by Ophelia Bell
The only thing missing are about a dozen or so tattoos. I’ll have to talk him into remedying that this weekend.
I’m still pretty raw from the harsh reminder of Manny’s death. I had no idea Cancún was where Delgado’s headquarters were. I’m only peripherally aware of the conflicts Celeste and her father deal with. It’s their business, and it’s what got Manny killed, so I have avoided the topic at all costs out of a sense of self-preservation. I know the Amador Cartel exists, but I didn’t know the big man himself lived here, or that Delgado works for him now. I might have canceled the trip altogether just because I’d wind up even more of a basket case.
But thanks to Sam, now I know Delgado isn’t even here. Hopefully I can shift my focus back to my own business and forget about that for the rest of the trip.
We trek through the enormous resort to the restaurant Sam made reservations at, and the place is already filled with tatted-up guests of every persuasion. I recognize a few and catch some excited smiles and waves. I wave back, gradually relaxing as the sense of familiarity takes over. This has always been an enjoyable experience, minus the occasional testosterone-driven asshats like Alex Augustine who just come with the territory, and who are especially annoying if you’re a woman in the industry.
We’re steps from the hostess stand in front of the open-air restaurant when the asshole appears again at the bar. I curse under my breath when Alex sees me and shift closer to Sam, grasping his hand and threading my fingers through his.
He looks down at me, brow furrowed in concern.
“Alex,” I whisper, and he nods and squeezes my hand.
Without releasing me, he directs his attention to the hostess, informing her that we have a reservation.
“Yes, Mr. Santos. Your other parties have already arrived.”
An enthusiastic hoot reaches us from clear across the restaurant, and my mood improves immediately when I see both Mako and Vic waving from a table at the edge of the deck overlooking the beach. They stand as we make our way over, Vic a head taller than Mako with his wavy, sun-bleached hair hanging around his shoulders and his tan face aglow from a day out in the sun.
The other two Tendrils artists are like two sides of a coin: Vic is tall and angular where Mako’s short and bulky, and Vic has blond hair where Mako’s is black. Their personalities are also at odds; Vic is the quiet, introspective one while Mako tends to lack a filter most days. But they’re both covered from neck to wrists in ink, and are almost always in perfect sync. Now is no different as both men’s eyes immediately drop to where my hand is still linked with Sam’s.
He loosens his grip as if to release me, but I hold on. Alex’s eyes are still trained on us from the bar, so I don’t want to give him any reason to think he has an opening.
I finally release Sam’s hand when Vic pulls out a chair for me and we sit. Both our friends are darting looks back and forth between us. Sam clears his throat and stares at his napkin. Finally, Mako says, “Okay, you guys. What the fuck? Did you hook up? We left you alone for like, one night.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, honey,” I say. “I just didn’t count on the vultures circling the second I got here. Having a man attached to me keeps them at bay.”
“That’s some bullshit,” Vic says, sitting forward and shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have to be on guard here, of all places. This is your tribe.”
“Yeah, and this is also the first time I’ve been single while I’m here.”
“We’ve got you covered,” Mako says. “Sam, if you need a breather from being Toni’s arm candy, let me know. I am more than happy to step up.” He offers a wink and flexes one big, tattooed arm at me as if his bicep is proof of his good looks.
“Tempted as I am, I think that might be overkill,” I say. “Parading around with a harem might send a message opposite of the one I intend.”
“It’s called a reverse harem,” Vic says, “when the woman has a bevy of men at her service. It’s actually a thing, at least in some of the romance novels I’ve read.”
Mako’s eyes bug out. “No shit! You read?”
Vic responds with a withering look, and Sam breaks into a deep laugh that makes my stomach flip. I can’t help but join in, because the banter the three of them share reminds me why I’m here. They’re my closest friends, now that Leo and Celeste are too busy with the Flores business to make many visits. Half of that is on me, though. It’s simply been too painful for me to take the initiative to visit them since Manny died, but I know it hurts Mom’s feelings that I don’t come to see her as much as I used to.
But if I don’t get my shit together and make Tendrils a success again, all the work I’ve put in over the past decade will have been for nothing, and I’ll lose these friends too.
“Toni, I’ve got a surprise for you after we eat,” Vic says in a casual, smooth tone. His low-key enthusiasm is so subtle only those of us close to him catch on. But the brightness in his eyes tells me this is something big.
“Really? Any hints you’re willing to share?”
“Nope. You’ll have to wait and see.”
We order, and over the course of the meal my tangle of emotion gradually fades. Getting a few margaritas into me helps, but the reminder of how well the four of us work together is the best medicine I could’ve asked for.
When we leave the restaurant, I’m buzzing with curiosity over whatever it is Vic has to show us. I take Sam’s hand again, comforted by the gentle squeeze he gives me, as if silently conveying he’s here for me. He makes it so damn easy.
Vic leads the way through the hotel with the other three of us following behind. I lean toward Mako and ask, “You have any idea what this is about?”
“Not a clue. You know what a cagey fuck he is. He’s damn good at keeping a secret.” He lifts a brow at me and Sam and adds, “You know I am too, so if there’s anything you two want me to know, it’ll just be between us.”
“Nothing more than Toni already said,” Sam replies. “I’m her shield, that’s all.”
Mako chuckles. “We should all be so lucky.”
Vic leads us toward the entrance to the convention hall where the show will take place and opens one double-door. I haven’t been inside yet. The hotel and event staff delivered our gear to our double booth when we arrived, and my plan was to wait to set up in the morning, since the show doesn’t officially open until noon.
Other artists and exhibitors are busy setting up their booths as Vic leads us through, stopping at ours. We have a primo corner spot in a central row near the stage. Right now it’s nothing but a row of naked tables and black fabric half-wall partitions separating it from the neighboring booths. But there is one decoration hanging across the back. Vic turns around to face us, raising his arms and grinning like a fool.
“You like?”
“Oh my god, Vic! That’s amazing!” I crow and clap my hands. Hanging from the cross-supports at the top of the booth’s backdrop is an enormous wrought iron sign that reads “Tendrils” in script. It’s as if he drew the name in solid black metal.
“Hold on, that’s not the only thing,” he says, then rounds the tables and bends down near the back corner. A second later the sign is illuminated from a hidden trail of LED lights that perfectly align with the back of the letters, which then begin to color-shift through a rainbow.
“Whoa,” Mako and Sam both say in unison.
Tears spring to my eyes for the second time tonight, but they’re the happy kind, as I stare in awe at the gorgeous masterpiece Vic has created.
“How the hell did you get it here? Don’t tell me you hauled it through customs.”
“I shipped it about a month ago, so I wasn’t even sure it made it in one piece. Or about three dozen pieces, actually. It all breaks down to fit into a couple bags, so it’ll fit in the crates with our other convention gear. I have a more permanent one for the shop at home, if you like it. This one can be for shows.”
“Like it? I fucking love it! Vic! I really want to hug y
ou right now. I can’t believe you did this for Tendrils.”
His cheeks turn bright red and he averts his eyes. I don’t move in for a hug because Vic’s uncomfortable with too much physical contact, so I just continue to vocalize all the delight I can as I step close to examine the sign.
I’m on cloud nine when we agree to head to the bar next, everyone sharing their ideas to bring in more business. Vic suggests we hold a series of raffles for an original design from each of us and donate half the proceeds to a local children’s hospital in San Diego. Mako shares his idea to airbrush temporary tattoos on kids, starting here at the convention. There aren’t a huge number of kids in attendance, but there may be adults interested too, and certainly enough interested in body-paint in general to make it worthwhile. Sam suggests the four of us collaborate on a coloring book to sell alongside all our other swag at future conventions and in the shop.
The bar is tucked away in a lushly landscaped corner near one end of the huge pool area, and little by little more convention attendees trickle in. We claim a high-top with a view of the beach and dive into a pitcher of top-shelf margaritas while we chat. I feel normal for the first time in years, even though Manny’s ghost still lingers at the edge of my awareness and the urge to rub my tattoo hasn’t completely gone away.
We’re joined later by the event coordinator, a forty-something woman named Andrea Rodriguez who welcomes me back with a hug as she makes a circuit around the bar, greeting other artists.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she says earnestly when she releases me and looks into my eyes. “We’re thrilled you decided to join us again. Let any of the staff know if we can do anything for you.”
“Thanks, Andrea. I’m just looking forward to diving back in. It’s been way too long.”
She nods and greets Mako and Vic, who’ve been to past conventions so aren’t unfamiliar to her. Then her gaze lands on Sam. “Hi, new guy. Where do you fit in the grand scheme of things?” Her voice dips in pitch and Sam shifts in his seat.
“Former apprentice. New Tendrils artist. Sam Santos.” He holds out a hand and Andrea stares for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly grasping his hand to shake it.
“You must be a decent artist if Toni hired you, unless she hired you for your looks.” She glances at me. “No judgment if you did, sweetie. If anyone needs to drown her sorrows in sex I’m sure you qualify. But this one has no ink.”
Sam’s cheeks turn pink and he lifts his other arm to show her the band tattooed around his left forearm. Andrea doesn’t look impressed.
“Is that what you call a tattoo?”
“Jesus you’re a tough audience,” Sam says, and good naturedly stands and lifts one arm, then hikes up the side of his shirt.
My mouth goes a little dry at the sight of his abs and the highly defined muscles that cover his side. His tribal spiral is perfectly placed to accent all the un-inked parts. The red stripe is striking amid the black.
I look at Andrea again, my neck prickling a little at the predatory smile she’s giving him now. Jesus. She’s old enough to be his mother.
Sam drops his shirt and sits. “I didn’t realize having a body covered in tattoos was a requirement to be here. I’m happy to give you a freebie to prove I’m worthy.”
“Not necessary. Your proximity to Ms. Valentine probably does enough for your cred to get you business. But you should fix that. At least your arms, if nothing else. Hope you all have a fantastic time. Good luck.”
She saunters off to greet another table of artists and Sam scowls after her. “I’m not getting more tattoos just to prove something. I have a plan.”
“What is this mysterious plan of yours, anyway?” Mako asks.
“Sounds personal. Don’t think we should butt in,” Vic says, then tops off our margaritas and excuses himself to get a refill.
Sam glances at me. “Vic’s right. It’s personal.” The tic in his jaw is enough to warn me off, but I don’t understand his reticence to share.
“You’re among friends, Sam. We’re not going to judge. We’re just curious. It can’t be a fear of needles if you managed to ink your own skin. And that rib-piece had to hurt like the dickens.”
“It’s not about the needles.”
“Is it me keeping you from sharing?” Mako asks. “I’ll go if you just want to tell Toni.” He holds up his hands and slips out of his seat. “I’ll go see what’s keeping Vic. Thinking we might need some shots to go with the pitcher anyway. You two talk. Share your soul, buddy.” He smacks Sam on the shoulder and disappears into the crowd.
Sam stares me down with a mix of fear and hope that makes no sense. He looks like such a kid with that expression it makes me want to go over and hug him. Then he sighs and seems to surrender.
“It’s because I want you to tattoo me, Toni. I want you to design and ink every inch. No one else is good enough.”
9
Sam
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Toni just stares for a few beats, then smiles. My tension deflates, but it leaves behind uncertainty.
“Why is this such a big secret? I would be honored, Sam. You know I don’t work for free, though, not even for a potential business partner.”
I heave a breath and guzzle the last dregs from my glass, which is nothing more than limey, tequila-flavored water by this point. “I wouldn’t ask that.”
“So is this really what you’ve been holding out for all this time? You could’ve asked me ages ago. Why didn’t you?”
I grit my teeth. The truth isn’t something I’m willing to share. I feared the depth of my infatuation would be clear as day simply by admitting I was holding out for her. Then again, I was also positive if she saw the tattoo on my side, she’d figure it out.
But she doesn’t seem to be reacting the way I expected. What did I expect? A condescending pat on the head? Instead she’s just curious.
I laugh it off and shake my head. “Hero worship, I guess? I’ve followed your career from the start. It’s not that easy to come out and ask, especially before I’ve really proven myself. I guess I wanted to feel like I was worthy first.”
At least none of that’s an outright lie, though what I need to be “worthy” of amounts to so much more than earning a tattoo from one of the few people I consider masters at her trade.
She shifts over one seat so we’re side by side and rests a hand on the dark band inked on my forearm. “You’ve proven yourself, Sam. Let’s start talking about what you want. It would be my absolute honor to tattoo you.”
“Thanks. I don’t know if here is the best venue, though.”
“Well, wherever, whenever you’re ready. I’m assuming you’ve spent some time thinking about what you want, though. Care to share broad strokes?”
My gaze drifts down to her shoulders and arms, which are covered with symmetrical swirls of art-nouveau-style botanical designs. They’re almost entirely red and black, her signature colors. She didn’t ink them herself, obviously, but I know she designed every inch of ink on her own body and paid someone else to do the actual tattooing. What I’d like goes a little deeper, though.
“I want to collaborate with you,” I say, deciding to go for broke. “The only broad stroke is that I want to merge our styles somehow. I’ve avoided visualizing more detail than that because I want to see what we can come up with together, if you’re game.”
“Okay,” she says with a slow nod, and I can sense her hedging a little, but she doesn’t blow me off completely. “Let’s set aside time when we get home to talk about it. I’ll put it in my calendar now.”
She reaches for her purse and pulls out her phone, then taps an appointment into her calendar. A second later my phone buzzes. I peek at it to see an appointment for Tuesday, the day after we get back, at six p.m.
“Toni . . . are you sure about Tuesday?”
“It’s as good a day as any.”
“Isn’t it your birthday?”
She grimaces. “Don’t re
mind me. In fact, I’ll do your first tattoo for free if you avoid drawing attention to the fact that I’m turning thirty. I’d like to pretend I’m twenty-nine for as long as I can.”
“Psh, you don’t look a day over twenty-two,” I say, grinning at her.
“Ooh, I like when you talk dirty to me.”
Our eyes meet and hold for a long moment, and my gears are turning at full-speed. Would she like it if I was really talking dirty to her? Or is she thinking how fun it might be to pretend she’s my age again? Either way, my dick pulses and thickens at the thought, but I don’t have time to construct a worthy response before a giant pitcher of margaritas plunks down in front of me, shattering the moment.
The pitcher is followed by a quartet of tequila shots a waitress sets down before disappearing back toward the bar. Mako plops back onto his seat, then Vic settles down beside him and produces two packages of pens from his back pocket.
“You know the saying ‘fake it till you make it,’ right? I figured we could help Sam out.”
Toni reaches for one of the sets of pens and I peek at the label—body paint markers in a variety of colors.
“Oh, these are perfect!” Toni crows. “Sam, you game for a little fun? Show me that bicep. We’ll have you tatted up by the end of the night.”
Mako’s on my other side and pulls out a bright red marker. “These are rad! You can be a walking Tendrils billboard.”
“Hang on a sec,” I say, leaning back and holding my hands up. “Why is it a good idea for me to let a bunch of drunk idiots draw all over me?”
“Because we are not just any set of drunk idiots. We’re artistes,” Vic says, tilting his nose in the air and flipping his shoulder-length hair back. “I do some of my best work while intoxicated. I call dibs on your right forearm.”
Toni grabs my left hand and stretches out my arm, sizing up the length. She traces the line of my forearm up to my elbow, the sensation going straight to my crotch. I’m hard now, and not even Mako’s big paws shoving up my right shirt sleeve can cool the heat. I can’t even count on the sting of needles to temper my arousal.
