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Sasha crossed the space and shook hands with a normal-looking guy in jeans and a t-shirt. Except for the sleeves on both arms, you’d probably never know he was a tattoo artist.
“Are we ready?” the guy asked before retrieving a sketchpad from the counter and flipping it open to the right page.
It was a rough outline of Sasha’s left pec, mainly focused on the eye tattooed there. While Sasha held the sketchpad, the artist retrieved a second sheet and laid it over the top. The new design completely erased the eye beneath, replacing it with a giant stylized sun.
“That’swhat you’re getting?” I asked, blinking at the picture. When he told me he wanted to start covering some of the tattoos from his former life,thatwas not what I was expecting.
“You don’t like it?” Sasha’s brows dipped in the center slightly.
“Tell me it’s because of some Russian folklore. Or because you love the beach so much. Not because of—”
“You,” he interrupted. “It’s for you, Solnyshko.”
“That’s so…” Fuck… What was the right word? “Permanent…?”
The artist chuckled, doing a really bad job of not eavesdropping.
Sasha handed the sketchpad back to him with a nod and stepped closer to me, taking my face between his hands. “Even if you left me tomorrow, I would still love this tattoo. You were the first good thing that was ever mine. Everything I’ve done here, thegoodI’ve done here, is because of you.”
The way he said it, with that deep growly voice I’d come to love so much, erased my concerns. And the way he looked at me, likeIwas the fucking sun, turned my insides into a pile of goo. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” He kissed me gently, reaffirming his words.
The change in him from Chicago was nothing short of remarkable. It helped that we were far from Sergei’s orders and we didn’t have to worry about who saw us together in public.
After three years of being able to be openly affectionate with one another, it was like a continual honeymoon period. I kept waiting for it to end, but it didn’t seem to. I mean, nine times out of ten Sasha was still grumpy. And the asshole version of him made frequent appearances depending on the situation. He hated traffic. And people — the fake smiley ones, the rich snobby ones, and the homeless who hassled you for money. Not to mention the smog and how expensive everything was. But despite all his bitching, he didn’t demand to leave.
At this rate, I didn’t think we ever would.
Like my music career, Sasha built a business here. A pretty lucrative business considering all of the foreign and celebrity clients who flocked to him. In the blink of an eye, Black Sun Security went from a handful of employees to dozens of protection specialists. They were doingsowell Sasha could afford to tell Oscar-winning actors to fuck off and not face any backlash because of it.
Occasionally I heard him on the phone, speaking in Russian with either Eduard or Misha, but he always hung up relatively happy, not with a wistful look or a sudden sullenness. Maybe having Ilya around helped. I know Misha, for one, was grateful his nephew got out and got a chance to start over.
And I know Sasha would never admit it, but California was good for him.
It was good forus.
When the artist came back, Sasha stepped away from me and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it at me with a smirk.
I caught it and folded it, setting it on the seat next to me. He climbed onto the chair bed and eased himself onto his back, the white paper crinkling underneath him.
The artist laid a piece of paper onto Sasha’s pec and rubbed against it like a temporary tattoo. He checked it and had Sasha check it. Once they were in agreement over I don’t know what, Sasha laid down again and the tattooist got to work.
If the needles hurt going in, I’d never know it. Sasha didn’t flinch once, even when the guy went over his clavicle for some of the sun’s rays. Blood and black ink beaded up on his skin now and again, but the artist wiped it away, carrying on. The constant buzzing of the machine was almost soothing. I could see why Sasha looked peaceful. Plus, I’m sure the rush of endorphins helped.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Are you next?”
“Me?” I scoffed. “No. I wouldn’t even know what to get.”
The humming of the needle gun stopped and the artist stretched with a wince. “You good?”
Sasha nodded.
“I’m gonna go grab a smoke real quick. You want one?”
“No.” He sighed and looked at me, damn near pouting. “I quit.”
I smiled and squeezed his thigh. It had been a struggle, but he hadn’t touched a cigarette in months. Of course, he went through wintergreen gum like it was going out of style. I had it stashed all over the house and in our cars in case he ever, God forbid, ran out.
