Page 52 of Beautiful Lies
“So, buy a pack of cigarettes and stop blaming me for caring about your health and well-being. Your choice, Rocket Man.”
“Rocket Man? Oh no.” His mouth quirked with amusement. “Don’t tell me you still listen to that song.”
“It’s a great song.”
Connor snickered. “Does it still make you cry?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What makes you cry?” Lee asked, stopping on his way outside, a pack of Camels and a lighter in his hand. His dark hair stuck up all over, defying gravity, with the help of a liberal amount of gel.
“Electronic cigarettes make me cry,” Connor said, eyeing Lee’s cigarettes.
“No shit, dude,” Lee rubbed his middle finger over the silver barbell piercing in his right eyebrow, like he was flipping the bird to electronic cigarettes. “They’re not satisfying.”
“They also won’t cause lung cancer,” I pointed out.
“Everyone’s gotta go someday. Might as well enjoy life while you can. If you need a smoke, I’m outside,” Lee said, pushing through the back door.
“I’m leaving now,” I said. “Do whatever you want. Smoke. Don’t smoke. It’s your life.”
Connor put his hands on either side of the armed swivel chair, his face so close to mine I could smell his cinnamon gum and his clean manly scent. It gave me a head rush. My gaze swept over his face, to the tangle of dark lashes framing his blue eyes and down to his mouth. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and I swallowed hard. My pulse was racing, thrumming in my ears. He knew what he was doing to me. He knew his nearness messed with my head.
His mouth curved into a smile, showing off his straight white teeth and the dimple in his right cheek. “Get out of my space,” I said.I can’t breathe.
He chewed on his gum, a lazy grin still on his face. I was tempted to smack it off. God, he made me violent. I still couldn’t believe I’d kicked him in the balls. That was an all-time low. He’d been in so much pain it had mademenauseous.
“Would you really scratch out Claudia’s eyes?” he asked, letting go of my chair. I scooted the chair back before I stood so I wouldn’t be in his personal space.
“I was just joking,” I said, putting on my army jacket and shouldering my bag.
He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You sounded pretty serious.”
“I need to go back to work.” I tried to walk around him, but he blocked my exit with a wall of muscle. I flapped my hand in the air. “Get out of my way.”
His smile grew wider. I planted my hands on my hips and glared at him.
“I’ll pick you up after class tonight,” he said, still not budging.
“You need to be here. I checked your appointment schedule. You’re fully booked until the end of the night.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“It’s a good thing. And I’m okay getting home on my own. You know I can defend myself. I’m a badass.”
He chuckled as I drew myself up to my full five feet, three inches.
“A badass in a fun-sized package.”
“Fun-sized,” I scoffed. “Get out of my way before I make you.”
Connor stepped aside to let me pass and fell into step with me. “Don’t forget to take pictures of awesome tattoos,” I said, glancing over at the tattoo stations where Gavin and AJ, the new tattoo artist, were working. AJ’s red hair snaked over one shoulder, her tank top showing off her colorful tattoo sleeves. She used to work at a shop in the city with Gavin, so she had no trouble making the transition to this shop. Tattoo artists were like free agents who brought in their own customers and paid a percentage of their earnings to the shop, so Connor didn’t really need to manage them. He just had to keep track of their days off and put in orders for their supplies. “Your followers on Instagram are loving it.”
Connor was too busy humming “Rocket Man” to care about his followers. Not that he’d care anyway. I didn’t know what he had against social media, but he’d always been weird about it. He’d never had personal Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter accounts. I’ve been keeping the Forever Ink accounts updated, although he specifically told me not to include photos of him.
“Stop it with the ‘Rocket Man,’” I said as he sang a few verses, holding the front door open for me. He had a good singing voice, but I refrained from mentioning it. No need to encourage him.
He stopped on the sidewalk in front of me and squinted in the afternoon sunlight. I slipped on a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses to cut the glare. “Why does that song make you sad?” he asked, his gaze settling on my face.
