Tattooed Love

Fillin’ Chet-2

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.

He met Scott in the art museum, of all places. The guy was a tattoo artist who rented a booth at a dive in the seedier part of the city—not anywhere Chet would normally be caught dead at. Even with his bohemian spirit, he still had standards. The Lexus he drove was a gift from his father; the clothes he wore came from Abercrombie and Fitch. He knew some people might’ve pegged him as a hipster, and he even looked it up once online to see what it meant, but he didn’t like to label who he was, no matter how hipster that thought might be. As long as he didn’t turn out to be his father, Chet didn’t care what people called him.

When the museum where he worked hosted an exhibit on local tattoo artwork, he checked it out on his lunch break, not so much because he liked tattoos, but because his father did not. Personally, Chet thought they hurt, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit something to his skin he’d be stuck with for the rest of his life. But guys with tattoos were pretty damn hot, and Richmond was ranked as the third most tattooed city in the nation. Sometimes it seemed everybody had a tattoo except for him.

The exhibit stayed busy, and the lunchtime crowd pressed against the large prints of tattoo designs by local artists didn’t appear to be in any hurry to move aside. Chet had a half hour—he spent fifteen minutes jostling aside people so he could catch a glimpse of a few of the prints. What he saw didn’t really impress him. Some Celtic designs, a full back mural inked to resemble the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, shoulders and arms covered in images copied from photographs. Finally Chet pushed his way to the exit, shrugging his polo shirt back into place. With any luck, the museum’s cafe wouldn’t be quite so crowded, and he could still grab a bite to eat before he had to get back to work. Something on a pita, perhaps, with hummus on the side.

As he waited in the serving line, he glanced at the hand holding the tray next to his. Black ink swirled around the back of the hand, and letters spelled out something on each knuckle of the fingers. What Chet had thought at first glance was the colorful sleeve of a shirt turned out to be more tattoos. He let his gaze trace the designs—over the wrist, around the forearm, coalescing around the elbow, then higher, over the bicep. Every inch covered in ink. How long would it take to explore it? To follow the patterns with his finger or—God, he didn’t dare think it, did he? With his tongue. Did the skin taste differently? What would it look like against his own unblemished flesh?

He felt a thrill run through him and flushed. None of the guys he’d ever messed around with had more than a little ink—a cross on the bicep, a rainbow on the ankle, something like that. Nothing this vibrant or blatant. What would his mother say?

The line moved forward but the guy beside him stayed. Chet glanced up and saw piercings, amber-hazel eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass. A studded nose, perfectly heart-shaped lips enhanced by studs above and below them. This guy was nothing like anyone Chet had ever met before, but despite that—or maybe because of it—he knew he couldn’t let this moment pass away. Clearing his throat, he flashed a smile he knew was dazzling and said, “I like your tattoos.”

Those lips pulled into an easy grin. “Thanks, man. You got any ink?”

“Not yet,” Chet hedged, shaking his head. “I’ve been thinking about it, though.”

Yeah, like for two seconds, he added silently, but if it kept them talking, the little white lie would be worth it.

It was. Scott introduced himself and told Chet he’d done a few of the tattoos on display upstairs. They chatted as they stood in the serving line, and after Scott had checked out, he stood to one side, tray in hand, obviously waiting for Chet. Without being asked, Chet followed him into the dining area, the two of them snagging a seat by a window that looked out over the busy downtown traffic. Conversation sparkled between them, Scott obviously very animated when it came to his art. By the time he was finished with his sandwich, Chet realized he was falling for the heavily inked guy. Scott even had him half-convinced he needed to get inked.

Too soon, Chet realized he had to be back at work. He stood and, holding his tray, tried to think of what to say to make Scott want to see him again. The problem was, Chet didn’t know if Scott was sending off all the right signals or if he just got turned on talking about tattoos. Was it him? Or the thought of reeling in a potential new customer?

“Here.” Scott dug a business card from his back pocket and handed it to Chet. “I rent a booth there. Hit me up sometime.”

Chet fingered the card. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go under the needle just yet…”

Scott shrugged, then gave Chet such a steady stare, it unnerved him. “I’m not talking about just that. Unless you want me to spell it out—”

“No, I got it,” Chet said with a relieved laugh. He pocketed the card and held out his hand for Scott to shake. “Looking for a good time, call.”

“Definitely.” Scott set his elbow on the table, arm up as if preparing to wrestle. He gripped Chet’s hand like that and, instead of shaking it, gave it a gentle squeeze that belied his rough appearance. One finger slipped between their clasped hands to tickle Chet’s palm. “Call me.”

“I will,” Chet promised. His whole body tingled at the thought. “Definitely.”