Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(27)

“What are you staring at?”

“Your scar,” I admit. I wonder how he got it, and if it bothers him, but I don’t ask. “I’ve covered a lot of scars for clients.”

“I don’t need it covered,” he says. “Scars give you—”

“Character,” I finish in unison with him. “I don’t mind them, either. They make people more interesting.”

He closes the distance and pulls the bags from my grasp, his fingers grazing mine, and tosses them into the Dumpster. “Anything else that you need carried out here?” His words are slightly breathless, and a light sheen of sweat coats his forehead. At least it wasn’t too easy for him. While I hate it when someone makes me feel small and weak and incapable, actually witnessing that made me feel something else. Something thrilling.

“I think I can handle the rest.”

“Okay.” He flips the lid closed. Looping his hand beneath the front of his T-shirt, he pulls it up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his chest and stomach, both of which are padded by an impressive layer of muscle. “So . . . should we get started?”

A flicker of light dances in his eyes, and I know that that was intentional. He could have used his arm, or his hand. Hell, he wasn’t even that sweaty.

“Yeah, sure.” I try to sound nonchalant, but for the first time since Ned died, I actually feel the urge to sit down in front of my machine. Even if it’s for the wrong reasons. I don’t care what this guy wants, or where. I’ll do it. But that’s not the most professional way to broach the topic with a new client. One whose name I don’t even know.

I reach out. “My name is Ivy.”

He pauses for a long moment, staring at my hand before taking it in his, his skin rough and warm and powerful. “Sebastian.”

“And what exactly were you thinking of having done, Sebastian?” Please let it involve taking your shirt off. Better yet, your pants.

“A piece, right here.” He runs long fingers over the left side of his torso, from below his armpit to his hip.

Jackpot. I stifle my smile. “That’s a big area.” Does he realize how long that will take? How much that will take out of him, and me?

“Yeah. It is.”

“That’s going to take hours.”

His eyes flicker over me lightning fast. “All night, maybe.”

He’s flirting with me. I can’t read him at all, but I caught that.

My heart skips a beat as I get lost in his face. I’ve had a few clients turned flings. I try to keep things separate, but sometimes it’s hard. There’s a heightened level of intimacy that comes with this job that is impossible to replicate. These men come to me, vulnerable and full of trust from the moment they climb into my chair. I have all the control, and it can be intoxicating, having an attractive guy lie there and watch me with anticipative eyes, allowing me to mark him with something that bonds us for eternity—or until he files for divorce in a tattoo removal process. Though, I’ve had no divorces yet, from what I know. If anything, they search me out on the Internet when they want more. I have my own web page set up, with my portfolio and where I’m working at any moment in time. One guy from Portland actually vacationed in Ireland last summer, just so I could finish his sleeve for him.

“Do you have a sketch already?”

He reaches into his back pocket, his T-shirt pulling tight against the ridges of his chest, retrieving a sheet of paper that he unfolds and hands to me. I study the grim reaper on the page, the gown heavy and black, the scythe oversized. A little morbid, but I’ve seen worse. I recognize it as a popular sketch. I’m not a fan of popular sketches. If you’re going to mark your body, why not make it original? It disappoints me a little that he wouldn’t feel the same. But I guess that’s why he’s coming to me, so I can set him straight. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“Are you a virgin?” I like asking hot guys that question out of the blue and seeing how they react.

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Have you had any other work done?”

“Oh.” The slightest exhale sails from his lips, but I notice it. “Yeah. I have.”

My eyes roll over his form again, wondering where it could be. “Okay. Well, Sebastian . . . We should go inside and talk about this some more. This is about seven hours of work, and doing it in one sitting is hard, but I don’t think we have any other choice. Ideally I’d outline it all and then begin the detail a month or so later, once it’s healed. But I doubt I’ll be around in a month.”

“When are you leaving?”

I glance over my shoulder at the back of Black Rabbit, as dingy out here as it is inside. “As soon as this place is out of my hair.”

“You don’t like San Francisco?”

“I love it,” I answer too quickly. “Loved it. But there’s nothing here for me now.”

His gaze drifts over to the dented, dirty back door. “Was this place yours?”

“No. It was my uncle’s shop.”

“The one who was murdered in this chair I just pitched for you?”

I grimace at the callous way he says it, but I wasn’t any less callous when I said it yesterday, I guess. Of course he’s not going to forget something like that. “Yeah. He was more my father than my own father is. And now he’s gone, and I can’t stand being here so I’m leaving.” Wanting to get off the subject, I add, “And you’ll have to pay in cash.”