Chapter 1: A Simple Proposition
The last client left a blue line of stencil ink across the chair and a tip jar with three dollars in it. Vivienne cleaned both without taking the tip personally. People had paid her to put a permanent image in their skin for less than the cost of dinner; she knew better than to expect generosity from the jar.
At the sink, she washed the black from her fingers and checked the thin line of ink on the inside of her wrist. The tiny mark had kept her hand steady through the last hour. It had also left a faint itch, the usual fee for asking a small piece of magic to do a small, precise job. She rubbed at it once, then shut off the tap. A wave of dark hair slipped over her shoulder; she caught it with the clean inside of her wrist and tucked it behind one ear.
The studio had gone quiet around her. A machine clicked as it cooled. The sharp clean smell of disinfectant still sat over the faint iron note of ink. Someone in the storefront next door dragged a chair across the floor, a sound that made the old pipes complain. Vivienne locked the front door, checked the back one, and sent her sister a message that she was leaving work alive and had remembered to eat something besides coffee.
Melissa replied with a photograph of a bowl of soup and the words, «Evidence is not the same as a meal.»
Vivienne sent back a picture of the half-eaten sandwich on her desk. The evidence looked weak. She put on her jacket and went out anyway.
The bar was close enough to walk to and loud enough to discourage anyone from asking what she did for a living. Cold came in every time the door opened, carrying a trace of wet brick from the street. She took a stool at the end, pushed the sleeves of her black shirt above the tattoos on her forearms, ordered whiskey, and watched a man in a knit cap spend five minutes trying to persuade the bartender that a cocktail named after a local politician would sell. The bartender had moved on to wiping the counter, and the man had not noticed.
The man beside her set down a glass of beer. His jacket looked like it had been chosen for weather, not for effect. His hands were broad and nicked around the knuckles; one thumbnail had a shallow split, and a pale dusting clung to the seam of his cuff. He glanced at the man in the knit cap, then at Vivienne.
«Would you buy that drink?» he asked.
«I would buy him a second one if it got him to stop pitching.»
His dark hair had fallen forward at one temple. His smile came easily, more at the corner of his mouth than across his whole face. «You sound like you’ve watched this happen before.»
«I’ve watched people confuse persistence with a business plan.»
«That’s a brutal way to describe a business plan.»
«It was a brutal pitch.»
He lifted his glass in agreement. Vivienne noticed how he listened after that. He did not treat her answers as openings to tell his own story. When he asked what she did, she said she was a tattoo artist. He asked what she liked to make, and she gave him the answer she usually reserved for clients who seemed capable of hearing it.
«The stuff people think they want is rarely the whole story.»
«And you can tell?»
«I can tell when someone has brought me a reference picture and a panic.»
«That sounds like a useful distinction.»
«It keeps me from putting a panic on somebody’s shoulder for the next forty years.»
«You’ve saved at least one person from a regrettable shoulder.»
«I try to be a public servant.»
He laughed. His voice was low without being staged for it. A little roughness sat under the words, the kind that made her want to hear what he sounded like when he stopped choosing them carefully. She took another sip of whiskey and asked his name.
«Evan.»
«Vivienne.»
They let the names rest between them. He restored old buildings, mostly woodwork that had been warped or painted over too many times. Jobs ran late; old materials did what they wanted. She liked that he described the work without turning it into a test of whether she found him impressive. When the bar filled around them, he shifted his stool to give her more room. His knee brushed hers once and stayed close enough for the possibility to remain.
Vivienne could have left alone. She had work in the morning, a sink full of brushes to soak, and a cat she did not own but who had decided her back steps were a reasonable place to live. Evan was attractive, curious, and funny in a way that did not ask her to applaud. She set her empty glass down and leaned toward him.
«Are you going to ask me to come home with you?»
He looked at her for a beat. «I was trying to work up to it.»
«That seems inefficient.»
«I can adjust.»
«Good. I’m going home. You can come with me.»
His answer was a brief, warm laugh, followed by his hand settling on the bar near hers. He waited for her to stand first. Outside, the cold air took the whiskey out of her cheeks. They walked without hurrying. On her steps, Vivienne turned to him and took the front of his jacket in her hand. She kissed him before either of them could produce a better plan.
His mouth was warm, his attention steady. She liked the way he let her set the first pace, then answered with enough confidence to make her revise it. By the time she found her keys, his hand had settled at her waist and her own had slipped beneath his jacket, resting against the solid heat of his back.
Inside, she kicked off her boots and dropped her keys into the bowl by the door. Evan followed her into the narrow hall. He kissed the side of her neck while she worked the buttons of his shirt, and she laughed when one caught under her thumb.
«I’m usually better with small fasteners.»
«I’m not going to grade you.»
«You should. I’m very competitive.»
He took her wrist gently enough to stop the button from losing the argument and kissed the inside of it, where the faint mark still itched. The contact sent a quick, ordinary shiver through her. She turned his hand over and pressed her mouth to the rough skin along his thumb before leading him toward the bedroom.
They undressed in pieces, interrupting each other to kiss, to laugh, to find the edge of a sleeve. Evan’s shirt came off first. A faint pale line crossed one forearm, old and flat; the dust at his cuff had left a gray stroke on her wrist when she pulled him close. Vivienne pushed his shirt aside with her foot and drew him down to her. He was good at paying attention without making a performance of it. She could redirect him with a hand at his shoulder or a word against his mouth, and he took the cue without losing his own confidence.
She wanted his weight over her, then wanted room to move. She rolled him onto his back and kissed down his chest, taking her time when his hands tightened at her hips. The pleased sound he made earned him a smile and another kiss. She found a small rough patch on his palm and dragged her thumb over it.
«You get those at work?»
«Usually.»
«You could try gloves.»
«I do.»
«Then they’re not very good gloves.»
He laughed, and she kissed the sound out of him. When she returned to his mouth, his grin caught against hers.
«You like being right,» he murmured.
«I like useful results.»
«That’s worse.»
«You seem to be surviving.»
He drew her over him, and she guided the pace until his hands settled at her waist. When he entered her, the stretch made her pause; his palms stayed warm while she adjusted, one thumb moving once along the edge of a tattoo on her hip. She caught his wrist and put his hand where she wanted it. She began to move, slow at first, then faster when his mouth found the side of her throat. The untended brushes at work ceased to have any claim on her attention.
She changed the angle when she wanted more. Evan caught the rhythm with her, his rough palm spanning her waist as she leaned down to kiss him. When his gaze held hers too long, she broke it by nipping his lower lip. He made a sound that had less composure in it than the rest of him. Her orgasm came with an abrupt laugh that turned rough against his mouth. He came a moment later, his hands firm at her hips, and she stayed close while the last of their momentum eased.
Afterward, she lay across him for a little while, cheek against his shoulder. The room had cooled. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, and one of his hands rested open beside her on the sheet.
«Water?» he asked.
«You can earn your keep.»
He got up and brought back two glasses. Vivienne drank half of hers, then set it on the nightstand. They talked about nothing important: a bad repair job, the bar’s questionable cocktail menu, the artist whose work she had been looking at online. When she mentioned an old building with a stair that led nowhere, Evan asked what she would do with it. His question had no obvious use. She answered anyway.
By the time he dressed, the sky beyond her curtains had begun to pale. She stayed in bed, watching him find his shirt. He folded it over one arm rather than putting it on.
«I had a good time,» he said.
«So did I.»
«Would you mind if I texted you?»
The question arrived with enough space around it to be easy to refuse. Vivienne considered him, the unhurried way he stood near the door, the morning light catching in the short beard on his jaw. A second round was a simple proposition. She had enjoyed the first.
«You can text me. I reserve the right to ignore it if you send me a picture of a fish.»
«That seems fair.»
She gave him her number. He typed it into his phone and sent a message before he left, so she would have his. At the door he leaned in for one more kiss, unhurried enough to invite a second. Vivienne let him have it, then opened the door.
«Get some sleep, Vivienne.»
«That was the plan.»
He smiled as he stepped into the hall. She watched him go, then closed the door and returned to bed. By the time she pulled the blanket over her shoulder, she had replayed his last look twice.
