Page 28 of Patchwork
“Well fuck me, it’s Onyx Hart,” Jag says.
A low murmur goes through the shop. Piston has to pull his needle away abruptly as his client nearly launches himself out of the chair to get a better look, and even Brick pokes his head out from his private piercing studio to see what all the commotion is about.
My bones are practically vibrating with the effort it takes to stay rooted to my spot and not rush across the shop to pull him into my arms and taste his lips again. In spite of everyone else’s interest and excitement, it feels like he only has eyes for me, a smile twisting his mouth as he jams his hands into his pockets and just looks at me silently for several long seconds.
Arrow gives my shoulder a subtle shove, nudging me to stop staring and actually say something. I clear my throat, rake my fingers through my hair, and manage to unstick my feet from the spot I’m rooted to.
“Hey,” I greet him casually.
“Hey.” Onyx tugs his lip ring between his teeth, tempting me to want to do the same. He manages to tear his eyes away from mine and glance around the shop as I approach him. “This place is cool.”
“Yeah, thanks. We’ve put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into it.” I come to a stop right in front of him, doing a quick visual check for any new tattoos he might have gotten since the last time I saw him.
His smile widens a little more, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. “No one’s inked me but you,” he says quietly.
Satisfaction blooms in my chest, and I nod. “Are you, uh, here for some ink?”
I want to ask how long he’ll be in town, where he’s planning to stay, if I can have him all to myself tonight before he’s back on the road to wherever he’s due to play next. But I can’t ask any of that with half a dozen sets of nosy eyes on us.
“Yeah. It was crazy, we were passing through town on our way to the next show and the lights on the bus went all wacky. They think there must be some kind of electrical problem, so while they get it checked out, I figured I’d swing by and see if you had time to see me.” His eyes dance with mischief and the same unspoken heat I can feel brewing in my gut.
“Electrical problem?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
Onyx shrugs. “It was like someone fucked with the wires or something. Who knows.” He smirks.
“Gremlins probably,” I deadpan.
“Must be. So… do you have time to give me some ink?”
“Yeah, I actually have a couple of hours until my next appointment. Let me get this one out the door and clean up, then I can get you in my chair.”
“Sounds good.” He rocks forward on his toes. Does he want to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss him?
I’m torn between excitement that he stopped by at all and disappointment that he’s only passing through and can’t stay the night. A few hours to give him a new tattoo is better than nothing though, right?
ONYX
“So, what are you thinking?” Hero asks, cleaning up his space while I sit on the railing nearby waiting to have his hands on me, even if it’s not in the way I would really like.
What am I thinking?I don’t know if I can answer that one out loud in his workplace with clients within earshot. I’m thinking it’s been too many months since I’ve felt the weight of his cock on my tongue. I’m thinking that the memory of his moans vibrating against my lips is getting misty and I’d love to refresh it. I’m thinking I should have sabotaged the tour bus in some way that would have taken more than a few hours to sort out.
“Surprise me,” I say instead.
Hero swivels around and arches his eyebrow at me, the smirk on his lips letting me know his thoughts are in the gutter right along with mine.
“Alright, I think I have something.” He pats the chair to beckon me over and grabs his sketch pad.
I hop off the railing and park myself in his tattoo chair, taking in the shop while he looks for the design he has in mind. This place really is pretty badass. I can see the biker vibe in a lot of the designs pinned to the walls and the random photos of Harleys hung here and there. The atmosphere is relaxed too, a low hum of conversation carrying through the shop while the other guys work. After that initial excitement, everyone seems to have stopped caring that there’s a rockstar in their midst.
“So, whose shitty car is that?” Jag calls over to me.
I chuckle. “Mine. I worked my ass off at the butcher shop on Main Street for a whole summer when I was sixteen to afford that car. She may look a little rough now, but she still runs just fine. I make them hitch her to the back of the bus so I always have her with me on tour.”
“You know you’re rich, right?” Arrow stage whispers. “You could just buy a brand-new Mustang, or any other car you want.”
I shrug. I don’t really feel the need to explain to a room full of strangers that a new car wouldn’t be the same. A new Mustang wouldn’t be the car I slept in for the first few weeks I lived in Seattle before I managed to scrape together the money for a security deposit on a place. A new Mustang wouldn’t be the car I drove to my Black Sheep audition in, or the car I was sitting in the first time one of our singles played on the radio.
“Alright, got it,” Hero says. “Do you want to see, or do you actually want it to be a surprise?”
