by L. A. Witt
“Yeah, and so is a reputation among other pilots for being a pussy.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose again. “Oh.”
He started to say something else, but one of the guys spoke up and they turned both their heads.
“Hey, Fumes! I’ve got it!” Recon grinned. “We get the Packers logo right smack in the middle of his chest.”
Panic shot through Jon.
Oh God. No. Go back to the pinup girls.
Matt cleared his throat. “Uh, actually, I can’t do that.”
They all looked at him.
“What do you mean?” Taxi asked. “It’s a pretty simple design.”
Matt shook his head. “It’s not a matter of simplicity. It’s a matter of licensing. I’d have to get permission from the team and the league, and sometimes there’s a fee.” He waved a hand. “It can take weeks to get that kind of approval.”
“Aw, damn.”
As the squadron went back to perusing portfolios, Jon met Matt’s eyes, and Matt winked. Suddenly Jon wondered if the licensing thing was bullshit, or if Matt had just made it up to bail him out. Either way, he was grateful as fuck he wouldn’t be going to his grave wearing a Packers logo.
Thank you, he mouthed.
Matt gave him a little nod that seemed to mean, Don’t mention it.
In silence, they watched Jon’s squadron mates, who seemed to be nearing a consensus. Several designs kept resurfacing. Jon couldn’t see them, but he figured that was okay. He’d wait and focus all his dread on the final one.
Mostly, he fixed his attention on the artist leaning over the counter beside him. Matt was a tough guy to read. Or at least, he was tough to read when Jon’s mind kept circling back to “what would it take to get you naked?” in between reminding him that Matt was almost certainly straight.
Wasn’t he? Aside from some serious wishful thinking, nothing about him pinged for Jon as gay. The fact that he would look spectacular on his hands and knees, arching like a cat while he took a deep, hard pounding, didn’t actually make him gay.
Jon shifted and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. He hadn’t given himself an awkward hard-on yet, but if his mind kept going down the road of Alternate Universe Gay Matt, he would.
“All right. It’s settled.” Nate got up, pulling Jon’s attention away from Matt and his own awkward about-to-be erection, and put the closed portfolios on the counter. Then he plunked his phone on top of the stack and pointed emphatically at the screen. “This.”
Filled with dread and nausea, Jon craned his neck. To his surprise, it wasn’t the worst thing they could’ve picked, though he wasn’t thrilled—it was the insignia of the 47th Squadron. Naturally, the squadron with whom they shared a good-natured but intense rivalry. And, with Jon, some . . . shared history.
The insignia itself wasn’t horrific either. A simple shield shape with three stars, “47th” in huge numbers, and a silhouette of a fighter over a distant aircraft carrier.
Well, it could’ve been worse. And so far, no one had suggested adding some text like I fucked three guys in this squadron and now my own guys won’t let me forget it.
“Uh.” Matt glanced at Jon, then shrugged as he pulled out a pencil and paper. “Where am I putting it?”
Nate clapped Jon’s shoulder hard enough to jar him. “Right on his ass.”
Jon’s face burned. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Nope.” Nate shot him a challenging look. “Or are you bailing?”
Matt watched Jon, the same question in his eyes but with a decidedly less judgmental vibe.
Jon shifted his weight and glared at the insignia before he sighed. “Yeah, I’m in. Let’s do it.”
Matt’s pierced eyebrow rose again. You sure?
Jon nodded.
The artist studied him, still visibly uneasy.
“It’s fine,” Jon said quietly. “Isn’t like anyone’s going to see it.” Except when they go to fuck me. Awesome.
“Okay, maybe that’s true.” Matt’s voice was dry, almost annoyed. “But you’re talking about a permanent piece of body art.”
“I know.” Jon locked eyes with him, silently pleading for him to let it drop. “I agreed to this, though. A bet’s a bet.”
Matt still didn’t move, and just held his gaze for a long, unflinching second. Finally, though, he reached under the counter and pulled out a calendar. “I need a hundred dollars cash to hold your appointment. You don’t show up, you forfeit your deposit. You do, it goes toward your tattoo.”
Jon smirked. “So if I don’t show up, it costs them”—he gestured at the others—“an extra hundred bucks?”
The annoyance in Matt’s expression was unmistakable now. “It also costs me a couple of hours that I could be inking someone else.”
Jon quickly sobered, and nodded. “Right. Okay. Let’s schedule it. And yeah, I’ll be there.”
Matt’s lips tightened. “When is good for you?” He motioned toward the calendar. “I’m free most of this week.” His tone shifted a little as he said it. Not like he was still annoyed, but like he wanted to add that he was depressingly free. Jon wondered what business was like for tattoo artists these days. The military had loosened their regulations on tattoos, but that didn’t necessarily mean everyone was lining up for sleeves.
“Do you take walk-ins?” Jon asked.
“As long as I don’t have an appointment, yes.”
Jon glanced at the mostly empty calendar. “When do you usually get the most walk-ins?”
Matt eyed him.
Jon fidgeted under the artist’s scrutiny. “So I’m not blocking out time when you might get more business.”
“Oh. Um.” Matt blinked a few times, then stared at the calendar. “Weekends and evenings, mostly.”
“Okay. What about, say, Wednesday? In the afternoon?”
They scheduled the appointment, and the boys ponied up the hundred-dollar deposit. Now Jon’s nerves kicked into overdrive. This was happening. The ink. The needle. The hot man—who wouldn’t just be tattooing him, he’d be tattooing his ass.
He slid a glare toward his squadron mates. You guys suck.
“Looks like we’re set to go.” Matt closed the calendar. “Any questions?”
Is it too late to bail?
Jon swallowed. “No. I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday?”
Matt smiled, something unreadable lurking in his arresting brown eyes. “Yeah. See you Wednesday.”
Chapter 2
As the drunk pilots walked out of the shop, Matt dropped onto a stool and exhaled.
The whole situation had made him uneasy, but right now that wasn’t what occupied his brain. He couldn’t remember a word anyone had said about an actual tattoo. He vaguely recalled jotting down the important details in his sketchbook, plus Nate was emailing him the actual design, so when it came time to do the work, he’d be all right. Hopefully.
For the moment, though, his mind was anywhere but in a professional place.
Okay, so this answered the question that had been ricocheting around his skull since last Saturday night—am I attracted to men or not?
All week, he’d been scrutinizing every man who caught his eye, trying to decide if he was just curious or if there really was some kind of attraction. He’d even checked out Colin, his boss. Not to mention Daniel, Colin’s boyfriend. And yeah, he’d definitely been curious, but he didn’t feel the same zing of oh wow he did when he checked out a woman. Considering Colin had been a porn star not all that long ago and still had the body for it, Matt had finally decided that meant he wasn’t into men after all.
If I’m not interested in a guy people paid to see naked, then I’m straight.
Which meant Saturday had been a fluke. Nothing more. He’d just been caught up in the moment. The air had been thick with sex and sweat, and they’d all been horny and, yeah, a little drunk. What happened, happened. Ever since, he hadn’t been able to decide if it was the alcohol and pheromones, or if there’d been some
deep-seated need in him that hadn’t ever shown itself before. Was he bi, or had he just been that turned on? Few women aroused him as much as Lisa, so between her and the wine, maybe he’d been in a space where he’d have done just about anyone or anything. Including her boyfriend.
He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He’d assumed it was a one-time thing.
Until tonight.
Yes. Oh yes. One look at Jon—he did remember that guy’s name—and there was no question anymore.
The shadow of stubble on his sharply angled jaw. The intense blue of his eyes. The way his jeans sat on his narrow hips and that gorgeous ass. He had shoulders for days and arms that rivaled some of the guys who worked out at the gym a few doors down. Every time Matt had glanced his way, little electric charges had shot across nerve endings that had traditionally only responded this way to attractive women. When Jon had been looking at the designs on the walls and absently licked his lips, a shiver had gone right through Matt and straight to his balls.
Jon was as masculine as they came, but everything about him pinged Matt’s senses the same way a woman would have.
Yep. Turns out I am bi. Because holy effing hell, I want to taste that man.
And was he just imagining it, or had Jon been looking at him the same way? There were a lot of mirrors in this shop, and he’d busted Jon checking him out at least three times. Right? Or was he hallucinating? No, he was pretty damn sure those beautiful blue eyes had been surreptitiously watching him in the mirror. Which he’d only noticed because he’d been surreptitiously watching Jon.
“Hey.” An elbow nudged him, and he looked up as Colin said, “You all right?”
Matt shook himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m . . .” He glanced at the door the pilots had gone through. “I’m good.”
“Tire kickers?”
“Huh?” Matt blinked a few times and looked at his boss. “Sorry. Um . . .”
Colin chuckled and patted his shoulder. “Careful checking out military boys who come in here.” He winked. “You might end up living with one.”
Matt laughed. “Hey, just because you’re banging one of your clients doesn’t mean I will.”
“No, but if you’re that starry-eyed and ridiculous over a client”—Colin gave a little wistful smile as he half-shrugged—“there’s a good chance you’re going to wind up banging him.”
Almost instinctively, the words “I’m not gay” sprang to the tip of his tongue, but they didn’t make it past his lips because they weren’t true. Well, they kind of were. He wasn’t gay. But he wasn’t straight, either. Bisexual, apparently. Or bi-curious. Something. Something that didn’t quite ring true with those three words he’d been saying all these years.
Colin’s humor vanished and his brow furrowed. “Hey, relax. I’m just messing with you.”
Matt wasn’t sure what had registered on his face while he was mulling over Colin’s comments and his own response—or lack thereof—but he must’ve looked pissed or something. Shaking his head, he exhaled. “It’s okay. Got a lot on my mind. I’m just . . .” Scared shitless that I’m going to be living in a cardboard box. Freaking out because maybe I’m in the wrong line of work. Rethinking my sexuality because it isn’t like I have anything else to worry about. “I’m fine.” He didn’t know who he was trying to convince.
“Uh-huh.” Colin pressed an elbow onto the counter and looked him right in the eye. “Talk to me, Matt. You’ve been out of it all week. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
The arched eyebrow didn’t let him off so easily. “How long have we known each other?”
Matt swallowed. “Uh. Couple of years?”
“Three.” Colin tilted his head. “You don’t think I can tell when you’re out of sorts?” He put up his hands. “I’m not asking for details if it’s none of my business. But I’m concerned. Both about your ability to do your job and, well . . . you.”
Sighing, Matt nodded. “I’ll get it together. It’s just . . . it’s been a rough week.”
Colin’s lips thinned. Matt cringed, expecting his boss to gently—or not—explain that it wasn’t just this week. Because it wasn’t. And Matt had been telling himself he’d get his shit together for how long? Fuck.
If Colin had a lecture in mind, he apparently let it go. Instead, he clapped Matt’s shoulder. “Just take care of yourself, all right?”
“Will do.”
Colin went into the back of the shop, and Matt sagged over the counter. He really did need to get it together. And yeah, take care of himself. Which meant, for starters, getting his equipment working again so he didn’t waste another day listening other people putting on tattoos that he could have just as easily done.
He took a deep breath, then got up and went to tackle the repairs.
The shop seemed bigger these days. Recently, he and Colin had cleared out the storage room and converted it into another tattooing station. There’d been some talk about bringing in another apprentice, and quite possibly letting some other artists work out of the shop a few times a week, and the new space meant things wouldn’t be quite so crowded. Matt liked the new room. He preferred tattooing in there instead of out in the open or behind the folding divider. Though he could still hear anything outside the room, even if he closed the door, he liked the impression of privacy. It helped him concentrate, and seemed to make his clients less nervous.
Well, when he had clients.
His heart sank as he stepped into the side room. Maybe that was why Colin and Pete were making noise about an apprentice or letting other artists use the space—so they could quietly nudge him out and replace him with someone who might pull his weight. And if they brought in other artists, spread the shop’s business a little thinner, Matt might have no choice but to quit anyway.
Sighing, he looked down at the partially disassembled rig he’d been working on earlier. His brain was fried now, so he doubted he’d figure out what was wrong with it any time soon. And it was getting late anyway. Not like he’d get any business unless some last-second walk-in came strolling through the door, which they probably would since his equipment was on the fritz.
He pulled up a stool and got to work. Of course, as soon as he’d picked up the tiny screwdriver, his mind started wandering, but he could multitask. Which was good, because he doubted he’d be able to get Jon out of his mind tonight.
At least the pilot reigniting the ongoing “to bi, or not to bi?” debate in Matt’s head had been a distraction from everything else in his world. Like, say, the fact that his car was making a noise that he was pretty sure it shouldn’t have been making. Or that he had a lot more month left than money, and he’d already pushed his luck with his landlord’s good will.
All of that might’ve been bearable if his tattoo needle hadn’t been on the fritz all fucking day, forcing him to cancel two appointments and turn away some walk-ins. That was an entire day he hadn’t worked. And if he didn’t work, he didn’t get paid. And if he didn’t get paid, then the car would keep making its noise, the landlord would keep giving him dirty looks, and the number on his student loans would go up instead of down. Not that it was going down anyway.
His stomach turned into a ball of lead. He set the gear down and rubbed his hands over his face. Fuck it. His concentration was shot. Thinking about Jon was fine. He could even cope with thinking about his sexuality being in flux. But as soon as he had money on his mind, it was all over, so why bother?
He wasn’t going to get anywhere with fixing his equipment, but at least he could get it clean. In theory, anyway. When he looked at the autoclave, he blinked a few times. He couldn’t even remember how to work the damn thing. Didn’t matter that he’d used it thousands of times—it may as well have been a time machine for all he knew how to use it.
Maybe this needed to wait until tomorrow. He’d get some sleep tonight, then put his equipment through the machine first thing in the morning so it was sanitized and ready to tattoo. And his brain would be ready for t
attooing by then. Otherwise he needed to start looking for a new gig.
His heart sank again. No. Not when his finances were already strained as hell. It didn’t help that a new shop had opened up in Chesapeake, and they’d been pulling business from Virginia Beach and Norfolk. Pete and Colin’s regulars weren’t going anywhere, but Matt was still new enough on the scene that he desperately needed more of them. And with a new apprentice to add a little competition . . .
“You could always find a real job.” His father had been dead for four years, and Matt could still hear his snide tone like he was standing right here. “You’ve had your fun. Now man up and do some real work.”
Matt gritted his teeth. Even if tattooing hadn’t been his dream since he was a teenager, sheer stubbornness would keep him from giving it up. Maybe that made him an idiot, sticking to his guns out of spite toward his dead father, but he was not giving up this job. This was all he’d ever wanted to do, and one way or another, he’d make it work. Even if it meant living in his car for a while. Assuming that didn’t fall apart on him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Stubbornness was fine and good, but it didn’t fix his car or his tattoo equipment, and it sure as shit didn’t pay his rent.
“Hey.” Colin’s voice startled him. He leaned on the doorframe. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. Just stressed. I’ll be fine.”
Colin didn’t budge. “You need a few days off?”
“No! No. I . . .” He shook his head. “No. I need to work as much as I can right now.” That was damn sure the truth. Quietly, more to himself than to his boss, he said, “I can’t afford to take time off. Not now.”
“Matt. Look at me.”
It was a struggle, but Matt met his gaze.
Colin inclined his head. “Listen, we’ve all got bills to pay, and none of us are paying for shit unless we’re pounding skin on a regular basis.” He paused, and his gaze was so intense, Matt was genuinely surprised it wasn’t followed by a hand on his shoulder. “But if you can’t focus, you’re going to botch someone’s ink.”
