“Why the hell are we in Santa Fe?”
He twists his face to mine, leaving less than an inch between our mouths. “Because I want to f**k you in every city I can before we go home in a couple days.” But he’s laughing when he says this, and I know he’s screwing with me.
At least, I think he is.
I quickly find out what his plans are when he takes a series of turns and finally swings the Suburban into a parking lot that’s hardly large enough to fit the massive SUV. One corner of my mouth quirks up as I glance at the fluorescent lights on the building right in front of us.
“Piercings and tattoos,” I say, and he grants me a nod. “So which are you here for?” My gaze automatically dips to his crotch, and I think of his Prince Albert, but he touches his hand to the right side of his chest.
“And before you ask”—he opens his door and gives me a cocky grin—“no, this isn’t one that can wait until we get back to Los Angeles.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” I say as I get out of the SUV. I join him at the front of the building, where he slides his hand into my back pocket and stares down into my brown eyes. “It’s late, you sure you want to do this tonight?”
“Corey’s already expecting us.” He holds the door open for me. The second I step inside the tiny parlor, I’m immediately greeted by the aroma of green soap, fresh ink, and witch hazel. I inhale and exhale several times, letting the intoxicatingly familiar scent wash over me. Wyatt dips his mouth to my ear. “Does it to me, too, beautiful.”
I glide the tip of my tongue over my lips, and he draws in a deep breath. “Know what you’re getting?” I ask.
He nods confidently, just as a short man with surprisingly very little ink darts out from behind the curtain across the room, calling Wyatt’s name.
Wyatt quickly introduces us. “Kylie, this is Corey. Corey, this is . . .”
“Bluebird,” Corey says simply, and I swear I flush all the way down to the tips of my toes. When did Wyatt tell this man about me, and more importantly, what did he say?
“Nice to meet you, too,” I reply, glancing back and forth between them in hopes that Corey will tell me what Wyatt’s said about me.
He doesn’t, and as they talk, I wander to the lounge area and sit in a plush, suede chair. Every few moments, Corey or Wyatt glance over in my direction, and it’s unnerving. I pluck a giant binder from the coffee table and begin to flip through it, running my fingertips over each page of intricate tattoo designs.
“See anything you like?” Corey asks me after several minutes.
My lips curve into a smile as I nod my head. He’s prepping the ink on his worktable, but he takes a moment to shoot me a curious look. “Too many. Your work is absolutely amazing.”
Wyatt makes a little sound in the back of his throat that sounds like a chuckle, drawing my attention to him. He’s already in the chair, with his shirt off, and his blue eyes rake over me like I’m the only person in this room.
“Want to watch?” Corey asks as he cleans Wyatt’s skin.
I shake my head. Watching had lost its novelty for me years ago, and besides, no artist wants somebody staring over his shoulder while he works. I reach for the next binder, and when I’m done with it, the next. Once I’m out of photos to look at, I flip through the pages of Inked, listening to the soothing hum of the tattoo gun as Corey runs it across Wyatt’s skin.
I’m on my fourth issue of the magazine, admiring a tattoo of a skull surrounded by orchids, when Wyatt finally calls me over. Glancing up, I realize that the sound of the machine has stopped.
Standing, I stretch out my legs, which have gone stiff from sitting so long. I cross the linoleum floor slowly, squinting at the design on the right side of his chest until I come right up on it. At the moment, it’s just an outline. His skin is splotchy, but this is something I’ve seen before.
It always heals.
What stops me from immediately saying anything is the design itself. It’s a bird descending, and I study it carefully, from its tail feathers close to Wyatt’s muscled shoulder to its beak in the center of his chest. At first, I think it’s a crow because of the creature’s fierce features, but then I notice where the color is partially filled in along the wings.
And I realize that it’s a bluebird.
An aggressive and powerful and utterly sexy bluebird.
Words finally find me. “It’s gorgeous.” I look up from the tattoo into Wyatt’s eyes, feeling my throat swell at just how vulnerable they suddenly seem. “It’s my favorite.”
And that’s the truth. Out of every mark of ink on his body, this bird is the one that has the most significance to me. It’s the one that I’ll dream about.
Wyatt and I don’t say too much to each other as he pays Corey, but when we get to the door to leave, I pause. “You okay, Ky?” he asks, touching my shoulder.
I grip the doorknob and shake my head. Turning around to face Corey, I clear my throat. He glances up from where he’s cleaning his equipment and cocks an eyebrow. “Is it too late for you to do one for me?”
Corey’s eyes dart from Wyatt to me, and he laughs. “If this mother f**ker is paying then hell no.”
I draw my hand away from the doorknob and start over to speak to Corey about the design I’m looking for, but Wyatt stops me. “It’s not over yet,” he says in a pained voice. “No more f**king blackbirds, Ky. Not yet until you give me a chance.”
I peel his fingers away from my arm, one by one, shivering at how his thumb brushes the tiny scar on my wrist as he lets go. “No, no blackbirds.”