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Thank God for Ava.
The pounding bass of the next set has my teeth chattering and Ava dashing off into the wild in search of snacks and earplugs before my brain bleeds out through my ears.
Keeping one eye on the same fucking devil tattoo everyone seems to be requesting and the other on the money box at my foot, I lean farther into the client beneath my hands and switch the angle so I can complete the line without missing the stencil and tweaking my wrist.
Because this particular patron asked for this wonderful mark on their sweaty ass cheek, and I’d rather not have to put my forearm directly in the crack.
This was a terrible idea.
Whose idea was this?
Snorting to myself, I swipe away the excess ink and clean up the piece so that the butt devil can get the fuck out of my chair.
There’s a line that’s formed in front of my tent—much to my hope and dismay—and when I pat the now clean chair for the next client to settle in, my breath catches in my fucking throat.
Because the client now filling my damn chair is one of the rock god variety.
A shirtless one.
Sitting taller than me even on my lifted stool, and already covered in ink with a smug as hell grin on his kissable lips, Finland Montgomery stares back at me like he’s the bird and I’m the prey.
Oh shit.
“There you are, sweetness.” His voice is like sin dipped in honey, his eyes dancing with mischief that has my stomach flipping and my panties wishing they didn’t exist.
“Sweetness?“ Because I can’t not throw shade, a defensive snarl lifts my upper lip when that twist in my stomach cements, and he runs a hand through his already sweaty black waves that just fall back into his eyes. “Gross.”
Fin shrugs and lifts a pierced brow in my direction. “You gonna ink me or just stare?”
Flashes have my attention snapping to the entrance of my little parlor and my snarl ratcheting up. “No flash photography.” I snap my fingers and point at the shocked-looking man with too much skin and even more sweat than the last one. “Uh-uh.”
The wannabe photographer stutters an apology as I get to my feet and usher him back out of the tent with shooing hands. “But it’s the guy from As Above. That’s him, right?”
“Nuh-uh,” I snap and release the flap that works as a door that pushes him back farther. “And this isn’t a damn signing tent. Get the fuck outta here.” Gesturing to the line of people that watch, I flick my hand in the direction of the other canopies housing a multitude of other artists. “Break time, folks. Come back later.”
And with that, I snap the canvas door closed and spin on a snickering guitar god.
Who’s undoing his fucking pants.
“What in all that isunholy are you doing, Fin,“ I screech and slap a hand over my eyes.
“Relax.” I hear the eye roll in his tone as his silky words do things to my body that I don’t want to think about. Can’tthink about. Shouldn’t think about. “I got an empty spot right here.”
Except, I’m still not looking at the man that is clearly pants-less in my shop and driving my adrenaline to the brink of stopping my wildly beating heart.
“It better not be your fucking dick.” His chuckle does nothing to ease my shaking hands and raggedy breaths.
He’s too close.
“Nah.” Large fingers wrap around my wrist, the callouses on the tips grazing over the sensitive skin that shoots electricity up my arm and pulls my hand from my eyes that I keep squeezed shut. “That’s covered.”
I breathe in through my nose and curse myself for the deep inhale of all that is Fin.
Sweaty. Spiced.
Man.
“I swear, if your cock is out, you’re going to lose it.”
