring the scar is still covered.

“Ready to tell me your name yet?” He rolls forward so his chest is level with my knees.

Again, I shake my head, and he just sighs.

“Lean back for me.” My throat constricts until I can’t breathe again, but his soft tone stirs something else in me.

Determination takes hold, and I force my body to move through the sludge of panic, pushing my weight back onto the heels of my palms.

He scoots closer, keeping his eyes on mine. With one hand, he pushes the sweatpants down a little more, then draws a damp cloth roughly over the start of the tattoo, cleaning my skin of debris. The pain is sharp, sudden, and over before I can even finish inhaling.

“You have to relax,” he murmurs, reaching for the gun. I watch, rapt, as he dips the needle in ink and brings it over to the table. “In the name of adventure, remember?”

Blowing out a breath, I give a quick jerk of my chin, and he plants his elbow between my thighs as he angles the gun appropriately.

My breathing stalls out completely, and my pulse plucks along just centimeters from his arm.