Looking for Trouble(56)
“No…he’s my…partner.” He specifically tried to avoid the word boyfriend because sometimes the word just didn’t sound strong enough.
He waited for it. He never knew how someone would react when they found out he was gay, but he also refused to hide it. He’d already spent too much time in his life hiding.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth. You get yours.”
He smiled at that. At least it had gone over smoothly, but that still didn’t change the fact that Dylan was young enough to be his child.
Clay finished up the tattoo, cleaning it and wrapping it for her. Once she was out, he locked the door and turned the sign to CLOSED, just as Dylan came out of the office.
“You get yours.” He grinned.
Shit. He’d been hoping Dylan hadn’t heard. “I’m old enough to be your dad.”
“Did you just realize that?” Dylan asked.
“No.” Obviously not.
“Is one person saying it going to change things? It might not be the last time we hear it.”
“No.” The answer was swift, automatic. He didn’t give a shit how it looked or what anyone else said. Dylan was his, and Clay wasn’t letting him go.
“Good. I’m glad you weren’t going to break up with me right before I asked you to give me a tattoo.”
“Huh?” He hadn’t expected that one either. Everyone was surprising him today.
“A tattoo.” Dylan walked over to him. He pushed up on his toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Hi. We didn’t get to do that yet.”
Clay’s chest felt ridiculously fluttery. He felt like a damn kid again himself. “Hi. You want a tattoo?”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded. “I’ve always considered getting one, but I never knew what I wanted. I’ve been thinking about it more lately. I’m not sure if you know, but my boyfriend is a sexy-as-hell tattoo artist.”
“Who’s old enough to be your dad?”
“Who gets better with age.”
Clay grinned. “I like where this is going.”
“Anyway…I was thinking about your phoenix and how that was something you did for yourself when you were making changes in your life, and…you…Bailey Springs…those are turning points for me too. I’m so damn tired of screwing up, of making dumb decisions. This is my chance to start over too. I want something to represent the new Dylan, and there’s no one else I want to do it other than my sexy-as-hell, tattoo-artist boyfriend who gets better with age.”
Clay laughed again. Damn Dylan and his ability to make that happen. “Okay. If you’re sure, I’d love to give you a tattoo. Do you know what you want?”
“Of course I do.” Dylan pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket. Clay opened it, looked down at the hand-drawn anchor with delicate vines of flowers around it. “It’s an anchor.”
“I know that, Trouble. It’s…beautiful.” And it truly was. He’d outdone himself when he’d drawn it.
“It’s supposed to symbolize strength…being steady. It’s time I learn to be strong on my own, you know?”
“You’re strong. Do you really not think you are?” Clay asked.
“I’m trying to be.”
Clay pulled him close and kissed the top of his head. “You are. I’d be honored to tattoo this on you.”
When they parted, Clay closed the blinds on the windows. He’d given hundreds of tattoos over the years, but this wasn’t just tattooing anyone; this was tattooing Dylan. It was intimate, special, and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else.
“Where do you want it?” he asked as he made his way back toward Dylan.
“On my ass.”
Clay stopped in his tracks. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Clay. I’m kidding. On my chest. I want to be able to look down and see it. I’m saving my ass for your name.”
“Funny boy.”
“So I’ve been told. And just so we’re on the same page, I’m not getting your name tattooed on my ass. I love you, but we’ll stick to your name on my jock for now. Once in a while, I’m willing to let you loose with a permanent marker, and we can pretend.”
That lightness in his chest that always accompanied Dylan made itself noticed again. “What am I going to do with you?” he teased.
“I can think of a few ideas if you run out,” Dylan replied.
They chuckled together, and then Dylan took his shirt off while Clay scanned the drawing onto his computer. Dylan watched him as they spoke about size and other details before he printed it out on transfer paper.
Dylan sat down, and Clay cleaned Dylan’s left pec, then worked to get the image transferred onto his skin. It felt like he was a surgeon, preparing for surgery. He had to be delicate, everything perfect, because this was Dylan and he deserved that. “Your skin is so pretty,” Clay told him once the paper was gone and he was looking at the image on Dylan’s flawless, smooth body. “So soft.”
“I shave often for this look.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. Thank you.”
They discussed colors next. He wanted the daisies in different colors, and the anchor would be blue. Clay was meticulous about preparing his equipment, washing his hands, opening a new needle, putting his gloves on.