Page 3 of Inked Desires

AReS

I’m settled in the tattoo chair, the one soon to be occupied by one of my clients.

The door is slightly ajar, letting me catch sight of the stranger sitting behind my desk.

Seeing him at the diner had hit me like a shock.

I thought my worst nightmare had come back to destroy what little life I had left.

The same black curls, pale skin, a slightly pointed nose, and blue eyes.

He had promised never to come back, yet here he was, sitting just a few inches from me. One step closer and I could breathe in his scent again.

He didn’t say a word, just bolted outside, looking completely terrified.

Then he reappeared in front of my shop, offering to work for me.

Did he want to break me? Was that why he pretended not to recognize me?

William’s call pulled me out of my lethargy, bringing me back to reality: the man in my shop is a stranger.

He’s not playing games—he doesn’t recognize me at all.

That only deepens the mystery.

How is it possible he looks so much like him?

I’ve made a point to study him closely.

William couldn’t have been on the phone and at the same time sit silently next to me without saying a word.

I needed to find differences between them.

Andrew’s eyes hold a faint golden gleam, making his gaze even sharper. On his nose is a tiny mole that twitches slightly when he furrows his brow—it’s... charming.

I run my hand through my hair. Charming. No, it’s not charming. Humans in general shouldn’t be reduced to such words. They can be monsters. Andrew is here only because his appearance caught me off guard.

He rubs his forehead, a habit I noticed yesterday. Today, he looks less tired. Yet he’s held up all day with me, without complaining once.

The doorbell rings. From where I am, I see who just walked in. I stand.

“Hello, can I help you?” he greets the man.

Kiran stops at the desk, leans forward, and studies his face. From his profile, I sense the shock, but he recovers faster than I do.

“Damn, I almost had a heart attack.”

Andrew tilts his head, his hair falling to reveal his face more clearly.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Is Ares here?” he asks.

It’s time for me to step in. I swing the door wide open and come out.

“Kiran.”

I gesture him inside the room.

“Care to explain?” he says, nodding toward Andrew.

My muscles tense.

“Forget it,” I growl.

I’m definitely not giving explanations in front of him.

Kiran gets the hint. Shaking his head, he turns away and moves toward me. I stay still until he disappears inside.

“Bring him a coffee,” I order before slamming the door.

“Why does this guy look so much like William?” Kiran asks as soon as we’re alone.

“No idea.”

“Is he family?”

I roll my eyes. What doesn’t he get about my answer?

“I don’t know. I was as surprised as you.”

Kiran sits in the chair, dark-eyed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay, coincidences happen, but why is this guy sitting behind your desk?”

I head to the counter and grab the stencil I prepared.

“Andrew,” I inform him.

“Andrew?”

“That’s his name.”

“Alright. But why is he behind your desk?” he insists.

I sit on the stool next to him.

“I need someone to run the shop while I tattoo,” I answer honestly.

Kiran rolls his eyes, taking off his shirt, revealing abs. A scar marks the left side of his chest—a wound I partly caused. My fingers clench as my mind tries to shove away memories I want to forget.

“Do you really think hiring a guy who looks like William is a good idea?”

I shrug. No. It’s clearly a dumb idea. It’ll only remind me of what I lost. My damn brain never let go, and that’s what destroyed my relationship.

“Couldn’t be worse, right?” I brush off his objection.

“You’re a fucking masochist,” he observes.

Not a revelation, and his remark doesn’t hurt. We’ve always been honest with each other. He’s right. No sane person would hire someone who looks just like their ex, especially after being left in pieces.

I shave the area above his chest, disinfect the skin, then lay down the stencil.

Suddenly, two knocks sound before the door opens just enough for Andrew to enter, frozen, eyes locked on Kiran’s bare chest.

“You’re supposed to bring him coffee, not undress him with your eyes,” I hiss, annoyed.

Andrew jumps. My outburst almost makes me regret my words. It’s not his look that bothers me, but my own reaction.

“Let him stare,” Kiran jokes, laughing beside me. “I don’t mind a little attention.”

Andrew blushes and looks away. He pushes a small rolling table toward Kiran and sets down the coffee without a word.

Without further ceremony, he turns his back to us but, unfortunately for him, runs a hand over his neck before crossing the door, revealing something he’d probably prefer to keep hidden.

“That’s what you call a statement,” Kiran comments, the first to notice the tattoo on his skin.

I look up and freeze. What the hell? Even from here, I can see the tattoo is horribly done.

Andrew seems to understand immediately. His hand quickly covers the letters inked on his skin. He spins around suddenly, eyes full of terror fixed on me.

“What’s that on your skin?” I demand, expecting an answer.

His shoulders slump slightly. He folds his arms over his chest, fear written across his face.

“Nothing,” he whispers before storming out.

I turn to Kiran. He’s staring at me with the same disbelief.

“He must really worship that guy,” he says.

His reaction makes me think the opposite. Yet that doesn’t change the fact that the name Jace is written in big letters. I remove the stencil from Kiran’s chest and put it on the table before standing up. His voice reaches me, shouting something, but I don’t pay attention. With a sharp motion, I slam the door, leaving him alone in the room as I go back to my employee. Andrew is already back at his desk.

“I don’t know any celebrity with that name,” I growl. “So this isn’t some youthful mistake. Who did this horror to you? Your skin is covered in scars.”

I hate fake tattoo artists. They think they’re talented but only butcher innocent flesh.

His nervous fingers slide up to his forehead, rubbing in quick, erratic circles. I cross my arms to stop myself from reaching out to him. He’s not one of those men I can fuck and forget. Andrew is my employee, and by my choice, I have to see him every day now.

“That’s in the past,” he murmurs. “Can we leave it at that?”

I sigh loudly. If it were really the past, he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable with my questions. They clearly unsettle him.

“I was drunk and in love,” he finally answers. “My tattoo is the result of a youthful folly.”

He’s lying. I don’t know why, but I can feel it. He’s no more nervous than before and his face doesn’t flush. Still, it’s obvious: a lie. And I hate that. I prefer honesty—there’s never anything too serious that can’t be talked about.

“As you want,” I growl, turning on my heel.

He’s lucky—I have work waiting. Either way, I’ll find out what that name means, whether he wants it or not.

I sit back down on the stool. Without saying a word to Kiran, I pick up the tattoo machine and get back to work.

He’s used to me not talking while I tattoo. It’s the only way for me to clear my mind and relax. At first, alcohol had the same effect, but it eventually became a problem.

The buzzing of the machine and the vibrations in my hand bring a feeling of well-being, forcing me into a bubble where there’s nothing but ink, skin, and needles. After a while, I lift my head, and my neck muscles protest. When I straighten up, my back tightens too. I glance at the clock. It’s been three hours.

I clean his skin. He doesn’t flinch, lying there patiently waiting for my next move. But he needs a break. Some sugar, a glass of water, and a cigarette will help him last the next three hours.

“Let’s take a short break,” I say, switching off the machine, breaking the long silence.

When I stand, my legs wobble. I force myself to walk slowly and pull a ashtray and a chocolate bar from the cupboard. I hand them to Kiran.

“I’ll get you some water,” I say, heading for the door.

“Can I have a beer?”

“No alcohol in my shop,” I growl.

“You’re not allowed to smoke here either, but you just gave me an ashtray,” he points out, highlighting the contradiction.

I choose not to answer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar silhouette: blonde hair. I act like nothing’s wrong, even if he makes me nervous. It’s rare a man gets me this way, but his appearance unsettles me completely.

As I fill a glass with water at the sink, I feel his presence. It’s like my nerve cells activate when he approaches. It’s unusual, and above all, inconceivable. He reminds me of my past, while being different.

“You going to keep staring or enjoy your break?” I ask, turning around.

His cheeks flush. Charming.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally says.

I fully turn and lean against the counter.

He shifts nervously from foot to foot, biting his lip.

“My client’s waiting,” I say impatiently.

He takes a deep breath, then crosses his arms. After three more breaths, he straightens up. He tries to look strong, but he mostly looks like a scared deer.

“I need a cover-up,” he says.

“You don’t need to hide that ugly thing on your skin from me.”

I regret being so blunt earlier; after all, his choices aren’t my business. Still, thinking about it, every tattoo my employees wear reflects on my shop’s image. That’s a good enough reason for my reaction. I’m protecting my brand and name.

“It’s nothing to do with you, I just don’t want that thing on me anymore,” he murmurs.

“It’ll always be there. A cover-up only hides the surface.”

Mistakes don’t disappear by covering them up. They stay deeply rooted inside us, ready to resurface at the worst times.

He suddenly pales, his breathing quickens. I step forward, ready to help him sit so he doesn’t fall. But he regains control. He shakes his head, digs his nails into his arms, and opens his eyes wide. Darkness floods them, nearly hiding the golden halos. Interesting.

“Can you do it or not?” he asks, voice firmer.

I step even closer until I’m right in front of him. My whole body tightens. His scent tingles my senses. No, he’s not William. My husband always wears the same perfume. Andrew smells like earth after a summer rain, warmed by the sun. He smells like redemption.

“Show me,” I order.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply in the feeling he gives me, then open them again. The vibration in my body intensifies. He affects me the same way the machine does when it’s in my hands.

I focus on his skin, amateur work. It won’t be easy to fix.

“Do you have an idea in mind?”

He goes back to his original posture, his cheeks gaining color again. He looks at me and his lower lip twitches slightly, making me want to bite it.

“Roses,” he whispers.

My closeness seems to make him nervous too. At least I’m not alone in this. But I can’t explain what I really feel: a sexual hunger? A much darker desire?

I step back slightly. It doesn’t change the fact he’s my employee and looks like my husband. A really shitty combination.

I head to the sink, grab the forgotten glass, and pass by him.

“Take a break,” I order as I leave the room. “And go get me something at the Diner. I’ll eat it later.”

Kiran waits for me, hands crossed behind his head.

“You’re thinking about fucking him,” he states.

“Shut up…”

“Fire him and hire a nice local guy.”

Impossible. I’ve already slept with most of the men in this town. It would be a stupid idea, knowing some still hope for things I’ll never give them. The idea of family and kids? Buried. That kind of dream isn’t meant for guys like me.

“I won’t fuck him,” I reassure.

Kiran uncrosses his arms and takes a sip of his drink.

“Why can’t I believe you?”

I pick up my machine, settle on my stool, and start working.

“Faith’s for church. Now shut up for real so I can work.”

The buzzing returns to my hand, wiping away all thoughts of Andrew or William. I’m grateful to have found this outlet.

Hours pass. I let myself get carried away by the noise and that saving sensation in my arm. The tattoo machine dances on his skin. He doesn’t move. It’s pleasant and easy. Some clients complain about pain and fidget, requiring frequent breaks to avoid ruining the tattoo.

I finish my work, put down the machine, clean the area, and apply soothing cream.

Kiran stands and moves to the mirror. He admires the snake on his chest, whose eyes seem to pierce the soul.

“Incredible,” he praises me. “You outdid yourself.”

I shrug. Over the years, my art has sharpened and improved.

Kiran comes back to me and I cover his tattoo with plastic wrap.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Seven-fifty. You can pay Andrew.”

“Bar after?”

Tempting, but I still have work.

“No, too much to do today,” I answer.

He grumbles, then I hear the door creak as he heads to the counter.

I ignore their conversation and focus on cleaning my space. The bell rings, snapping me out of my trance. Every corner of the room is spotless, like I never worked here.

I go to the front, pull a key from my pocket, and place it in front of Andrew.

“Lock up behind you when you leave,” I say before going back.

I grab my sketchbook and a pencil, then stand before the mirror.

I always work better alone, and only in solitude do I find peace. I push the mirror aside, revealing a hidden opening. I step through, disappearing into my sanctuary.

Finally, I find peace.