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Chapter fourteen

Trayton

M y eyes don’t stray from the tattoo gun, its needle piercing into my skin with relentless precision. Every now and then, I flick my gaze to Daxton. I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but he froze. For minutes, I just sat there staring at him because it was the exact same expression he wore the other day. Panic and fear.

I traced the sweat dripping down his forehead, his eyes vacant like a void. His accelerated breaths, the dramatic rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand pressed hard into my arm. He was here, in this room, with me. But he wasn’t. He was somewhere else, and I can’t lie, I nearly got up off this chair and ran out of here.

I don’t need some fucked-up druggy tattooing me and messing it all up. Why did I stay? Who the fuck knows? I kept telling myself he drew that design freehand. All he has to do is trace it. Easy peasy, right? It’s not easy peasy, though, is it? Otherwise, everyone would be tattooing.

And that’s not the reason I stayed, is it? No. As much as I hate to admit it, a teeny tiny part of me wanted to make sure he was okay. I would never admit to those words out loud. Ever. But something about his eyes—they looked sad, lost even.

Maybe I just craved to see him sad. That would make sense. I shuffle slightly, the soreness seeping into my skin as he shades over one particular bit. I glance at where he’s working. Does he really need to go over it so many times? “Will you sit still,” Daxton deadpans, clearly annoyed.

“I can’t get comfortable,” I lie. Ain’t no way I’m admitting it’s sore. I’m a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound hockey player. I can handle a fucking tattoo.

“Sure it’s that,” he sarcastically replies, and I hiss through my teeth as I swear he digs that fucking needle into my arm more than necessary. His eyes flash up to mine, and a small smirk tips the side of his lips. Fucking prick.

I stop looking at his hand and that tattoo gun, allowing my eyes to trace over the rest of the room. It’s a big room with four other tattoo stations set up. Each one has pictures up on billboards showcasing tattoos I’m assuming each artist has done. I turn my head sideways to see if Daxton has a billboard, and he does, but instead of tattoo images, he has sketches he’s done. One is my tattoo. God, it’s fucking perfect. That’s when I spot another billboard next to Daxton’s but still in his corner. It’s pictures of piercings. And it’s actual people in this one. Lip piercings, eyebrows, tongues—so many. And then a sign above that says “I pierce too.”

“You do piercings?” I blurt out before I can think better of it because do I really care? No. I’m just intrigued, I guess, and bored.

“Yup,” he states. I turn my head to look at him, his brows furrowed in pure concentration as he shades away. His top teeth bite down on his lip ring—a habit I’ve noticed he’s kept up the entire time since he started tattooing. For some reason unknown to me, I seize the moment to analyze him. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at him this closely before.

It’s annoying as hell because I’m already jealous of his mile-long, jet-black eyelashes. He must get them tinted; no one’s lashes are that black. But then I notice his hair. It’s just as black as his eyelashes, trimmed sharply on the sides, but a wild mat of curls on top. A few of them dangle over his forehead, suspended in midair as he leans closer to my arm. A dust of dark freckles sits atop his small nose, which stands out against his pale skin.

“Are you wearing mascara?” I ask.

Daxton’s lips curl up on one side before his eyes shift, pinning me in place. He doesn’t move a muscle; only his eyes move, and that’s when I truly see them.

So green.

Not just any green—like vibrant emeralds ablaze with an inner fire.

An intense, searing green that seems to pierce right through me.

Ablaze with inner fire? What is wrong with me?

“No,” he states flatly, his smile fading as he immerses himself back into his work.

He’s bullshitting; I’m sure of it.

“Did you pierce your lip?” I question as he pulls it between his teeth again. Daxton sighs, dipping the tattoo gun into the ink before locking eyes with me once more.

“Yes.”

This infuriates me. Why am I asking him questions? Why am I bothering to talk to him? I don’t want to ask him any more questions, but I can’t control how the route from my brain to my mouth malfunctions.

I can’t hold back my curiosity any longer and let loose the question, “Do you only have your lip pierced?” I immediately regret asking. It doesn’t matter what piercings he has. Why do I even care? My brain betrays me again.

“No, I have a few more,” he replies with no further explanation. But that’s not enough for me; I want to know about every piercing he has. I don’t want the information spoon-fed to me; I want the whole fucking meal at once.

“Where?” I push, unable to control my need to know.

“Stop clenching,” he says, still focused on my arm.

Confused, I furrow my brows and ask, “What?”

“Your fist, stop clenching it.”

Suddenly, his fingers dig into my palm, and chills run down my body. Daxton has taken hold of my hand, prying open my fingers.

My eyes lock with his, and he looks away quickly, as if he wasn’t just staring at me. “Your veins are bulging; it will hurt more,” he explains in a hushed tone before picking up the tattoo gun again.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the tingling sensation in my hand.

I should have accepted that blowjob last night. I’m starved for attention, and now Daxton Rivers has set my body ablaze like a brightly lit ice hockey rink. This is just fucking great.

After that intense moment, my brain reminds me not to speak. I’m grateful for this reminder because who knows what I would have let slip in my state of shock?

Daxton continues wiping the same spot on my arm, which keeps bleeding for some reason. It’s painful, but I don’t want to give him another chance to touch me by clenching my fists again.

“Done,” he announces, cracking his neck. “Don’t move.” He holds onto my arm as if to make sure I follow his instructions. I can’t help but glance at his hand wrapped around my upper arm. Why is my stomach flipping? Why do I have goose bumps all over my arms? It’s just a hand. I hate it here.

He returns with plastic wrap and takes out his phone.

“Can I?” he asks, waving his hand at me, and I assume he wants to take pictures. I nod, sitting up to get a better look at it.

It’s perfect. It’s mainly just the outline at the moment. There are some bits shaded, but even the outline is everything.

I stare at it, mesmerized by the intricate lines and subtle shading. It’s like Daxton has somehow captured a piece of my soul and etched it onto my skin.

“It’s…” I start, but words fail me.

“Yeah,” Daxton says softly, a hint of pride in his voice. “It came out well.”

He snaps a few photos, the flash momentarily blinding me. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the spots from my vision. When I can see again, I find Daxton studying me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He shakes his head slightly as if coming out of a trance. “Nothing. Just thinking about the next session.”

Right. The next session. Because this isn’t over. I’ll be back here, in this chair, with Daxton’s hands on my skin again. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that I desperately try to suppress.

“So, three weeks?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Daxton starts wrapping my arm in plastic wrap, his fingers brushing against my skin with each pass. “Yeah, that should be enough time. It needs to heal a little first. Then we can do more outlining and shading on the next session.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The air feels thick, charged with something I can’t quite name. Or maybe I just don’t want to name it.

“Take care of it,” Daxton says as he finishes wrapping my arm. “No soaking in water for the first couple of weeks. Use the aftercare lotion I’ll give you. And if you have any problems, call me.”

He hands me a business card with his number on it. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and I tense.

I really needed that fucking blowjob last night.

“Cool.” I sharply nod as I move around him and more or less run toward the door. My tattoo, the one I haven’t stopped going on about? Yeah, long forgotten.

All I know is I need to get out of here. I despise the way my body is acting right now. As soon as the door closes behind me, I suck in fresh air and roll my head back, looking up at the sky. I close my eyes and then take my phone out of my pocket, searching up one of my many hook-up's.

Me:

Get to my dorm ASAP. I got an emergency.