Tattooed Love Box Set

Fillin’ ChetChet Swearingen turned off Broad down an unlit side street. This wasn’t a part of Richmond he normally visited during the day, let alone at a little after 10:30 on a cold night in February. His car’s heater was turned up full blast, the seat warmer keeping his butt and legs cozy, but a scrim of frost clung to his windshield that the wipers and defrost hadn’t managed to clear away. It was late and cold and, by the looks of things, he was the only person alive in the world. Bad idea, he told himself over and over again. Bad idea, bad idea. On Tuesday nights he took a lecture class at Virginia Commonwealth University downtown. It ended at ten, and he usually headed straight home. But when he checked his cell phone during the break, he found a cryptic text message that sent tingles of anticipation from his head to his toes. All clear. Want 2 hook up? He hadn’t been able to type the answer fast enough. YES! The rest of the class had passed in a blur. Afterward, he hadn’t lingered with the other students, instead making a beeline for the parking lot. The frost on his windshield hadn’t deterred him; he just cranked the heat up high and set the wipers on full speed, shivering as the late model Lexus he drove warmed in the frigid night air. When a small patch of clear window finally appeared, he hunkered down over the steering wheel to see through to the road and inched out of the parking lot. Thank God it was late—his was practically the only car on Broad. Off campus, he kept up the snail’s pace because he wasn’t familiar with the area. Anything Southside was beyond his ken—he lived in a loft apartment in Richmond’s fashionable West End, and the rundown section known as Churchill wasn’t a place he liked to go. Lord knew he heard about it often enough in the news, shootings and robberies were commonplace in that part of the city. Even though he saw no one on the streets, he felt them watching him, assessing him. Young preppy college kid, in a fancy car, heading…where? Even he didn’t know. He felt like a mouse crawling across a room full of cats. The felines would only feign disinterest until they knew they had him trapped. He shook his mind to clear that image away. At the corner, he turned right and let his car pull into the center of the narrow street. Vehicles lined both sides of the road, closing in on him. The houses he passed were dark, but he saw glints of life on the porches, his headlights catching a bottle of liquor here, a spoon for freebasing there, white eyes in hidden faces watching him pass. Bad idea. Another block, two, and he spotted a familiar street sign. Despite the fact he was the only one on the road, he turned on his signal and took a left. Suddenly the residential homes were behind him, and a row of dingy storefronts stared blindly as he passed. He was looking for one in particular… There. On the corner sat a squat building whose neon lights were dark, though through the front windows Chet could see a faint light deep within, like a flame flickering against the night. He passed the side street, hit the brakes, and with one arm thrown over the back of the passenger seat, he steered as he backed the car into the turn. He could’ve just pulled in and parked, he knew, but he didn’t like parking on the wrong side of the street, even if he could get away with it. That wasn’t the way he’d been taught. The car’s tires kissed the curb and he corrected his aim, straightening out. The moment he cut off the engine, cold air seeped into the car. You can do this, he told himself, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. You’re already here. That made him think of Scott. Fumbling his cell from his coat pocket, Chet called up the last message received and hit REPLY. Just parked. Meet me at the back door. He toyed with the idea of something more—love you came to mind—but it was still early in their relationship, and Scott didn’t seem the type to toss around words like that, anyway. If Scott ignored it, Chet would be hurt, no matter how much he tried not to be. Better to leave things the way they were between them. For now. Message sent, he shoved the cell back into his coat pocket and pulled the keys from the ignition. When he opened the car door, a whoosh of icy air curled around his legs. As he stepped out, a puddle limned with thin ice crackled underfoot. Slamming the door shut behind him, Chet crammed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. Across the street, he saw three shadows detach themselves from the darkness and head his way. Shit. He huddled into his coat and skirted the front of his car, gaze trained on the building’s employee entrance a few yards away. Behind him, he heard shoes scuffle over gravel, and a reedy voice called out, “Yo, man. Hold up. You got any change?” Chet ignored the plea and picked up his pace. “Fucker!” another man spat. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” A third voice chimed in. “Look at them wheels, man. He got to be loaded.” “I’ma ask you again,” the first man hollered. “Then I’ma gonna take your money anyway.” His friends laughed. They sounded closer now, but the door was only a few feet away, if that. Chet didn’t want to break into a run, but he stepped faster, clutching his cell phone deep in his pocket as if for protection. Bad idea, bad idea! A short set of stairs led up to the entrance. Chet tried to take them two at a time but slipped on a sheath of ice and had to clutch at the icy steel railing to keep from falling. More laughter, right up on him now, so damn close. His heart hammered as he lunged for the door. The knob was like the railing, almost too cold to hold. He gave it a hard turn— It was locked. Now he looked back at the three rough guys following him. Dressed in a ragtag assortment of clothing, they wore woolen caps pulled down over their ears and temples, and unkempt beards obscured most of their features. One held a bottle of alcohol hidden in a paper bag; another had a hand-rolled cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. When the wind shifted, Chet caught the bitter whiff of m*******a and grimaced. Where the hell was Scott? “Hey, man,” the lead guy said, his voice low now, almost intimate. “How much you got on you, bro?” Before Chet could gather up the courage to speak, the door behind him scraped open. Heated air rushed around him like an embrace. He turned and found himself face to face with Scott. Thank you, Chet prayed, knees weakening at the sight of the strength curled in those wiry arms. Tall and lean, Scott looked incredibly sexy in his wifebeater tank top despite the cold, arms covered with ropy muscles hidden beneath full sleeve tattoos. A pair of ink-stained jeans hung low on his hips, and buzzed blond hair gave him a military bearing. He had piercings up both ears, in both eyebrows, and in both nostrils. Scott barely spared Chet a glance, instead glaring behind him at the trio of degenerates. “Chino!” he cried, recognition coloring his voice. “You f*****g ass! What the hell are you guys up to, scaring my man like that?” The leader of the group—Chino—raised both hands in surrender. His friends backed away, already losing interest. “Scotty, dude, sorry. I didn’t know you two were friends. I was just looking for some change.” Scott laughed, a loud, booming sound that seemed odd coming from someone so damn skinny. “Roll him and it’s no more free ink for you, motherfucker. I got his back.” Chino nodded quickly. “Sure, man, whatever you say. Hey, you got anything you can spare me for?” Standing aside, Scott nodded behind him into the building as if to tell Chet to get inside. He didn’t need any further prompting—Chet brushed past Scott gratefully and rubbed his hands together to warm himself up. Scott rummaged into the front pocket of his jeans, the motion tugging them dangerously low. Chet found himself staring at the twisting ivy vines tattooed into the small of Scott’s back, just above his tailbone. Hurry, please. Pulling out a rumpled dollar bill, Scott stepped out onto the stoop to hand it over. “Don’t f**k with his car, either,” he warned. Chet saw him hold onto the dollar even as Chino grabbed it, unwilling to let go until his words elicited a nod from the other guy. “Now go on, get out of here. The ABC over on Pink is probably still open this late. You and the boys warm yourselves up with a little Jim Beam.” Chet shivered as Scott lingered outside. Watching the guys walk away, probably, making sure they didn’t plan to circle back and vandalize Chet’s car. After a long moment, he came in and shut the door behind him, pushing against it to make sure it locked. Suddenly alone with Scott, Chet let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing his arms to bring the warmth back to them. “Who are they?” “Just some bums who hang around here,” Scott said with a wave of his hand. “It’s a tough neighborhood—” “No s**t,” Chet muttered. “I give them free tats to lay off my customers. They aren’t bad kids. Just bored.” If Scott was bothered by the cold, he didn’t show it. Closing the distance between them, he held out a hand for Chet’s coat. “Let me hang that up for you.” Reluctantly Chet unzipped his coat. When he pulled one arm free, Scott took the empty sleeve, so Chet pirouetted to slip the other arm out, as well. He smoothed his sweater down over his flat stomach, frowning at the hint of an erection already bulging below his belt. He felt a hand brush his cheek, then Scott’s fingers rubbed under his chin to grip it. Chet’s breath caught in his throat as he found himself forcibly turned to face Scott. Pale hazel eyes glared at him, almost golden in the overhead lights. For a long moment they stared at each other, Chet’s gaze shifting from Scott’s left eye to his right eye and back, Scott unnerving in his intensity. “What?” Chet finally whispered. Scott’s fingers pinched either side of Chet’s jaw as he pulled Chet close, closer, until their lips pressed together with a demanding kiss. An eager tongue barged its way into Chet’s mouth, claiming him. Scott released his grip on Chet’s chin and let his hand trail down the front of Chet’s sweater, over Chet’s belly, to rest on the belt cinching the jeans around Chet’s waist. Two fingers dipped under the sweater then behind the belt, tickling tender skin. The kiss relaxed, deepened, as Scott’s initial lust mellowed. Chet gave into him, melting beneath Scott’s touch. Against Chet’s mouth, Scott whispered, “Ain’t nobody gonna f**k you but me.” Chet went limp at the promise. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. * * * * Scott Harris was the kind of guy Chet had always wanted and never thought he’d actually have. That might have explained his interest in dating the tattoo artist, but what Scott saw in him, Chet didn’t know. Growing up, he’d always been the good son—academically minded, he did well in school and got a full scholarship to the state college of his choice. A nerd, some might have said, if it weren’t for the fact he played football and basketball as well as studied hard. Well-rounded, then, with a promising future ahead of him. His father anticipated one day hiring Chet into the fold of the family banking business, like his older brother before him. But at college, he majored in art history instead of business, a choice that didn’t sit well with the folks. His mother liked to use the excuse he was a double major to explain why, at twenty-six, he hadn’t graduated yet. She failed to name those majors unless prodded for the information. She didn’t like his second choice of journalism any more than the first. Chet himself said he was on the long-term course plan, on his way to becoming a professional student. The problem was, his parents had his future already laid out for him, and the only way he could think of to avoid it was to draw out the years he stayed in school. So after a full credit load his first semester, he dropped down to part-time status and moved off-campus. He got a couple of jobs to help pay rent—one at Richmond’s art museum, another in the editorial office of a weekly local newspaper that catered to the college crowd. The dangling carrot his father held out—a forty-plus hour work week wearing suits and ties, managing portfolios and mergers—didn’t entice Chet. When he turned twenty, his mother had said he was simply sowing his oats. Six years later, she no longer laughed at her own little joke.