Page 16 of For a Goode Time Call…
“Up we go,” Ink murmured.
And he carried me up the ladder. I laughed, burying my face in the side of his neck to hide the laughter—but that was worse, because he smelledgood.Cedar and pine from his beard, layered over a subtle hint of something that was just male. His skin was warm, radiating heat.
Flushed at my unexpectedly idiotic behavior, I pulled away, embarrassed, but was dizzy from the scent and the feel of him. Just from the way he’d carried me. I mean, I’ve done pair dances with strong male dancers before, done my share of getting thrown and lifted and spun and all that, in the name of dance. But that was always choreographed. Planned. Even when it was Rick and me, when we were dancing, it wasn’t sexual. It wasdance. The dance was sacred. We channeled our emotions and each and every touch was always planned and purposeful.
This…this was something else.
He just picked me up, because he was strong enough that my hundred and ten pounds was nothing to him. He picked me up and carried me up a ladder because he could, and because I was too weak to do so myself.
This was different.
It made my palms itch like crazy, as if the only thing that could soothe the itch was to find out if those tattoos felt as beautiful under my hands as they looked.
My thighs ached, my core.
No, no, no.
I didn’t feel this way for Ink.
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
It was dumb.
He wasn’t my type. My type was Rick—tall and lean, strong, clean-cut, sophisticated, educated, worldly. Cultured. European.
Ink was…the opposite. Not just tall—giant. Heavy with muscle, powerful. That beard…thick and long, but combed and oiled and well-kept. Long hair, shiny black, bound into a loose ponytail. Not educated, but still intelligent. Not sophisticated, butreal. Honest. Down-to-earth. Wise.
Nothinglike Rick at all.
Rick had dumped me, unceremoniously. Sure, sure, medical reasons, inexplicable and unexplainable aftereffects of brain trauma. He’d been rude, brusque, uncaring.
And, if I was being honest with myself, he’d always been that way, to a degree. He’d just hidden it around me. Or I’d overlooked it. Either way, it had come out full force after the accident, and it cut me to pieces.
Something told me Ink would never, could never, treat a person that way, no matter what the circumstances.
We were sitting in the loft, him cross-legged, and me on his lap. As if I belonged on his lap. I felt myself frowning. Felt panic rifle through me. I couldn’t let this happen, not now. Too soon. Too soon.
“What’re you thinkin’, little sparrow?” Ink’s voice washed over me, low and quiet and deep.
I shook my head. “I…I—I don’t know.” I crawled off of him, lay on the bed, on my side. Facing away from him. “I’m tired.”
He was silent a moment, but I felt him there, felt his presence, his warmth. Then, his hand rested briefly on my shoulder. “Rest.”
I felt the mattress rise as his weight left it, heard him descend the ladder. Floorboards creaked, a pot rattled on the stove, liquid poured, and then silence, except for the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl.
Eventually, I slept. Fitfully, though, and full of dreams—of the accident, the huge grill of the semi smashing into my window, crushing my leg, spinning and rolling, and then darkness; of Rick telling me he wasn’t in love with me anymore, the dead light in his eyes as he slashed my heart into ribbons with those seven words (“I’m not in love with you anymore.”); of Ink, cradling me in his massive arms, eyes on mine, inquisitive and knowing and warm and…boiling with deeply buried desire.
Ink
She slept another twelve hours without stirring. I left a note at the top of the stairs on the morning of the fourth day:Have clients I cannot reschedule. Shop is just out the front door. Call shop phone if you need me.And I left my shop phone number at the bottom of the note, along with my scrawled signature.
I did three sessions, and took a break for lunch to check on her—still asleep, sweating now with the blankets tossed off: good news, because it meant the fever had broken. Set more soup to simmering, with another note to help herself. I returned to the shop and did four more sessions. I was finishing the aftercare spiel for my last client when a woman came through the door. Not unusual, obviously, except she was dressed to kill in a business professional sense, a knee-length skirt, white shirt, blazer, heels, expensive purse. No visible tattoos, and just didn’t seem like the type. Then I looked her over once more, as my client examined his nearly finished sleeve in the mirror. She was tall, slender but curvy, fine glossy black hair, and vibrant hazel eyes that I recognized immediately.
“Mrs. Goode,” I said, lifting off my rolling stool and stripping off my gloves. “I’m Ink.”
She peered up at me, eyes assessing me, looking me over critically but not judgmentally. “Call me Liv.” She shook my hand, her eyes flicking over my bare upper body and its canvas of interwoven tattoos. “How is Cassie?”
I cashed out my client, scheduled him for the final session, and flipped the sign from open to closed. “Still sleepin’, last I checked. Her fever had broken when I checked in on her around lunchtime.” I gestured for Liv to follow me through the back door. “Come on, this way. I live out behind the shop.”
