Page 8 of Four Tattoos

He frowns at me, but then his eyes soften in sympathy, which pisses me off even more.

“She’s just a girl,” I say as I turn and head back toward my workspace.

“She’s a woman,” Christian says, raising his voice. “Younger than us, sure, but she’s fair game.” When no one responds, he adds, “Bet we could teach her a lot.”

“You gonna make a move on her?” Hutch asks.

Christian shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Hutch stands up taller, pushing his chest out. “What about the rest of us?”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” Christian says, before turning to go back to his room.

The expression on Hutch’s and Mace’s faces has me shaking my head. It’s a bad idea. I just thought they were enjoying getting a look at the girl every day; I didn’t think any of them were going to be dumb enough to act on it.

The four of us get on each other’s nerves enough as it is. Adding a woman into the mix will only bring trouble, just like it did before.

But shit, that doesn’t mean I’ll be standing by just watching while they get with her.

7

ROSE

Asolid week of deliveries to Brothers in Ink has passed—that’s five days, because I don’t work in the coffee shop on weekends—and it feels simultaneously as though I’ve known the four tattoo artists for much longer than that, and also like I hardly know anything about them at all.

Just like all of that tantalizing ink that disappears under the edges of their clothing, each man is a mystery that I want to explore.

A new week is starting, and I’m making another delivery, this time in a new outfit I bought over the weekend, a little black skirt and a silky red shirt with a neckline that’s lower than I usually wear. I can lie and say my clothing has nothing to do with the men, but I’d also have to make excuses for why I’ve been spending more time on my hair and makeup every morning.

I can’t deny that I’m trying to impress them, though I’m not totally sure why.

The familiar moody ‘90s grunge music greets me, but there are also raised voices filled with irritation.

“We run enough ads,” Christian’s saying. “Word of mouth is a better way to grow.”

“And how do you propose — oh, hi Rose.” Hutch interrupts himself as soon as he sees me come in, and his tone softens, too. “How are you?”

I hesitate in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”

“We can finish our conversation later.” Hutch directs this more at Christian than me, before heading my way. “Here, let me help you.” He takes the tray of drinks from me, his big hands briefly covering mine as we make the transfer, sending now-familiar, but still very exciting sensations up my arms and throughout my body. “You look nice today,” he says, his eyes taking in my new outfit.

“Thank you.” A warm glow joins the tingling sensations.

“You look nice every day,” Christian says, and I thank him too, as Hutch shoots him a glare that I pretend not to see.

“Who ordered the London fog tea? Do you have clients in?” I ask. For the past couple of deliveries, they seemed to have me come at a time when most of them were between jobs. I don’t hear any tattoo guns buzzing right now, but the music is fairly loud.

“That’s mine.” Zipper strides forward, the sight of him making my belly flutter. It’s not that I find him any more attractive than the others—theyalldo things to my belly—but as they start to surround me, I get overwhelmed.

“You like tea?” I manage to ask.

He gives me one of his usual half shrugs, and pulls his drink from the carrier that Hutch is still holding. As he’s reaching for it, I spot his Brothers in Ink tattoo on his right inner bicep.

“Oh, your logo tattoo!” I point to it, excited, like I’ve found a spot on a treasure map.

Zipper transfers his drink to his other hand and then steps closer, flexing the thick muscles on his arm, giving me a better look. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch it, tracing my finger over the shapes, feeling the steel that lies beneath his warm skin. I glance up at him to make sure what I’m doing is okay, and he’s watching my finger intently with a typically unreadable expression on his face. If this wasn’t okay, I suppose he’d step away.

“Who drew this on you?” I ask.

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