He shakes. “Good to see you, Chloe.”
I nod.
“It’s Chloe Grace Lee,” Dean jumps in. “And she knows karate—”
“Aikido,” I correct.
His voice stays bouncy. Proud. “Don’t fuck with her or she’ll fuck you up.”
Hunter’s eyes flit from me to Dean then back to me. He’s trying to figure out why Dean is teasing me.
Okay, he’s trying to figure out if we’re fucking.
Dean’s wearing his usual I love starting shit smile.
Does he care if Hunter knows?
There is something about this being our world. About having our secret.
Especially when…
Who knows what the hell happens after I get the call?
“Shit, you can cut the sexual tension with a knife, huh?” Dean winks at me. Then at Hunter.
I stare at my… whatever I should call him, trying to figure out his intentions.
There’s something about his devilish smile, about the softness in his eyes.
He’s trying to keep me here. To keep me present.
He’s doing it in the most Dean way possible.
But, well, that’s the man I… I can’t use that word. Not yet. But, fuck, I really, really like him.
I take a deep breath. Shrug my shoulders. There’s a lot to do today. I can’t get sucked into thoughts about the future.
I motion for Hunter to follow me. “You’re borrowing Brendon’s suite for now.” I lead him to the center suite. “Not that it’s officially his. Now that you’re working here—”
“I’m just filling in,” he says.
I look back to Dean. He knows Hunter a lot better than I do, but there’s no sign he knows why Hunter is all quiet and afraid of commitment.
God, he really is intense.
Hurt.
He’s trying to hide it, but it’s there. It’s all over his expressive eyes.
Thank god for eyeliner and mascara, or I’d be cursed with the same problem.
“Been awhile, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I study Hunter. Fail to find a clue as to why he’s walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “How have you been?”
“Alright,” he lies. “How about you?”
“I’m here.” I turn to Dean. Motion play along. I need to step into a role. I need to be someone other than the girl waiting for her test results. “It’s horrible torture, being here, but at least I’m learning.”
“Oh yeah? You want to quit?” Dean teases.
I flip him off. “What if I do, Dick Face?”
He blows me a kiss. “You know I take that as a compliment.”
My cheeks flush. “He’s under some delusion that by calling him Dick Face, I’m saying his dick is beautiful.”
“And?” Hunter asks.
“I’ve seen better.” There’s a wink in my voice.
Even though he’s behind me, I can feel Dean’s smile.
We’re flirting through Hunter.
It’s wrong. And weird. And hot as hell.
I take Hunter through everything in the suite. Explain the shop layout. Show him his schedule—when Emma isn’t working, I’m the one in charge of it.
He nods along with everything I say, quiet and intense, then he falls back into work.
I take his lead. Try my best to focus on our first appointment. Fail.
My head keeps going back to the test results.
To the little matter of whether I’m going to live or die.
When we finally break, I'm dead tired. Leighton wasn't kidding about tattoos being bad for your back. Hunching over clients all day is brutal.
I let Emma charm her way through check out, but she isn't her usual confident self. She trips over her words. Blushes endlessly. Shifts her weight between her feet nervously.
Her attention isn’t on the client.
It’s on Hunter.
She’s as bad as I am.
As smitten as I am.
I wait until he leaves to approach the counter.
She folds her arms over her chest. Shakes off her blush. "What?"
"You know Hunter?"
"Oh. Well… Yeah." She bites her lip. "He and Brendon have been friends for a long time."
"Oh, he's the one—"
"Shut up." She motions to Ryan, sitting in his suite, working on a mock-up. "I don't need the lecture. Not from Ryan and not from you."
"I'm sleeping with my boss. You think I'm going to tell you not to go after someone working here?"
"Yeah." She brushes her dark hair behind her ear. "You can act all tough and no-nonsense, Chloe, but you don't fool me. Deep down, you're a softie."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. You probably have some sort of advice for me that belongs on a poster. Follow your heart. Chase after your dreams. Today is a gift. That's why they call it the present."
I can't help but laugh. Emma is usually perceptive, but she's dead wrong about this. "Are you going to fuck him?"
"No." Her cheeks flush. "He thinks I should join a convent.”
I shoot her a look.
She makes that ugh, my brother is so annoying sound. “Brendon asked Hunter to keep an eye on me. So… he’s basically an annoying babysitter."
“You never had a crush on an older baby sitter?”
“Never.”
“Then why do you keep staring at him?”
“I don’t.”
I nod you do. “He’s staring back.”
“You think?” She clears her throat. “I mean… it doesn’t matter. We’re friends. If that.”
“You’re not into him?”
“Yeah. Totally.” She swallows hard. “Not at all.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Say I was?”
“Say you were.”
“It wouldn’t matter. Brendon will kill him if anything happens. And… Uh… Ahem.” Her gaze shifts to something behind me. "Dean. Hey. Great work. Amazing. You're talented."
"What are you trying to hide?" Dean looks from Emma to me. His fingertips graze my hip for a second, then they're back at his side.
The stolen touches are divine. Wrong in the way that's so, so right.
"Nothing." Emma's dark eyes fill with nerves. She shoots me a girl code, please look.
I nod. Of course.
It's quite the thrill, being able to participate in the girl code again. For a long, long time, I've been on the sidelines. I've been avoiding connections.
Reaching out feels good.
Dean's fingers brush my wrist. "We've got two hours for lunch. I need the first one."
Emma raises a brow. "Keep it down."
His smile gets wicked. "If only." He takes a step toward the office. Motions follow me. "We're being good."
"You can be good?" Emma asks.
"Depends," he says.
She laughs. "On?"
"How much Chloe glares at me." His laugh bounces around the room. "You know that glare does things to me, sunshine."
I shoot him said glare.
He presses his hand to his heart. "Just kidding. It's more here." He presses both hands to his crotch.
Emma shakes her head you're ridiculous.
He really is.
In the best possible way.
I follow Dean into the office.
He leaves the door open. "You have your gun?"
I motion to the autoclave.
He nods and peels the gun from the device.
His fingers brush mine as he hands it over. "Today is the day."
"Huh?"
"You're ready to do skin."
My heart thuds against my chest.
My stomach flutters.
My breath catches in my throat.
I'm ready to do skin.
That doesn't feel possible.
But there isn't a single sign of teasing on Dean's beautiful face. He's dead serious.
I muster up all the confidence I have. "Okay." This isn't like before, where he dared
me to tattoo his ankle. This time, I'm ready.
"It's up to you if you want to do me or yourself."
I nod.
"But you should know, I'm gonna watch either way." He winks. Back to teasing Dean.
But that feels right too. Teasing and serious Dean want the same thing. Both of them want a reaction.
They want love, attention, affection, respect. They're just going about it in different ways.
"Can I really do you?" I ask.
He raises a brow what do you think? "We should probably do the ink first."
My lips curl into a smile. "Should we?"
"Yeah. I'm a greedy fucker. I'm going to take the whole afternoon if you let me."
My shoulders soften. The teasing helps. This is a big, serious moment, but it feels wrong treating it with dry respect.
This is exactly how it should be.
"Do I have to do another star?" I ask.
"Or a spade or a heart. Your call."
My fingers curl around the metal. My call. Do I want my first piece of ink on me or him?
There's something so, so right about tattooing my teacher. And about tattooing Dean in particular.
But this is still my journey.
It should be me. "I want to do myself."
He pulls his cell from his pocket. "I can record it for later, right?"
"One picture."
"You into that?"
"Pictures?" Heat builds below my belly. I've never really considered the idea of recording myself, alone or with someone else, but the thought of doing it with Dean…
Fuck, it's hot in here.
My nod is heavy. Needy. Not at all professional. "Stop distracting me. I'm doing this thing."
He motions to the materials on the desk. Everything is here. Rubbing alcohol. Gloves. Tracing paper. Cotton balls. "Make the stencil."
I slide the gloves on, pick up the sharpie, and draw the perfect heart. A tiny, smooth thing with an arrow through the center.
He places his body behind mine, his chest against my back, his arm around my waist, his breath warming my neck.
Fuck, the heat of his body feels good.
Distractingly good.
Which is another point in the we can't handle keeping work and play separate column. But I'm not willing to give up either. Not right now. Not when I finally have everything I want.
"You sure you want something that tricky?" He brings his hand to the drawing. Traces its shape. "It will be easier if you lose the arrow."
"But it wouldn't be right."
He nods fair enough. Hands me the stencil.
I transfer the design and cut where I need to.
There.
It's ready.
But where the hell do I want this? I stare at the thick plastic like it has the answers.
Of course, it doesn't.
"Did mine on my ankle. It's tricky to get into position, but it's a good spot. Easy to hide if you fuck it up. Especially if you live in combat boots."
"What if I decide I love sandals?"
He shakes his head with mock disgust. "I'll have to look outside to check if pigs are flying."
"See if hell has frozen over."
"Exactly, yeah. But I'm pretty sure it did last night."
"Huh?"
"Nothing." His voice drops to that soft, sweet tone. "Come on, sunshine. Sit down and ditch the pants."
"I could just roll them up."
"Where's the fun in that?"
I can't help but laugh. He's just so… Dean.
He makes me feel so warm and fuzzy. Like a birthday card, a tea on a cold morning, a sweater, a puppy.
Like every cheesy simile in the world.
God, the things he makes me feel.
They go beyond like.
But then…
If everything isn't okay…
I can't…
I can't think about that right now. I have to do this.
My first tattoo.
On my skin.
No pressure.
I set the stencil on the desk while I set up in the office chair. My inner left ankle will be easiest—I'm right handed.
I unlace my boot, kick it off, peel off my socks, roll my jeans to mid-calf.
There. Cotton swab. Rubbing alcohol. Stencil. Tape.
That's it.
I'm ready.
Technically.
Dean hands me the gun and a fresh pad of ink. I set the latter on the table. Flip it open. Stare at it like that will give me a bit of courage.
Doing ink is terrifying enough, but doing it on my skin?
God.
My stomach flutters.
My heart thuds against my chest.
My breath… I'm not sure I even feel my breath.
I bend my leg, set as much of it as I can on the desk. It's not the most comfortable position, but it gives me the perfect canvas.
My fingers curl around the gun.
"Take your time, sunshine." Dean's voice is sweet. Caring. Then it's silly. Teasing. "The shop is open until eight."
"Fuck you."
"We already hashed this out. After."
We did. But he was kidding. But then… I hope some of him meant it, because I'm already buzzing with adrenaline. By the end…
Fucking him is the perfect way to close this.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Exhale slowly. I've done this a thousand times on fruit. Skin is similar. It's just it's my skin and I'm going to feel the pain of the needle while I figure it out.
But this pain is nothing compared to what I've been through.
The buzz of the gun fills the room.
Needle to ink.
Then to skin.
Fuck. That stings. My breathing stops. My heart thuds. My hands get sweaty. Clammy.
But I manage to trace the stencil. Up and around, straight, then curved, again and again. The pain stays but it stops hurting. It becomes a part of my reality. A thing to face, not fear.
It's hard to explain, but the hurt feels good. It feels like I'm alive.
It takes two minutes to finish the design. I barely manage to breathe through it.
But I survive.
Fuck. My entire body buzzes enough to make up for the ceasing of the gun's hum. I go to push myself up, but Dean stops me.
He holds me against the chair, pinning me at my shoulders. "Aftercare first."
"Right."
"Let me." He pulls two gloves from the box and slides them on. Then he's kneeling between my legs, peeling off the stencil, rubbing lotion into my skin and wrapping my fresh ink in plastic.
His touch is soft, gentle, the touch of a lover, not a teacher. But right now, I don't care about the line blurring. Only about every single way I want him.
God, the ways I want him.
His fingers curl into my foot as he looks up at me. "There. Done."
"Done." I look down at the ink like it's my first. In a way, it is. It feels as badass as it did back then. And, well, I'm far from Dean quality, but this is at least a little better than that lopsided star. "What do you think?"
"It's perfect for you." He plants a kiss on my ankle, just above the ink. "And, fuck, this position is perfect for me."
Yes, it is.
I spread my legs a little wider.
His fingers curl into my thighs.
I'm about to dig my hands into his hair and order him out of his clothes when my phone buzzes against my thigh.
Fuck, that vibration…
I reach for the thing to silence it.
But it isn't a SPAM call.
It's the doctor's office.
"Let me take care of this first." I push the chair backward as I answer the phone.
Dean's blue eyes fill with concern. He's reading me too well. He knows it's the call.
He can't know.
"It's just my dad," I lie.
He nods like he believes me.
I don't stick around to figure out if he does. I answer the call. Bring the phone to my
ear as I step into the main room. "Hello."
"Chloe, is that you?" Dr. Nguyen asks. I'd recognize his voice anywhere.
"Yes."
The air conditioner hums to life.
Angsty, breathy vocals drown out the quiet conversations.
"I'm calling about your test results," he says.
My stomach drops.
He isn't starting with your test was negative. You're still cancer free.
Which means…
Fuck.
"Oh." I swallow hard. Press my eyelids together. Cross my fingers. Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.
"Can you come in later today?"
Fuck.
Fuck. fuck. Fuck.
My breath is shaky. Shallow. "You can tell me now."
"There was a spot on the scan. It's probably nothing."
Of course. It's always probably nothing. It's nothing until it's something.
"It looks like a cyst. But we want to do a needle biopsy to be sure."
All the breath leaves my body at once.
His words don't make it into my ears.
Probably isn't enough.
Maybe isn't enough.
This is…
I can't…
"When can you come in?" he asks.
The room is spinning. My head is fuzzy. Light. I…
I grab onto the wall for support.
It's just barely enough.
"I can have reception call you back when you've had time to process it. I know this can be scary, Chloe, but the odds of relapse after your procedure are low."
"And the odds of beating a relapse are worse."
His voice drops. "If it is cancer, we'll have options. At the very least, we'll be able to make you comfortable."
That's oncologist for you're fucked but we'll drug you until you don't care.
I try to process his words. To believe that the odds are low, that it's probably a cyst, that it's probably okay.
But I can't.
It screams in my brain.
You're sick again.
You're dying.
You're a noose around everyone's neck.
"Chloe? Do you want Amelia to call in a few hours?"
"I can come in anytime. As soon as possible."
"Wednesday at noon," he offers.
That is soon. "And we'll know then?"
"The results usually take a few days, but I can have the lab fast track it. So it's only a few hours."
"Thank you."
He says something in response, but I don't hear a word of it.
I end the call and slide my cell into my pocket.
Footsteps move into the main room.
They come closer.
Hating You, Loving You Page 25
