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“Whatever your reason for wanting them covered, you should ask yourself, really think about it.” She shifted behind him, leaned over his shoulder, and spoke low in his ear. “Would the veil work?”

The answer hardened his jaw to the point of pain. “It’s none of your fucking business. Either give me twenty bucks in ink or return my money and I’ll be on my way.”

Her silence was a heavy weight at his back. It prompted him to glance over his shoulder. There was neither pity nor indignation in the gaze glued to his scars. Her front teeth gnawed on a paint-chipped fingernail. What was going through that gorgeous head of hers?

Her ice blue eyes flicked up. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Why did he have the sudden urge to prostrate himself at her feet? She wasn’t some magic solution to his problems. Hell, women in general made his issues unbearable. “One more condition. Don’t touch me.”

She snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“You can only touch my back with the paper towel and heel of your gun hand.”

Another snort. “Good lord, you’re weird.”

He chuckled, and the sound surprised him.

“Sit your happy ass on the table. Got to make a call then we’ll get started.”

She wiggled a phone from her back pocket. Sweet Jesus, she could fill out a pair of jeans. She tapped the screen and pressed it to her ear with a grin. “Hey, gorgeous…Yeah, running late…Umm, an hour…Yep.” A bigger grin. “Overprotective much?…I know…You, too.”

Her endearments penetrated his chest, lifting it in a way he didn’t understand. He stared at his lap and imagined himself on the receiving end of that call. For the first time in years, he felt invigorated with a tingling sense that everything would be okay.

She pocketed the phone and gave him a beaming smile. Fuck him but he’d found a beacon of salvation in this gorgeous girl.

And lost his goddamned mind.

She sidled behind him to her workbench. “What’s your name?”

“Jay.” His voice cracked like a pubescent boy.

Plastic crinkled. Paper ripped. The snap of a rubber band. “And what do you do, Jay?”

“I’m—” He cleared his throat “—in a band.”

“In a band,” she mocked in a deep voice and laughed at herself. “What do you call yourselves?”

A damp cloth touched his shoulder blade. The contact sent a shiver through his body. “The Burn.”

“No shit? You guys sold out Lewey’s Uptown, right? I heard you rocked it hard tonight.”

Big deal. They sold a hundred tickets. After months of rockstarving on the road, they were still unheard of, but the truth didn’t stop her praise from sending a rush of satisfaction through him.Play it cool.“Yeah.”

The tattoo machine buzzed once, twice, and fell quiet.

“A big ol’ sheet of black, huh?” Her heel tapping resumed. “I really don’t think you should do this.”

“I’m not paying you to think.” Shit. That was a dick thing to say.

Her laugh filled the room with crescendo. “Don’t be hateful. I’m concerned about my safety. Your fan girls are going to trample me for defacing your perfect body.”

The compliment sifted through him and caressed vulnerable places. “Don’t worry about the fans.” They’d never see his back. No one did. No one but this tight-bodied little artist.

“I love your scars. They inspire me.” She softened her voice. “I’ve never met another person who has experienced pain like—”

A shiver raced over him, and he turned his head. She looked out the window, her eyes unfocused.

“Pain like what?” Hers? Had someone hurt this girl? “Does your boyfriend—”