Chapter 3

2Horned:

Holy fuck. You're going to make me come

ANG3L:

I'm going to come, too

Igrab another handful of Doritos out of the bag between Bex and I on the couch.

"Who have you been texting all night?" she asks.

"Just a friend."

She raises an eyebrow, creating hairline cracks in her almost-dry avocado face mask. My mask is almost dry, too. I can't wait to wash it off. Is it supposed to be itchy?

"Bex, let her have some privacy." Macy pours the last of the white wine into her glass, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table in her big, "I hate Mondays" Garfield T-shirt and pajama pants. Her hair is up in a messy bun, matching green mask, the glow of the television lighting up the side of her face with a new true crime documentary playing in the background.

"Also," Macy says, tipping her glass to me, "you know she won't quit until you tell her who it is and what his Sun, Moon, and Rising signs are."

"How do you even know it's a guy?" I chuckle.

They both roll their eyes at me.

"Is it Mark?" Bex asks.

"Who's Mark?"

"He's one of the bouncers from the bar. The taller, built one. He was asking about you the other day." Bex smiles, her left dimple showing.

Really? "Oh. No, it's not Mark, or anyone you know. It's a friend…from school."

"A boy friend?" Macy chimes in.

"Maybe," I say.

They exchange looks, both stifling smirks.

"What? He really is just a friend."

I don't know what else to say. It's not like I have any other information to give. I don't even know his name.

And I'm absolutely not about to explain to them what I started doing for money my last year of college. I stumbled upon it by accident, really. It was good money. Easy money.

I could do it anywhere, anytime, around my schedule—at the library, between classes, with multiple clients at a time while eating pizza and studying for midterm exams.

It's amazing, actually, what I can chat about without even blushing. I'd turn beet red in real life if I even whispered half the things I've typed.

But I never get even remotely aroused. They're just words. Easily written after years of media intake, reading sexy novels, and seeing porn. It comes naturally—even though I have no experience with any of those things in real life.

It seemed harmless enough, just something to do for a little money while I was in school, something I could stop at any time. Surprisingly, many of the men seemed lonely more than anything. They wanted someone to talk to.

I made sure to remain anonymous—no names, no discussing things like where we live or work, no pictures, no videos.

Beyond the anonymity, I wasn't comfortable enough to show my body anyway, thanks to always being a little heavier growing up and a healthy dose of shame in my body or anything remotely sexual, courtesy of my overly religious mother. As I got older, she didn't even have to say anything. Her silence was enough. Accompanied by her ever-present gold cross necklace.

Never have I felt more judged by an inanimate object.

And, oh boy, if that little cross only knew the filthy things some of these guys are into. And I play along. It's fun. As Angel, I am a confident, sexy, experienced woman that men worship. I don't have to be Livvy, a virgin, who only stopped being too shy to talk to men as she was almost through college.

I think being Angel has helped me with the confidence, actually. That and finally realizing I'm not that awkward, chubby tween anymore.

2Horned:

Jesus Christ that was so hot.

Did you come?

ANG3L:

I did. It was so good

"It was the husband! It's always the fucking husband." Bex scarfs a last Dorito then licks her fingers before typing hard and fast on her phone. "He's a Sagittarius. I knew it. Total killer vibes."

"I don't know, I think it might have been the creepy neighbor who was totally stalking her," Macy says. She goes to take another sip of her wine then pouts when she realizes it's empty. "Darn. I think that's my cue to wash off this face mask and go to bed. Don't tell me who the killer is, Bex."

"I told you it's going to be the fucking husband."

Macy rolls her eyes, smiling. "Night, girls."

"I should go to bed, too," I say, getting up. Seriously, are neither of their faces itchy?

"Night." Bex waves, eyes still glued to the television.

She hardly ever goes to bed before three or four in the morning, thanks to years of bartending, but I cannot hang much past midnight yet. Guess I need to work on that.

I get ready for bed then get into my makeshift bed—an air mattress with several blankets and a lumpy pillow on the floor in Bex's bedroom. But it's better than the couch, especially with Bex's late hours at the bar and Macy's early hours at the hospital.

2Horned:

Thank you. I really needed that

ANG3L:

It was my pleasure. Literally and figuratively

2Horned:

good

ANG3L:

Have you been doing okay?

Still not sleeping?

2Horned:

Very little sleeping. The nightmares have been worse lately

ANG3L:

The same ones?

2Horned:

Yeah

ANG3L:

I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help. If I was there I'd hold you until you fell asleep

2Horned:

That would be heaven

I send a string of heart emojis

2Horned:

Are you going to bed now?

ANG3L:

Yep

2Horned:

Goodnight, Angel

I swore I was only going to do the online chatting thing while I was in school, and then I'd get a "real" job. Something I can mention at the dinner table without giving my mother a heart attack.

Maybe the bigger reason is I want to start dating. I want to meet someone, finally have a boyfriend, for fuck's sake. And, I don't know, it would probably be weird to be chatting with multiple men and sexting while trying to foster a real-life relationship, even if the guy was okay with it, which I'm guessing most wouldn't be.

So, I did. I told everyone I was dipping out and wished them well. There was just one left. Mister two-horned. My naughty devil.

I tried several times to type out my goodbye, but I could never hit send. I've been silent for a week trying to figure out how to say it. So, I'm just not going to.

Yet.

I will.

Soon.

Soon-ish.

I sincerely enjoy talking with him. Hell, half the time we chat—we don't even touch the topic of sex. Don't get me wrong, he's fun to sext with, too. But we talk about so many things, struggles and fears and wishes and dreams that it feels like I know him on a deeper level. I genuinely consider him a friend.

He seems lonely, too.

His profile says he's twenty-six, but for all I know, he could be a forty-year-old dude living in his mom's basement.

I don't really care about that, though. He's a good person. And it doesn't really matter.

It's not like I'm ever going to meet him in real life.

I've spent all week at the bar during the day, the "boring hours," as Bex refers to them, she and Riley switching off training me. And even though I've only worked the slow times, it's still kicking my ass.

Tomorrow night I'll be on my own with the chaotic Saturday night crowd. But tonight, I have off, and I have other plans.

I put away the list of standard cocktail and bar specialty drink recipes I'm supposed to have memorized and open my sketchbook instead.

I've been working on this charcoal drawing of angel wings all week and I finally got the vibe just right. There's a soft and ethereal quality to it, but the wings are also dynamic, almost like they're in motion. I hope it's good enough.

The sky hovers somewhere between blue and black, the lights of downtown Seattle just coming to life. I stand in front of the door, the open sign glowing neon pink in the almost dark. To the right is the bar and to the left is a coffee shop, all the lights off and chairs up on the tables for the night.

You can do this.

I push the door to Black Ink, Inc., except it's a pull. Shit. Okay, regroup. Hopefully no one saw that.

I pull open the door the Black Ink, Inc., my insides a jittery mess, my sketchbook tucked under my arm.

As soon as I do, a bell attached to the door rattles, the ringing echoing through the space.

The shop is bigger than I expected—not that I have anything to compare it to. The back wall is weathered red and brown brick. The side walls are all black, covered in white chalk drawings and words. There are giant, industrial-sized metal light fixtures hanging from the ceiling and each station is separated with metal and glass hanging screens.

There are people in a few of the stations, the buzzing of tattoo guns drowning out the sound of the music playing overhead.

A woman looks up from behind a counter as I walk in. She has black hair except for two bright blue streaks around her face, a septum piercing, and thick, black winged eyeliner.

I walk past a large black leather couch toward her. "Hi."

She blinks. "Do you have an appointment?"

Fuck. Did I need an appointment?

"No."

She sighs. "Take a seat. I'll see if anyone has time to take a walk-in."

"Oh, thank you. I was actually wondering if Noah was available."

"Noah." She looks at me with half-lidded eyes and pursed lips.

"Yes?"

She rolls her eyes. "It's almost impossible to get an appointment with the owner. He has a year-long waitlist."

Noah's the owner?

"Oh." Something inside me deflates but I try to keep an easygoing smile on my face. "I guess put me on his waitlist, then."

"I can't just put your name down. Noah has to approve new clients first."

Smile officially gone.

"I'll take her," that familiar, velvety voice says, and I look up just as Noah is walking out from a back office. He's wearing black jeans and a threadbare white T-shirt, the tattoos covering his entire torso just visible through the fabric. "Livvy's an old friend," he says to the girl at the counter, but his eyes are on me.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to whatever she was working on before.

He smiles, his lips parting just enough to show the tip of one cuspid. And just that little smirk and the way he hasn't taken his gaze away from me has my entire face burning.

"Do you know what you're wanting to get?" he asks.

"Um. Yeah. I sketched something. It's rough."

"Come on back and let's take a look at it."

I follow him around the counter and back through the door he came out of a minute ago. It's an office with a small desk in the center and a couple of chairs, black metal cabinets along the back wall, and all black-painted walls. But these black walls are covered in large, framed photographs of intricate tattoo pieces.

Noah leans back against the desk, gripping the edge of it with his hands, the muscles in his forearms flexing under his black tattoos.

"Is your drawing in there?" He gestures to the sketchbook clutched in my arms.

Right. "Yeah."

I fumble with my sketchbook, turning to the page with the finalized angel wings. I lay it down on the desk, open to my sketch. He leans over to look at it, his thumb grazing the spine, his expression unchanging.

Why did I think this sketch was good enough to tattoo? It's obviously dumb. I'm about to snatch the book back and just say never mind when he picks it up.

"Wow, this drawing is beautiful," he says.

"Thank you," I say in a weird, way-too-breathy way. "It's nothing, really."

"No, seriously, I love how they don't feel static, and you have a great attention to detail. Do you have other sketches in here? Can I see?" He lifts the corner of the page to turn it.

"No!"

He pauses and we look at each other. Standing here while my cheeks get hot, pretending I didn't just almost freak out over nothing.

Not exactly nothing, I may or may not have sketches of his eyes in there. His eyeballs. If he sees those and realizes it's him, I'll vomit.

"Another time, then?" he asks.

"Yeah, totally."

"Do you want the tattoo around the same size as the sketch?"

I nod. "One on each hip."

"Show me where."

My jeans are too snug to pull them down enough without unbuttoning them. The sound of the snap and me unzipping my jeans echoes around the office in the most mortifying way possible. All the while, Noah's watching as I shimmy my pants down my hips, exposing the top of my pink, cotton panties. Why didn't I wear cuter panties?

I pull the boring pink underwear down on one side, just enough to expose the little bit of skin along the front of my hipbone where I want the tattoo.

"Right here," I say quietly.

He lifts his eyes up slowly to me. "Okay." He clears his throat. "I've got some time right now. A client cancelled. If you're up for it."

"Yeah, I mean, yes. Let's do it."

Let's do it?My cheeks are on fire.

His demeanor, thankfully, is professional. "I'm going to go trace your drawing. It should only take a few minutes—I'm just going to get the lines marked out then I'll use your sketch as a reference while I'm inking. Can I get you anything? Water?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

Five minutes is a short amount of time in pretty much any circumstance, except for in microwave minutes and when you're waiting alone in a room right before you're about to get tattooed, apparently.

"Hey."

I jump at his voice. He chuckles darkly.

"Follow me."

I follow him back to a private room. The temperature drops instantly at least ten degrees when I walk in. The walls are all white instead of black, music plays softly from overhead. In the center is a black tattoo table, a little stool on wheels, and a metal tray.

He closes the door behind us. "I thought you'd prefer it in here. It's where I take clients when they're getting work done on"—he pauses, taking in a sharp breath—"more private areas. But if you're more comfortable not being in here alone with me, we can?—"

"No, this is good."

"Good." His dark eyes lock on mine and my heart pounds like a drum in my ears. "So here's what I have." He shows me the stencil he made of my sketch. "I bolded some of the lines up a little, just so the tattoo holds up better over time. Some of those fine lines tend to blur and fade after a while, unless you want to be coming in for a touch-up every year or so."

He says it like a joke, like of course I wouldn't want that, but it doesn't sound so bad to me.

"Looks great," I say.

"All right, so placement." He chews on his soft lower lip for a second. "Normally we'd consult first and I'd tell you to come back for your appointment wearing a loose-fitting dress or skirt so we could move the material around where needed. This will be a little trickier. So, tell me at any time if you're uncomfortable or want to wait. I can always put you on the schedule for another day."

"The girl up front said you were booked out a year," I say quietly.

He holds my gaze for a beat, his voice is husky when he says, "I'd come in on a day off to give you your first tattoo."

Oh. "I don't want to wait."

He nods. "Here's what I'm going to have you do." He gets a white, folded piece of fabric out of a cabinet and hands it to me as he opens it up. "I'll have you unzip your jeans again, then hold this drape against yourself while I place the stencils."

"Okay."

I do as told, then he kneels to the floor.

Noah Dixon is on his knees, in front of me, eye level with my belly button. So close I can feel the heat from his skin, hear him breathing, smell his hair.

He looks up at me and holy shit. Teen Livvy would die.

The light catches on the angles of his face, his dark blue eyes framed in thick, black lashes, reducing me to a melty mess.

The tip of his tongue wets his lips and then he says, "I'm going to pull these down now, if that's okay." He places his fingers lightly on the waistband of my jeans.

"Yes," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

I hold the drape over my pubic area between where his hands are on my hips, clutching it tightly with sweaty hands. Noah's fingertips brush my skin ever so softly as he guides my jeans down my hips and to my midthigh.

"Okay, now these." He touches the trim of my cotton panties. "You still good?"

"Uh huh." Holy. Shit.

He pulls my panties down my hips a few inches. Goosebumps raise on my skin in the wake of his touch. I'm dizzy with adrenaline.

The snap of a latex glove makes me open my eyes. He holds my hip with a gloved hand and cleans my skin with a disinfecting wipe with the other.

My skin burns under his scrutiny as he concentrates on his task. Wherever he touches me, instantly on fire, as he places one stencil on the skin just inside my hipbone and then the other. He takes his time, carefully making sure they match up evenly.

He holds up a hand mirror. "How's the placement?"

I examine them in the mirror for a minute, holy shit, this is really happening. I'm getting tattooed. By Noah Dixon.

"Good," I manage to squeak out.

"Good." He gives me the hint of a smirk. "Go lie down on the table and put the drape wherever is most comfortable for you."

I lie down as he's turned away, getting his gun ready and unbagging needles and filling a little cup full of black ink.

He swivels around, wheels squeaking across the floor, and picks up the tattoo gun with a black-gloved hand. "Ready?"

Nope. "Yep."

"Remember to breathe," he says.

Am I not breathing?I'm not. I let out a breath and unclench my fists.

"You'll do great," he says, scooting in closer. He adjusts the drape, covering me up more and sort of tucking it around to keep it in place. He does it with care and gentleness, like my comfort and modesty are important to him. It makes me feel safe. At the same time, it reminds me he doesn't see me as anything but a client or friend and my ears burn as I think I wouldn't mind at all if he accidentally saw more of me. If he wanted to see more of me…

"Here we go, Livvy."

I like the way he says my name. "Okay." I close my eyes.

The sound of the tattoo gun is more jarring than the first touch of the needle to my skin.

I try to focus on my breathing, slow and steady. But I keep getting distracted by his touch—the way his wrist is resting against my bare thigh as he tattoos, how his gloved hand is firm on my hip, helping me stay still while reassuring me at the same time. And every time he wipes ink away, his fingers grazing over that sensitive skin no man has touched before, my heartrate skyrockets.

"When did you start drawing?" Noah asks, head down, pulling long lines with the needle.

It's like he's dragging a knife through my skin while vibrating my bones. I try to concentrate on the question. It hurts but somehow, not as much as I'd imagined it would.

"I don't know. Always? I got really into it in middle school, I guess. I didn't have many friends, so during breaks and lunch I secluded myself away with a notebook instead of socializing." That's probably why I continued not to make new friends in high school.

"You're very talented."

This is the part where I should speak up and tell him about my art degree and how I love to paint and how my dream is to have a solo show in a real gallery. But instead, I say, "Thank you."

I'm sweating. Not sure if it's from the adrenaline or the fact that Noah's breath is warm against my skin or the way his thumb swipes over my hipbone.

"I should have you design something for me to get tattooed," he says.

"Really?"

"Really."

Oh.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm okay." I think.

He's quiet for a while and I zone out, letting him focus, finding the steady buzz of the tattoo gun almost hypnotizing.

I don't know how much time has passed when he speaks again.

"I did the line work on this one. I'm going to move to the other side. Let me know if you need a break." He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, then rolls the stool and tray to the other side of the table.

Noah adjusts the drape over to expose my other hip. The fabric sweeps over my sensitive skin, gathering a bit between my legs and I stifle a whimper before he gets back to work.

Part of me wants to close my eyes, go away to another place in my mind, think about anything other than the needle. But the other part doesn't want to miss a second of watching him. The way his tattoos ripple with each arm movement. How that little piece of dark hair has fallen over his forehead. The way his thick brows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth almost in a scowl. The hint of his cologne as he swivels back and forth between me and the tray. And how, every couple of minutes, he glances up at me, his serious expression softening for a split second before he looks back down.

"You're sitting so good," he says low as he wipes ink away, his hand gentle over my hip, barely brushing my upper thigh in the process.

My inner thighs tingle. An unbidden ache between my legs begs me to squeeze them together to relieve it, but I don't dare move.

"So good," he whispers again, soothing.

And the thought of him calling me a good girl wedges its way into my brain. No, his good girl. And now the ache is worse. Fuck.

"Are you okay? You've been sitting really still and now you're squirming a bit."

Jesus Fuck.

My face has never erupted into flames faster.