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Another turn. Another crosswalk. He veered around the milling bodies, the parked cars, the huddled groups of smokers.

There it was, Kilroy Tattoo illuminated in neon overhead. It flickered then blinked off. Shit. He checked his watch. Midnight. The door knob turned.

A woman with a white-blonde pixie haircut backed out of the shop, and dammit if he could stop himself from gawking. She was slender but not in a bones-pressing-skin kind of way. She had a figure that could only be toned with good nutrition and rigorous activity. Oh yeah, she was built for stamina.

She locked the door and turned toward him, tipping back her head.

The bluest eyes he’d ever seen stared up at him. They were ringed with navy and glimmered with silver flecks. They were also wide with…fear? No, that couldn’t be true if her smile were anything to go by. Her beautiful face seemed to swallow up the glow of the streetlamps, the passing headlights, the goddamned moon.

“Hi.” Her smile wavered. “You look lost. Can I help?”

Oh Christ, her voice. It was the complete package, like the full-bodied Fsus2 chord humming from the hole in his Martin Acoustic. Gentle, cool, hypnotic—

“You’re lost, right?”

She had no idea. “Just found what I’m looking for.”Smooth, Jay. What the hell was he doing? Shades of pink tinted the curve of her cheeks and parted lips. Distractingly adorable. He smiled despite himself. “I need some work done.”

Those perfect lips formed anO. “Well, crap. I’m closed for the night. Come back tomorrow. I open at two.”

“I’m only in town tonight.” He dug out his wallet and held up his last bill. Small venues like Lewey’s only earned a couple hundred bucks split between the band, the roadies, and the bar tab. “It’s all I got, so it’ll be a quick job.” He would worry about his next meal later.

She chewed the corner of her lip, hand on the door knob, eyes on his twenty. “I’m supposed to be somewhere—”

“Fifteen minutes is all I ask. I really need this. Please?” He was a bastard for begging, for making her late, but he had to know if a tattoo would help. And now he had to knowher.

The twenty was tugged from his grip. She pocketed it, unlocked the door. “Fifteen minutes.” She pointed her key ring at him. “Since this is a quickie, don’t expect much.”

He smiled for the second time in two minutes and followed her through the door.

The lights flickered on, illuminating a counter, a workbench, and a padded massage table. Otherwise, the space was empty. Bare walls. No artwork. Nothing personal. Even odder, she didn’t have a single tattoo on her toned arms, flat midriff, or the gorgeous swells of her tits, which were on display courtesy of her tiny tank top.

She plopped onto a wheeled stool and rolled before him. Her huge stunning eyes wandered from his neckline to his Chucks as if seeing through his clothes. He lengthened his spine, flexed a bicep. He didn’t want her to stop.

“You’re nervous. You must be a virgin.”

His preening withered. “Excuse me?”

A dimple dented her cheek. “Your first tat, playboy?”

Oh. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well? What are we doing?”

“Right.” The thump of his heart sped up as he turned to give her his back. This would be the worst part. Would she try to hide her initial shock? Would she sputter in failed politeness? No one had seen him shirtless outside a doctor’s office since he was a boy. Oh Jesus, could he do this?

He grabbed the back of his t-shirt, yanked it over his head, and waited for the gasp.

It never came. Instead, the spiked heel of her sandal tapped the tile floor. “So many options, so much we can do.”

She must have been schooling her voice. Not a hint of sympathy or horror. He kept his back to her, avoiding the pity he knew she wouldn’t be able to hide in her eyes. “Just cover it. One big sheet of black.”

A sigh. “Please don’t ask me to defile you. You should highlight these. Turn them into an artistic reflection.”

What? His back was an atrocity. He didn’t want art. He wanted eradication. “Cover what you can in the time we have.”

“The scars look old. That helps, but doesn’t guarantee all of them will take ink. What do you say we celebrate them? Not”—air brushed his back under her waving hand—”bury them under bullshit.”

Every muscle in his body went taut. She knew nothing about him, the presumptuous brat.