Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Cookies again?”
Zipper nods, and I get the opportunity to see that his eyes are gray. When he takes the bag from me, I’m left standing awkwardly again. “Should I … go back and find the others?”
“They’ll be up,” Christian says.
Okay. I guess I’m meant to wait. It occurs to me that I could leave the remaining items on the counter—I don’t typically distribute cups of coffee to each individual recipient when I make deliveries—but I can’t deny that I’m interested to see Hutch again. I’ve been daydreaming about how his muscles looked in the sleeveless shirt he was wearing yesterday, and I’d like to confirm that they’re really as big as I’ve been remembering.
Because staring at these fascinating men would be impolite, I busy myself by looking at some of the artwork and photos that fill the walls. There’s a big diversity in styles, which I guess makes sense, since there are four men here, but all of it is impressive—even the things that don’t personally appeal to me, like snakes and zombies and nude women. The images I’m most drawn to are realistic, but I also like a lot of the exaggerated, surreal images too. “All of this artwork is amazing,” I say aloud, as I continue to wander around as if I’m at a gallery.
“You have any ink?” Zipper asks.
I turn quickly, surprised by his question and even more by the fact that he’s talking to me without me prompting him with a question. I’m wearing a short, flowy skirt that shows off my legs, and my arms are bare, but of course, I could have a tattoo in a hidden spot. “No,” I say. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“Depends.” I wait for more of an explanation, but he doesn’t add anything, so I resume my perusal of their shop.
I register the faint buzzing of their equipment as the song changes. Another classic I love starts to play. How odd. I mouth the words to “Better Man” by Pearl Jam for a few lines, before turning to face both Zipper and Christian. “Your shop is called Brothers in Ink. Are you … brothers?”
They don’t look alike; none of them really do, but that happens sometimes, every kid in a family having distinctly different features. My brother and I don’t look much alike. Patrick has reddish-blonde naturally curly hair, while I bleach my dark brown to make it blonde, and I have to coax my stick-straight hair into waves on a daily basis.
“Nope, not related,” Christian says, his eyes still tracking over my body like he’s searching for tattoos I might have lied about.
“What’s that? Our shop name?” Hutch appears from the back, not exactly smiling, but somehow giving me the impression that he’s glad to see me.
“Yes, I was curious about the brothers part.”
“Brothers in arms,” Hutch says. “We served together in the army.”
“Ah, okay. Thank you for your service.”
Hutch nods, and not surprisingly, Zipper and Christian don’t say anything. The fourth man appears then, too. Mace, I think?
“I like your logo. I guess I should have figured out the military part from the sign on the door.”
“We all have the logo inked on us, too,” Hutch says, giving me a little thrill at the thought of it.
“Can I see?” I ask, before I can think better of it. “If it’s … not in a personal place, that is.”
Hutch’s bright brown eyes go a little darker, and his voice does too. “I don’t mind where you look.”
I hope none of the men notice the blush I feel paint my cheeks.
Hutch’s shirt has short sleeves today. He pushes one of them up and turns so that I can see the back side of his shoulder, where a smaller replica of their logo is etched into his skin. I’m still clutching the coffee carrier, but my fingers tingle with the desire to trace the design on Hutch’s tan skin.
Instead, I study it with only my eyes, and when I’ve absorbed the details, I let my gaze wander down his strong arm, where very little skin is free of ink. Some of his other tattoos portray objects; others are patterns that circle around to his inner arm. I find myself wondering what point of his arm I could circle with my two hands. Not much further above his wrist, I suspect.
“Who put it on you?” I ask, referring back to the logo, which is what I’m supposed to be looking at.
“Zipper did mine. We traded off and all did one.”
Another design next to the logo continues beneath his shirt, and I can’t help but wonder what his bare back looks like. And his chest. I wish I could see it all.
5
ROSE
“Do you have any body art?” Hutch asks.
“Zipper just asked me the same thing, and no, I don’t.”
“Ever think about it?” He’s facing me again, his eyes heating a trail over my skin as he accepts his coffee.