she’s an old friend.”
“Oh,” I say, not relieved at all to hear
this. “I thought maybe you had some family in town or
something.”
“No, no family in town.” He seems distracted.
And not entirely happy at the moment. I can’t help but think it has
something to do with his “old friend” popping in. I’m immediately
resentful. When Hemi finishes filling out the paperwork, he hands
me the forms and throws his pen back on the table. “So, there are a
couple of people waiting. Let’s go see what they’re interested in.
Maybe we can get you in at least a couple of sketches and a stencil
tonight.”
And so goes his detached, clinical attitude
for the rest of the night.
Much to my dismay.
It makes me wonder about the wisdom of
trapping Hemi in this “professional” arrangement. I thought it
meant more time together, but I’m beginning to think that might not
be such a good thing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN- Hemi
The arrival of Sasha back into my life does
nothing to improve my mood. I’m already feeling like a dirt bag.
Having her around here will only remind me of it on a more frequent
basis. Of course, that will probably work out better for Sloane.
She—and her damnable virtue—are much safer with me this way. And my
ultimate plan is safer this way, too.
Still, I don’t have to like it.
The only other good thing about this is that
Sasha is the kind of woman I’m used to. History or not, she
knows the score. Maybe I can pound out my frustrations on her very
willing body.
If I can just get a sweeter one out of my
mind long enough to do it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- Sloane
Somehow, I had managed to convince myself
that things would be better tonight, that Hemi’s…pique over his
“old friend” would dissipate and that we could resume our dance. My
hopes are not only officially dashed as soon as I walk through the
door, but they are choked, sliced, stabbed, and burned, too.
The first thing I see is the gorgeous blonde
straddling a stool in front of one of the tattoo chairs, inking a
design on some guy’s thigh.
My heart sinks.
And keeps sinking.
She looks up, embarrassingly enough, to find
me standing in the doorway staring at her.
“You must be Sloane. Come on in and pull up a
chair. Hemi will be back in a few.”
She’s friendly and likeable, which, of
course, makes me hate her that much more. Still, I do the only
thing I can and I grab a stool and wheel it over to the other side
of her client.
“You learning how to do this?” the guys asks
me.
“Trying to,” I say lightly.
“She’s gonna have one of the best teachers. I
oughtta know. I taught him everything I know,” she says, winking at
the guy.
Oh shit! This is the woman who took
Hemi under her wing?
At first, I feel worse, but then, as I think
about their connection, I actually start to buck up a little. This
hard core glamour doll wasn’t a love interest. Hemi was her
protégé. That lends a whole new feeling to their relationship, one
that doesn’t intimidate the frick out of me.
I find I can actually smile at this woman
now, and it’s almost genuine. “So you taught him how to do this,
huh?”
“Yep. Not that it was too hard. Hemi’s a
natural. We used to sketch on napkins every morning at breakfast. I
knew he had skills before he even picked up a gun.”
The small, fledgling hope that had poked its
head out of the cave of my despair is effectively obliterated by
her comment.
Every morning over breakfast.
Only Hemi doesn’t do breakfast. Anymore. He
said he hadn’t in a long time. Now I’m getting a feel for just how
long.
“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “how long
does it take to get all this down? I mean, how long did it take you
to teach Hemi?”
I hope I’m being subtle. Please God, let me
be subtle.
“A couple of years. But I don’t think it
really took that long. I think we just drew it out, if you know
what I mean.”
She laughs, a husky, suggestive sound that
makes me want to
“Oh,” I say, not relieved at all to hear
this. “I thought maybe you had some family in town or
something.”
“No, no family in town.” He seems distracted.
And not entirely happy at the moment. I can’t help but think it has
something to do with his “old friend” popping in. I’m immediately
resentful. When Hemi finishes filling out the paperwork, he hands
me the forms and throws his pen back on the table. “So, there are a
couple of people waiting. Let’s go see what they’re interested in.
Maybe we can get you in at least a couple of sketches and a stencil
tonight.”
And so goes his detached, clinical attitude
for the rest of the night.
Much to my dismay.
It makes me wonder about the wisdom of
trapping Hemi in this “professional” arrangement. I thought it
meant more time together, but I’m beginning to think that might not
be such a good thing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN- Hemi
The arrival of Sasha back into my life does
nothing to improve my mood. I’m already feeling like a dirt bag.
Having her around here will only remind me of it on a more frequent
basis. Of course, that will probably work out better for Sloane.
She—and her damnable virtue—are much safer with me this way. And my
ultimate plan is safer this way, too.
Still, I don’t have to like it.
The only other good thing about this is that
Sasha is the kind of woman I’m used to. History or not, she
knows the score. Maybe I can pound out my frustrations on her very
willing body.
If I can just get a sweeter one out of my
mind long enough to do it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- Sloane
Somehow, I had managed to convince myself
that things would be better tonight, that Hemi’s…pique over his
“old friend” would dissipate and that we could resume our dance. My
hopes are not only officially dashed as soon as I walk through the
door, but they are choked, sliced, stabbed, and burned, too.
The first thing I see is the gorgeous blonde
straddling a stool in front of one of the tattoo chairs, inking a
design on some guy’s thigh.
My heart sinks.
And keeps sinking.
She looks up, embarrassingly enough, to find
me standing in the doorway staring at her.
“You must be Sloane. Come on in and pull up a
chair. Hemi will be back in a few.”
She’s friendly and likeable, which, of
course, makes me hate her that much more. Still, I do the only
thing I can and I grab a stool and wheel it over to the other side
of her client.
“You learning how to do this?” the guys asks
me.
“Trying to,” I say lightly.
“She’s gonna have one of the best teachers. I
oughtta know. I taught him everything I know,” she says, winking at
the guy.
Oh shit! This is the woman who took
Hemi under her wing?
At first, I feel worse, but then, as I think
about their connection, I actually start to buck up a little. This
hard core glamour doll wasn’t a love interest. Hemi was her
protégé. That lends a whole new feeling to their relationship, one
that doesn’t intimidate the frick out of me.
I find I can actually smile at this woman
now, and it’s almost genuine. “So you taught him how to do this,
huh?”
“Yep. Not that it was too hard. Hemi’s a
natural. We used to sketch on napkins every morning at breakfast. I
knew he had skills before he even picked up a gun.”
The small, fledgling hope that had poked its
head out of the cave of my despair is effectively obliterated by
her comment.
Every morning over breakfast.
Only Hemi doesn’t do breakfast. Anymore. He
said he hadn’t in a long time. Now I’m getting a feel for just how
long.
“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “how long
does it take to get all this down? I mean, how long did it take you
to teach Hemi?”
I hope I’m being subtle. Please God, let me
be subtle.
“A couple of years. But I don’t think it
really took that long. I think we just drew it out, if you know
what I mean.”
She laughs, a husky, suggestive sound that
makes me want to
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