Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(41)

“Why do you say that?”

I pause to run my gloved fingertip over the man that hangs on his shoulder blade. “Don’t all you guys live for God and country and family?” I haven’t pushed with questions about his time serving overseas, though I’m dying to. I could easily slap a quid pro quo on him for his earlier interrogation about my choice to become a tattoo artist. I’ll bide my time, though, and slip in casual questions and comments to help me figure him out.

He doesn’t answer. I take it as a sign that that topic is still not okay.

“How old are you?” Something I’d know if I had him fill out his paperwork.

“Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Just trying to figure you out,” I say, throwing his words back at him.

I see no ring, no tanned outline of a ring that’s been taken off. Does he have kids? Does he want kids? Has my not wanting kids already turned him off?

And why the f*ck am I even thinking about any of this? Ned’s death has obviously screwed with me more than I realized, making me think about my future more than I ever have before. I’m basically a homeowner, and I didn’t ask for that. I could be running this shop, and I didn’t ask for that either. And now I have to make decisions, and I’m afraid that they’ll be the wrong ones. That little voice in the back of my head is warning me that if I walk away from Black Rabbit, I will have regrets.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” Sebastian says, cutting into my thoughts. “Now I’m a lot like you.”

Like me? I frown. “In what way?”

“I don’t want to bring children into this world. I’ve seen too much violence to be able to sleep at night.” There’s tension beneath my fingertips, something I haven’t felt from him until now. But it slips away just as easily, as if he’s aware of it and can choose to control it. “And I have yet to find a woman who holds my interest for more than a few hours.”

Most women would balk at hearing that.

I smile. “Until now, of course.”

He doesn’t answer. But he’s smiling, too.





HOUR FOUR


“What do your parents think of your chosen profession?”

“They think I’m going to be broke and homeless in my forties, that I can’t possibly have a lifelong career doing this. So I guess that means they don’t approve.”

“And what about the tattoos and the shaved head and streaks of blue?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I thought I was fierce, stunning, captivating,” I tease, though inside there’s a hint of panic. What if he was just leading me on before?

“You are all those things. You’re also not my daughter.”

Thank God for that. “Fair point,” I mutter under my breath.

“What made you come back to San Francisco?”

“I got tired of floating, and going back to Oregon just wasn’t for me.” My arm is settled against his stomach, and the feel of my bare skin against his is intoxicating. And, seriously . . . I think it’d be impossible for any guy to be turned on right now, but it looks like he could be, or else he must just have an impressive— “Are you almost done with the outline?”

“Just about,” I say, too breathless, flushing as if I just got caught. “Why? You need a break already?” That Sebastian hasn’t asked to stretch or take a moment to pee up until now may be a new record for my clients.

“Keep going.”





SIXTEEN


SEBASTIAN


HOUR FIVE


She’s switched positions to fill in the bottom part of the design, her ass cheek perched on the table and her thigh pressed against my back as she faces my lower half. It’s the perfect angle for her to size up my junk, and she thinks I don’t know she’s doing it.

The mirror across from me, which gives me a good angle of her face, doesn’t lie.

“How’re you doing?” she murmurs.

“I’m good.”

“Seriously, you’re the most unaffected person I’ve ever worked on.”

“I have a high pain threshold.” “Unaffected” is probably not the right word for what I feel, with her draped over my body. Luckily I don’t enjoy pain, so getting a hard-on right now is just about impossible.

“Are you sure you’re not just a cyborg?” she jokes. I love her humor, and the way she delivers it—deadpan.

“Are you saying I don’t have feelings? That hurts.” This pain is laughable compared to the bullet in my thigh.

“Or maybe you’re just playing tough and trying to impress me, Army Boy.”

“Navy Boy, if you want to get specific. Those army guys are wimps.” It’s the first shred of real information I’ve offered her about my past life and I shouldn’t have done it. This room, this chair, spending hours motionless, completely at her mercy . . . I haven’t spent this much time with one person in years. It’s messing with my head.

“Did you serve overseas?” she asks quietly, as if she knows she’s treading in unwelcome territory.

“Two tours in Afghanistan.”

She slides off the table. “Roll back this way. It’s easier for me to fill this with you lying on your back.” Her hand guides me and then slides onto my hip, pushing the elastic band of my briefs down and holding it there. The needle digs into my sensitive flesh. “Did you have to kill anyone?” she asks, and the question sounds so jarring, even though I knew it was coming.