A sigh came from beneath her t-shirt as it was pulled off. “Our families want the big wedding. Dominic does, too.”
I gave her a skeptical look, followed by a grin. “Aw, he’s a romantic.”
She snorted. “You have no idea.”
As she reached for the dress on the hanger, I caught the flash of something black on her hip. Her tattoo. The small characters rested below her waist, by a hipbone. I’d seen it during my job interview. Joseph had led me to believe Payton had returned from Japan newly single and eager to work at the club, only the man who walked in to negotiate for her was clearly her fiancé.
“That’s Japanese?” I asked.
She nodded. “Dominic’s idea. He has one too, because he’s so romantic.” She laughed so
ftly, but sobered a little. “I kinda like it. I mean, knowing I’ve got his mark and he’s got mine on him.”
My muscles tensed. I had another man’s mark on me, a permanent reminder of what had happened. I couldn’t get it removed.
But . . . what if I could change it?
It was a ridiculous idea. You fucking hate needles, remember? I shoved the line of thinking away. I did hate needles, but maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. Change the reminder and kill the fear.
“Where’d you get it done?” I asked her, my throat tight.
“In Japan. Why?”
The scared part of me was relieved, urging me to forget about it. “Just curious, you know, if I was thinking about getting something—”
“Did you ever see Joseph’s tattoo?”
I gave her a plain look. The only way I would have seen it was if I’d messed around with him, as so many of the girls here did before he met his girlfriend.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, her voice teasing. “I forgot you’re a prude. Anyway, his tattoo is fucking amazing. He knows a guy. You want me to ask Joseph for his number?”
It’s just a phone number, I told myself. You don’t have to do anything with it, but keep your options open.
I shrugged. “Sure, thanks.”
Chapter
THREE
White textured paint covered half the walls, and then gave way to black gloss. Beneath my feet, black and white checkerboard tiles. The space was an art gallery, not a tattoo parlor. Pin lighting illuminated pictures, some framed and some photo canvases. This place was upscale and sexy. Had I written the address down wrong?
A slender black man, the bare dome of his head gleaming like it had been shined to a finish, rose from a desk in the back of the room. He smoothed down the line of buttons on his dress shirt and flashed a friendly smile.
“Can I help you?” His voice was pleasant.
I glanced at the enormous art piece hanging on the wall to my right, which was a hunk of twisted metal, both copper and silver wrapped around each other.
“I’m not sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’m Regan. Are you Silas?”
“Ah, no.” The man smiled and checked his watch. “He should be here any minute.”
Okay, I was in the right place, but where were the chairs and the different designs on the wall? How the hell was I going to pick something without options? My gaze slid away from the patterned metal sculpture as I struggled against the unease. The worry about the needle and the pain was a thick sludge, churning in my belly.
The faster this Silas got here, the faster I could get through the tattoo. I hated this jittery, agitated feeling. Weak. “Do you have some designs I can look at while I wait?”
The man blinked at the question, like the request was bizarre. “Uh, no, he doesn’t work like that.”
A deep rumble grew from beyond the glass storefront, and I turned to face it. The sleek, black custom bike that pulled up to the curb carried a man who was built like a linebacker. He parked, shut off the motor, and proceeded to climb off.