Page 57 of The Devil's Playground

I’m the one who brought him into the gang when Link was building it up. Because of that, he’s in the inner circle with us, even though the only reason he stays a Sinner is because it gives him plenty of canvases to practice his craft on.

When I texted him and told him I needed a cover-up tat done stat, I didn’t expect any excuses. I didn’t get any, either. He told me to head on over and he’d be ready to take care of it.

Cross is a quiet guy. He’s not the type to ask questions, or show any hint of curiosity. So when I lead Nicolette into the room, he nods at me, looks her over, nods at her, then gestures to the chair.

“So, Rolls tells me you’re interested in a cover-up. Where is the old tat?”

Oh, fuck.

Why is it just occurring to me now that, in order to get rid of the old tattoo, Cross has to have full access to her chest?

I know I’m being irrational. I know I’m being jealous and overprotective.

That doesn’t stop me from snapping, “She keeps the bra on.”

Cross nods. “On the boob. Got it. Still gonna need to see it, and if that means the bra comes off?—”

“The bra doesn’t come off.”

Nicolette reaches out, laying her hand on my arm. “It’s okay, Royce.”

Cross glances over at me before turning his attention to Nicolette. “For you maybe, miss. I think Rolls is having a hard time thinking of me looking at your chest.” His dark eyes are back on me. “You’ve seen one rack, you’ve seen ‘em all. It’s just skin to me, buddy.”

I wish I could believe that.

“Royce,” murmurs Nicolette, taking her hand back, folding her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t have to do this if you don’t want me to.”

Damn it. Can I really deprive Nic of something she so desperately wants—and that I need—because I don’t want Cross getting a peek at her tits?

I glare at him, then soften my expression as I face Nicolette again. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’m being an ass. You’re the one who has to be topless for him to do this. If you’re okay with it, I am.”

I’m not.

She nods. “If he’s willing to get rid of the fucking thing on me, I don’t care.” Then, to prove it, she shrugs off her jacket, slips off her t-shirt, and unhooks her bra in quick succession.

Cross, to be fair, barely notices. He’s busy prepping his station, and when Nic murmurs, “Ready,” he grabs a tube of something from his tray and wheels his chair closer to her.

He reaches out to get a look at her old ink.

I growl under my breath.

“Rolls,” he says, more patiently than I probably deserve, “I can’t do the cover-up if you won’t even let me touch her.”

Does he think I don’t know that?

I wave my hand at the tube in his hand, buying time to get a hold of myself. “It’s a tat, Cross. What do you need that ointment for?”

“It’s a numbing cream,” Cross answers, and I know him well enough to tell that I’m testing his last nerve. “I find it’s good for clients not used to getting ink. I put it on, wait about twenty minutes, then when I start the outline, they don’t feel anything.”

I tap my side. “You didn’t offer it to me when you did mine.”

Sometimes, Cross has this tiny smile of his that says he finds the whole fucking world funny. I get that now as he says, “Because I only offer it to those I don’t want to watch squirm.”

“Dickhead.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough. But I like to think of it as payback.”

“Payback? For what?”

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