by L. A. Witt
“All right.” The needle started buzzing again. “Here we go.”
Jon squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.
He’d spent all night and all day imagining how bad it could possibly be—and his squadron mates had helped, of course, with horror stories from their own tattoos—and still, the very intense and very focused burn nearly launched him off the table.
“Fuck!” he growled, gripping the table’s edge.
“You all right?” Matt asked.
“Yeah.” Jon swallowed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Come on, Fumes,” Nate said, reappearing. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“Says you.”
“Hey, I’ve got ink. I know what it feels like.”
“Are any of your tattoos on your ass?”
“No, because I’m not stupid enough to literally bet my ass on a Falcons game.”
“Fuck you.” Jon closed his eyes, folded his arms on the table, and rested his forehead on them as he tried to breathe through the relentless burn. Every stroke of the needle was fresh fire. Someone—Nate, probably—had told him the endorphins would come along and dull the pain at some point, but they were sure taking their sweet time. After a while, he said, “How does it look, anyway?”
Nate snorted. “Dude, I’m not checking out your bare ass.”
Jon glared up at him. “You’ve been threatening all day long to take pictures of it, so why would it be any different to tell if—ow! Fuck . . .”
“Actually.” Matt cleared his throat. “Health department says I can’t have anyone back here except myself and the client.”
“Aww, damn.” Nate clapped Jon’s arm. “Guess you’re on your own.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Jon muttered.
“I’ll be in the lobby. Holler when you’re done so I can get a shot for the guys.”
Jon flipped him off.
After Nate had gone, Matt quietly said, “I hope that wasn’t too out of line. You seemed like you’d be more comfortable without an audience.”
Jon hadn’t thought about it, but now that he did . . . yeah. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Matt paused. Without stopping the line he was carving on Jon’s now very tender butt cheek, he added, “The outline’s done, by the way. If you want to have a look at it as we go, just say so. I can take a picture with your phone and let you have a look.”
“Sure. Yeah. That’ll work.”
The needle stopped. Jon held his phone over his shoulder. It disappeared from his hand. Matt wiped the stinging tattoo down with a cool and slightly damp paper towel. Then he held up the phone. The sound of the camera snapping a picture was mortifying. In fact, Jon could honestly say this was a new experience—both sets of cheeks burning, and for very different reasons.
Matt’s hand and the phone appeared in his peripheral vision. Jon took it and looked at the screen. Admittedly, the tattoo looked pretty good. Considering it was supposed to be a tattoo of shame to remind Jon forever of his team’s catastrophic loss—and his betting stupidity—Matt was doing a damn good job on it.
“Looks good.”
“Keep going?”
Oh fuck. “Yeah. Keep going.” As Matt continued working—ow, ow, ow—Jon said, “So is it really true you need licensing to tattoo a football team’s logo?”
“Technically, but that’s never stopped us before.” He glanced at Jon. “But you turned white when they suggested it, so I figured I’d help you out.”
Jon laughed. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Silence almost set in, but Matt spoke. “So how’d you get that nickname?”
“Nickname?”
“Yeah. Fumes?”
“Oh, my call sign.” Jon laughed. “They used to call me Little Jon, but then I came back from a flight op with basically no fuel left. Running on fumes, as they say. Everyone was shocked we even made it back. They started calling me Fumes, and it stuck.”
Matt chuckled. “I’m getting the impression pilots live and breathe shit-talking.”
“God, you have no idea.”
“Yeah, okay, Fumes. I’m putting a tattoo on your ass because you lost a bet. Over a football game.” Matt met his gaze in the mirror and smirked. “I clearly have no idea.”
Jon laughed. “Fair enough.”
“What about your friend?” Matt gestured toward the door. “What’s his call sign?”
Snickering, Jon said, “Screws. As in, he has a few loose ones.”
Matt gave a quiet laugh as he kept working. After a while, he asked, “What exactly does this emblem mean, anyway?”
Jon craned his neck enough to almost bring Matt into his peripheral vision. “Every squadron has their insignia. That’s the insignia for one of the other squadrons on base.”
“You mean it’s not even your squadron?”
“No.” Jon laughed dryly. He faced forward again and touched his forehead to his crossed arms. “They wouldn’t let me off that easily.”
“Why this one, though?”
Renewed heat bloomed in Jon’s face. “Because I slept with three of their pilots last year—”
“At the same time?”
“Well . . . not exactly.”
Matt lifted his gaze again. “Not exactly?”
“There was a threesome in there somewhere, but some one-on-one with each of them too. Point being, my squadron found out, they thought it was hilarious, and they won’t let me hear the end of it.”
The needle stopped. Well, not entirely. It still buzzed, but it lifted away from Jon’s skin, offering some sweet relief. The chair didn’t creak.
Jon glanced back again. “What?”
“Uh.” Matt cleared his throat. A second later, the chair creaked, the buzzing sped up, and the needle bit into Jon’s ass again. “Sounds like DADT really is a thing of the past.”
“Oh hell yeah.”
Matt said nothing. He was making some small, seemingly intricate lines, so Jon assumed he was concentrating, and he tried not to be aware that Matt was concentrating that hard on his bare ass. Not that he’d mind Matt focusing on his ass, but maybe in a slightly less awkward and painful context.
At the thought of getting Matt into a decidedly more comfortable situation, Jon shivered.
“You okay?” Matt asked. “I can turn up the heat.”
I’ll bet you can.
Jon cleared his throat, kind of wishing the mirror would vanish so Matt didn’t have a full-on view of his face, which was bright red. “I’m good.”
“Okay. Just say so. Sometimes people get cold when the endorphins get going.”
“Good to know.” Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jon said, “So what’s the longest you’ve ever spent on one tattoo?”
“Oh.” Matt paused like he needed to think about it. “Fifty, sixty hours, maybe?”
Jon blinked. “You’re shitting me.”
“Well, it’s not all at once.” Matt chuckled. “My hand would fall off.”
“Can’t imagine the guy on the receiving end would last that long.”
Matt started to speak, but hesitated like he’d realized—in the same instant Jon had—that there were two ways someone could interpret that comment. In the mirror, his cheeks flushed, and he focused intently on the tattoo on Jon’s ass. “We break it up into shorter sessions. Most people can’t handle more than four or five hours at a time at the most.”
The back of Jon’s throat fluttered, and he swallowed a sudden wave of nausea. “Jesus. I can’t imagine handling this for that long.”
Matt laughed, but said nothing.
In the mirror, Jon studied the ink on Matt’s arms and under his collar. He wondered how much more there was beneath his shirt. “How many tattoos do you have?”
“A lot.” Matt dipped his needle. “Not being a smartass—I don’t know how many I actually have anymore. Some have kind of blended together. Some could be counted as a single tat or two or three. And I’ve covered up a few along the way.”
“Wow. Your pain tolerance is higher than mine.”
Matt laughed. He said something, but his hand moved just then, pulling Jon’s focus to the latex-coated contact with his ass. It wasn’t a stroke, per se. Not a caress or an attempt to cop a feel. Matt had simply adjusted the position of the hand he was using to keep the skin taut, and it’d made all Jon’s senses go haywire.
“You doing okay?”
Jon nodded. “Yeah. Just, uh, smarted a bit.” Eh, not quite true, but close enough. “What were you saying? About your pain tolerance?”
“Oh. Just that it still hurts, but you kind of learn to tolerate it. And some places hurt more than others.” He paused. “I actually tattooed a guy’s dick once.”
Jon’s ass clenched involuntarily. Fortunately the needle wasn’t on him just then. “Fuck, seriously?”
“Yep. Tiny little tattoo, but it took ten separate sessions because it hurt so much.”
“And he kept coming back?”
“Well, once he got started, he was kind of committed unless he wanted an unfinished design.”
“Dare I ask what it was?”
“A bumblebee. And no, I have no idea what the significance was.”
“I think I’d be afraid to ask.”
“We all were.” Matt chuckled. “In fact, we all had a hard time sitting comfortably whenever he came in. Pete couldn’t even stay in the shop.”
Jon laughed. “Can you blame him?”
“Nope.” Matt dabbed Jon’s skin with a paper towel before continuing with the ink. “It comes with the territory, though. You just never know what someone’s going to ask you to put where.”
“Like a squadron emblem on a guy’s ass?”
In the mirror, Matt smirked, and the way his eyes sparkled made Jon’s head spin. “I have to say, this is a new one.”
“Great. Glad I’m doing something unique.” Jon rolled his eyes. “I guess I could think of worse jobs, though. Having my hands on hot guys all day long? Sounds like fun.”
Matt laughed. “You kind of forget that you’re touching someone.” As if for emphasis he adjusted his hand on Jon’s cheek again, and kept working on the tattoo. “I mean, it just becomes skin after a while, no matter how attractive he is. Or isn’t.”
He? Interesting.
“You do more men or women?”
Matt shrugged without looking up or stopping. “Couldn’t even tell you. I’ll do anyone who comes through that door with cash or a credit card that doesn’t decline.”
That could be interpreted—
Ignoring his own dirty thoughts, Jon cleared his throat. “As long as they have the express written permission of the NFL, right?”
That brought Matt’s gaze up, and they locked eyes in the mirror for a second. He laughed and resumed tattooing. “Something like that. I mean, there are certain tattoos I won’t do. I’m not putting swastikas on anyone.”
“Seems fair.”
They were quiet for a little while, Jon gritting his teeth while Matt steadily carved more fire into his butt cheek. The silence wasn’t doing him any good, though—it just made him concentrate harder on the pain and the needle. He needed to distract himself. And what better distraction than the gorgeous—and maybe queer?—artist currently keeping him company.
While Matt was putting more ink on the needle, Jon took advantage of the sharp end not being against his skin. “So is it a rule that the artists in this place are all hot?”
Matt froze. His eyes slid slowly toward the mirror, and met Jon’s.
Heart thumping, Jon grinned as if he were completely confident and suave. This wasn’t how he normally operated, but he wasn’t usually trying to flirt while he was facing one of his biggest phobias and half-focused on an intense burn that was in no hurry to ease up.
“I’m . . .” Matt’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come again?”
“I’ve only seen you and one other artist, but . . .” Jon grinned even bigger despite his nerves. “You guys are hot.”
“Oh.” The shy smile was slow to form—slower than the color blooming in Matt’s cheeks—and it made Jon’s spine tingle. “Uh. Thanks.” The smile came completely to life. “You should see my boss.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Matt whistled and gestured at the competition photo on the wall. “I’d sell my soul to look half as good as him.”
So you check out your male boss. Good to know.
“I don’t know.” Jon grinned. “I don’t think you’re lacking anywhere.”
Matt turned even redder. “You haven’t seen him.” He leaned forward, focusing diligently on the tattoo.
Jon grunted as the needle touched his skin. Desperately searching for a distraction from the fresh pain, and feeling braver now that Matt had tipped his hand a little, he said, “So, is it against protocol to let a client buy you a drink?”
The needle stopped. Matt’s head snapped up. “Sorry?”
“I mean, when we’re done.” Holding his gaze in the mirror, Jon lifted his eyebrows. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“A drink? Like—” Matt jumped enough he nearly knocked over one of the ink cups even though it was held down with a glob of Vaseline. “Are you—no! God. No. I can’t . . . I’m not gay!”
Jon blinked. “Oh. Um. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Did you think I was?”
“Uh . . .”
Matt’s scrutiny made Jon’s face burn even hotter.
Avoiding the tattoo artist’s gaze, Jon said, “I . . . guess I misread you.”
“Oh.”
Silence. Jon had misread guys before, but usually they could just awkwardly part ways, hurry in opposite directions, and never look back. Usually, he didn’t have his pants down, and usually, the other guy wasn’t drawing all over his bare ass.
Well. That was an exercise in flawless timing.
“So, uh.” Jon cleared his throat. “How much do you have left to do?”
“Another twenty minutes or so.”
Jon closed his eyes. He had a feeling this would be the quietest, most awkward twenty minutes of his life.
He was right.
Chapter 4
Matt had never been so relieved to finish a tattoo. Of course he’d taken his time and done it right—no amount of awkwardness would make him phone it in—but he was definitely glad when this particular appointment was over.
He gave the design one last look to make sure the lines were clean and the shading was up to par. Normally he wouldn’t even notice which body part he was staring at, but he was all too aware that he was peering closely at Jon’s ass. His round, perfect—
Get a grip, Huffman.
Fortunately, there was nothing left to do on the design, so he sat back and exhaled. “All right.” He turned off the needle and hung it back on its stand. “You’re done.”
“Oh thank God.” Jon groaned, pressing his head into his forearm. “How do people do this for hours on end?”
They usually start by not making a pass at the artist and—
The pain. You meant the pain.
Matt forced a laugh. “On the bright side, you didn’t vomit or black out.”
“I guess that’s a plus.”
“Yeah. Anyway, hang tight for a second while I clean it up and put a bandage on it.” He went through the usual motions of wiping away the blood and excess ink, then reached for the stack of bandages. “I, uh, assume your friend wants to get a picture before I cover it up?”
Jon muttered under his breath. Then, “Hey Nate! You want to get a picture of this?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” His friend materialized in the doorway, phone already in hand and a huge grin on his lips.
Matt left the bandages he’d need by the used ink cups, and stepped out of the room while the guys dealt with the pictures. He’d had his hands on Jon’s ass for the last hour and some change, but now that his work was done, it didn’t seem right to stay there while Nate took a photo of the ink.
Yeah right. It wasn’t out
of any sense of preserving Jon’s modesty. He just needed to put some space between himself and Jon for a second. Outside the room, he fought the urge to peel off his gloves and rub his latex-scented hands over his face. Not yet. Not until he was completely finished.
What the hell had happened in there? One minute they were shooting the breeze. The next, Jon was offering to buy him a drink. And his eyes and tone—no, he hadn’t been thinking of a friendly, social, let’s pretend we’re buddies drink.
“I’m not gay.” Matt could hear himself saying it just like he’d said it hundreds of times over the years, but now he wanted to laugh out loud at his stupid defensive mantra. Maybe all those people who’d made assumptions about him over the years had been on to something. He’d never quite understood why they’d assumed he was into men, only that he’d had reason to repeat “I’m not gay” more than most people seemed to. Enough that the question—sometimes accusation—made his teeth grind. But now . . . not gay? Sure. Not into men? Yeah, right. That would explain why he’d had another guy’s cock down his throat a week ago. And why he’d spent last night doing searches he’d never imagined doing—“two men fucking,” “bisexual threesome,” “how to give a blowjob”—mostly with his own cock in his hand.
Matt sighed. Now he felt like an asshole. he’d been caught off guard, but thinking back on the conversation, it wasn’t like he hadn’t given Jon a few “hey, I might be into dudes” signals. Right? But it didn’t matter. At the very, very least, he’d been unprofessional. Not something a semi-starving tattoo artist could afford to be. And, well, he just felt bad because Jon really did seem like a nice guy, and he’d been reading the signals Matt had given him.
So how do I fix this?
Nate came back out into the waiting area, and Matt returned to the room where Jon was waiting, pants still down and ass still bare. Without speaking—aside from warning Jon before putting on some cool lotion—he went through the motions of bandaging the fresh ink.
With the last piece of tape in place, he said, “You’re good to go.” And not a moment too soon. “When you’re dressed, we’ll settle up out here.” He didn’t wait for a response, and left the room again, this time so Jon could put himself back together. The guy was probably dying to put his pants back on.
