Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Scotland

A few wisps of fog clung to the ditches as the morning light broke through the staggered branches of the forest. Frost had landed heavily the night before, silencing the last of the crickets and turning his raspberries to a deathly black. It was strange to see fall creep in so suddenly when he could have sworn he had just been in the midst of summer.

“I can’t remember the last time I was up this early,” said Clint, glancing off into the forest as Scotland hit the main road and accelerated onto the pavement. “Oh, a bunny!” He pointed at the scruffy brown creature as it bounced away, heading for the same place they’d just come from.

Clint was ruffled, his eyes wide but tired with his usual worn clothes stretched tight over his body. He’d finished the coffee Scotland had offered him in a few quick swallows and his second cup sat steaming in a spill-proof mug between them.

“I like this time of day,” said Scotland, struggling to keep his eyes on the road as he picked up speed. “It’s still early enough that most people are asleep, their houses dark and seemingly vacant. It’s quiet.”

The highway was nearly empty, which was a good thing when the man of his dreams was so focused on distracting him from the passenger seat.

He’d been fighting to keep his gaze off Clint for days. A promise was a promise, and he was bloody well keeping to it, despite how much it hurt him not to touch.

His heart had broken right along with Clint’s as he’d held him, listening to dozens of stories of Ross. The way Clint had sounded, and the look on his face had made it so clear. That was love. Not what was between them.

I never had a chance.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting and fighting the pull that haunted him. He dreaded leaving for work in the morning, looking toward the cabin and wondering if Clint had slept and if he would wake up in time to find the breakfast Scotland had left him, still warm on its tray just inside the door.

Things had become so quiet. Clint would sit on one of the chairs by the fire pit, the wood still stacked and begging to be lit. Scotland would join him, not saying a thing as they rested in comfortable silence. The walks they’d taken on the game trails through the forest had been the same, except for the few curses when the bugs managed to find their way past the bug spray and bite him.

The days were dwindling as the night turned colder, the sun disappearing for a little longer with each sunset.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” said Scotland, clenching his hands on the steering wheel to keep from reaching out and placing a soothing hand on Clint’s thigh. It would only lead his thoughts down a path of no good if he gave in.

“Maddy won’t stop texting and asking me if I’ve seen your studio yet,” said Clint, letting out a yawn before he squinted out of the window. “I can’t figure out if that’s supposed to be a euphemism or if he’s serious.”

Chuckling, Scotland flicked on his turn signal as they hit the edge of the city, before merging onto the main drag. The traffic thickened with every second, the first horn blaring somewhere in the distance. “Maddy is a different kind of guy. He’s cute, but intense. And I don’t really get his sense of humor.”

“No one does,” said Clint, shaking his head. “Except Derreck. That kid was new to life when I first met him at the bar. He was so innocent and na?ve, with the weight of his life on his shoulders. He surprised the hell out of me, too. I didn’t think much of him, to be honest, but he proved me wrong pretty quick.”

That sounded just about right from what he knew about Maddy. He acted more like a teenager than a forty-something-year-old man. Scotland had been shocked to find out his age from Nav, another kinkster who frequented the community with his Dom Trick.

“This is it,” he said, peering up at his building as he pulled into the reserved parking space. “I know it doesn’t look like much.” That was an understatement. It had used to be a bungalow before someone had converted it into a business. He’d gotten it three owners later after it had been passed along too many times by unsuccessful businessmen. Each of them had done some sort of renovation, leaving a haphazard and mismatched fa?ade on the outside.

He hadn’t thought to fix it up, focusing more on the interior than bothering with the outside.

“Huh.” Clint let himself out of the car before staring at the building with a frown. “It’s nicer than I imagined. I was thinking about a tattoo parlor with all the tacky signs on the windows and the bars to keep thieves out. This looks almost domesticated.”

Scotland snorted. He’d never heard his work called that before. “I have a few mothers who would disagree with you.”

He never touched anyone underage with a needle, but he’d had a few parents call him in a rage when they saw the new ink on their twenty-something-year-old son or daughter.

Most of the time, it wasn’t what the tattoo was about or what it symbolized, but the fact that they now had an irremovable stamp of art etched into their skin.

Turning the key in the lock, he opened the door and let out an instant sigh of relief. Everything was where it was supposed to be and exactly where he’d left it. It was almost as good as coming home, with his artwork on the walls and his taste in every inch. The smell sank into him, the fresh inkiness of it soaking deep like it always did.

Clint whistled under his breath, toeing off his shoes and strolling to one of the paintings. It was something of a bestial devil, with curled horns and a devious face in shadow. The color was vibrant and clear, every brush stroke placed with utmost care and patience.

“Who did this one?” asked Clint with obvious awe, his fingers hovering over the canvas. “It’s so pretty.”

“I did that maybe four or five years ago,” said Scotland, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I was still at the old place, my day stacked with clients and my idiot boss always breathing down my neck. I was pissed at him for rushing clients and not giving me the time I needed to do my best work. I poured every bit of that into the painting.”

“Really? You did this?” Clint’s eyes went wide. “That’s unbelievable.” He paused, his mouth dropping wide as he looked around the room. “Did you do all these?” He motioned to the walls.

“Uh—yeah.” There was a lot, and some of them were from his darkest times. There were bright ones, too, but they often lay unfinished, the passion fizzling away a little too quickly. “Art has always been my way of coping.” It was more than that, really.

“Scotland.” Clint turned to him, pinning him with his serious gaze. “This stuff should be in museums. I thought you were just a tattoo artist.”

“Just.” Scotland shook his head, even as he grinned. It was amazing how people never made the connection between a tattoo and art. They were one and the same, just with a different canvas. “I don’t paint much anymore. On weekends sometimes maybe, or I’ve got a bit of a break. I’d much rather poke someone with something shiny.”

Clint broke out in a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “The perfect job for a sadist. I never thought of it like that.”

Scrunching his nose, Scotland picked up his tattoo machine. It was fully charged and small enough that it could easily fit in his hand. “It’s really not like that.”

He trailed his fingers over his computer keys, typing his password in with his free hand. An image he’d been working on popped up on the screen, the twisted vines and snake before him in vivid detail.

“This is sexy.” He motioned to the picture, the familiar weight of the machine soothing him. “With people it’s different. It doesn’t turn me on to give pain to a complete stranger, especially when I’m doing my best to concentrate and not yell at them when they move.”

He’d had people actually tug him away with only a dark streak on their skin before they called it quits. One guy had screamed, nearly breaking his eardrums the moment he touched his skin with the buzzing needles.

“Does it really hurt, though?” asked Clint, glancing at the machine. With the power off and no needle, it really did seem like an unassuming cylinder. Some could picture an image coming from it, steered by his hand and inspiration.

“It depends on the person and the tattoo.” Scotland shrugged as he slipped into work mode. He’d been asked that question more times than he could count.

Some people expected it to be worse than childbirth, while others were surprised to feel the fleeting discomfort roll over their skin.

“I’ve had a few who cried through the whole thing, and I’ve had people fall asleep in the chair.” He’d had a few people get turned on, too, but he was keeping that shit to himself. Client confidentiality and all.

“But what does it feel like? I’m curious,” said Clint, looking to the chair. It was a type of material that looked like leather but was easy to keep clean and sanitary. It was close to what the club seats were made of, which Clint probably recognized.

No. I really shouldn’t. “You want to try?” Crap.

Clint wasn’t a stranger, and he wasn’t just a friend, either. Relationship or not, Clint had wedged himself inside Scotland’s heart a long-ass time ago, and there was no going back from that. Still, I should be trying to resist.

“Fuck no.” Clint took a step back, his eyes going wide.

Scotland chuckled, reaching for the alcohol and petroleum jelly. “I won’t ink you. I’ll just stab you a little.”

Clint shot him a mild glare. “Is that a pick-up line?”

I wish.

“No.” Shaking his head, Scotland pressed his lips together. “I don’t go back on my word, Clint. You made it very clear you aren’t interested in anything between us.”

It could be that Clint was just testing him, but he didn’t want to fail. Clint wasn’t ready, and he respected that to his very soul. The moment Clint changed his mind, Scotland was going to be ready with bells on and no pants.

“Sorry.” Clint rubbed the back of his head, heat flushing over his cheeks.

“Or we could just head straight to the grocery store.” Scotland set the machine back on his desk for his next appointment.

“Because the grocery store is so much more exciting than watching two asses all day,” said Clint, rolling his eyes. “I’ll bite. But if you write ‘Mother’ on me somewhere, I’ll sick the Russian twins on your ass.”

That was a very real threat that Scotland did not want to tempt fate with. The twins were notorious mob enforcers who had been kicked out of the old club, only to be welcomed into the fold once more for reasons he tried not to be curious about. They were also terrifying motherfuckers.

“Where do you want it?” asked Scotland, his hands shaking as he reached for a few needles and set them out before preparing the other supplies. He shook out his hands. The last thing he needed was to accidentally get carried away and scar Clint.

“Where hurts the least?” asked Clint, hiking himself up onto the lounge chair that Scotland used. The seat was comfortable and soft, and Clint tested it with his hand, seemingly searching for a flaw in the material.

“Arm, I’d say. The outside of your forearm.”

Clint rolled up his sleeve, the strip of flesh more tantalizing with the smell of ink and antiseptics in the room. It was funny. He’d seen Clint naked, fucked him even, but that little peek had him riled.

“I’ll get some music.” He turned to his computer screen, opening up one of his music apps as he waited for his nerves to calm. It wasn’t even a real tattoo, just a little line that would heal into nothing. “Let’s start with your forearm.”

He prepped the spot the same as he would any tattoo, minus the stencil. Slipping on a new pair of gloves, he dipped a fresh needle into the jelly. He grasped Clint’s wrist, turning his arm until he found a spot that wouldn’t be too obvious, staring at the stretch of skin.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” The machine hummed softly as he turned it on, the muted vibrations of the needle calming him. It was so much better than a pencil or paintbrush. He could smell the sweat on Clint’s skin and feel the nervousness radiating from him like any other virgin who sat in his chair.

But Clint was different.

It was relaxing, like a long drink on a warm beach with the wind in his hair and a freshness on the breeze. It was what he knew and was best at, that artist inside him peeking out. And the moment he touched the lubricated needle to Clint’s arm, routine enfolded him, his nervousness draining away.

He drew a line, grabbing a towel to wipe away the tiny drop of blood left behind. It was only a few inches long—a tiny red mark among a few freckles that would heal away to nothing. Clint had probably gotten those freckles sitting in his backyard, watching the donkeys as they grazed in the field.

Scotland had found him watching them almost every day, the sight more peaceful than he cared to admit. It was something he could stamp on his memory that was proof of Clint in his life. The freckles would take a long time to fade, and every time Clint stepped out into the sun, they would rise back to the surface of his skin.

“What do you think?” asked Scotland, turning off the machine and straightening. The machine wasn’t even warm, and he was far from sated. Clint stared at the spot, his forehead scrunched in what looked like confusion.

“It didn’t really hurt.”

“Nope.” Scotland smiled, his worry easing. “This needle is for linework, and I went pretty shallow. It’s a good spot, too. Most people can take it okay.” Most didn’t get turned on by it, though.

He could see how Clint’s pupils had dilated, his tongue coming out to wet his lower lip.

“Do somewhere else.” Clint wiggled in his seat, his eyes decidedly bright under the spotlight. He couldn’t seem to look away from the small red area that was no longer bleeding. “That was nothing.”

“Let’s try your wrist. Nobody likes that.” He turned Clint’s hand over, smoothing a finger over the delicate skin on the inside of his wrists. There were little blue lines he could see through his skin, each vein disappearing as they traveled up his arm.

He could remember getting his own wrist done and how he’d flinched every time the needle made a pass. There was very little between skin and bone in that spot, and the needle seemed to go straight through.

He prepped the spot, switching out the tip for something with a little more bite. He settled on something curved that he would normally use for shading with rows of tiny points grouped close together. “You won’t have any endorphins going for you right now, so this might hurt like a bitch. Tell me to stop or say red, and I’ll stop right away.”

He waited for Clint’s nod before he started the machine, bringing the tip to his pale flesh. Clint’s gasp hit the air as soon as Scotland touched him, but he didn’t pull back, sweeping along as if he were shading actual ink into Clint’s skin. Letting out a breath, he passed over the spot a second time, digging in to plant the imagined ink a darker shade.

When he pulled the needle away and met Clint’s gaze, regret instantly sank into him. What am I doing? This was supposed to be a trip to get Clint off the farm for the first time, not an excuse for some kind of scene.

Clint’s lips were parted and wet, the flush on his cheeks matching the one on his neck. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression decidedly unprofessional.

“That’s that,” said Scotland, snatching his hand back before he did something he regretted. He was in too deep and close enough to lose himself if he wasn’t careful. And Clint wasn’t helping, squirming in the chair and staring at the small mark as if it were a brand.

“One more spot.”

Scotland paused, just about to rip the gloves from his hand. “Clint.” He let out a sigh. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t betray their budding friendship. Clint was hurting terribly and Scotland had been so close to breaking him without even knowing it. I won’t risk you.

“Please,” said Clint. “It’s okay. I promise. Just one more.”

This is such a bad idea.He was struggling to keep his hands and lips to himself as it was.

“I’ve heard that the ribs are the worst spot.” Clint moved his hand, lifting the edge of his shirt. “If you don’t mind the scars.”

Mind them?“You’re beautiful,” said Scotland. Hopefully, that wasn’t over the line. “That’s not a come-on, it’s a fact. Your scars are another part of what makes you you. They are unique in this world and like a form of art to themselves. When I look, it’s because I’m trying to see the little details—the edges—that you try to hide.”

Clint paused, fiddling with the edge of his shirt for a moment before finally tugging it all the way up. He was in good shape, with only a bit of padding that probably couldn’t be avoided working at a bar for so long. “Are you sure that’s not a come-on?”

“Positive.” Scotland swallowed, unable to tear his gaze away from the little dips between Clint’s abs or the dusting of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. “Let me find the right spot.”

He prepared the lower part of Clint’s ribs just above his belly. He had to lean close, the smell of Clint’s body mixed with antiseptic making his mouth water. He’d done ribs before, but it had never been like this. The touch had never been electric, making his skin prickle and the hair on his arms rise up.

He bit his lip as he brought the needle to Clint’s skin, digging in as if he were placing the darkest shading. Clint’s gasp morphed into a moan, his stomach jumping as he clenched.

“Shhh. Stay still,” said Scotland softly, bracing a hand on Clint’s belly to soothe him. “Just a little bit more.” He moved the needles along his side until he met the bump of the next rib. It was the same place where the edge of a scar lay, the skin pink and shiny.

He gentled his touch as he reached it, barely skimming it with the needle. Clint’s moan turned into a pained cry, his stomach muscles seizing beneath Scotland’s hand. Stay still, love. He didn’t dare say it.

Something else moved that was nestled against Scotland’s arm. He hadn’t even known he was that close to Clint’s groin until his hard cock was shifting against him at every tiny movement Clint made.

Tugging himself away, he flicked the switch off, silencing the machine before he pulled his gloves off. He paused the music on his laptop, cursing the silken notes as he silenced them.

“What did you think?” he stared at the wall, the devil grinning back at him as the flames licked at his body. There was a mirror next to him that would have a view of the chair, but he didn’t dare look.

Clint cleared his throat, the leather creaking as he shifted. “Let’s get groceries. You were right. That hurt like hell.”