False Start (Falling Small Duet, #1)

Chapter 2

NOW

I'm sitting in a reclining chair at Dex's station, trying to ignore the heat and sensations of his body pressed against my arm and his elbow pressed against my ribs as he works on the new tattoo on my left wrist. The vibrations of the needles penetrating my skin aren't distracting enough. At least we're both facing the same direction in this position, and I don't have to avoid his eyes. I just stare at the industrial ceiling tiles above, watching the texture blur and distort as my eyes unfocus. The hum of Dex's tattoo gun joins the hum of others nearby, filling the silence.

The shop is, for the most part, an open space with six stations separated by half-wall partitions, and a door centered on the back wall to what looks to be a hallway. Each of the artists has their unique style decorating their little sections, but Dex's is surprisingly bare. There are two other artists currently with clients, but I can only see the one across from me, now that I'm sitting.

Through the smudges of black ink, I can see the bar of music, done in my own handwriting. The lines aren't straight or perfect, but it's me and what's very close to my heart-music.

"What song is this?" Dex asks.

Dex has been silent since we decided on the size and placement. I'm not normally one for small talk. Shit! I already forgot what he just asked me. I stare at the side of his head. Shaggy waves of dark brown hair curl up behind his ear. If I had to guess, I'd say he's about my age. A year or two older at the most.

"You okay? Still with me?" He stops and turns his head toward me, his brows drawn together. His face is no more than six inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I meet his eyes with a sharp inhale. His gaze drops to my lips and back up.

"I'm good. I've a high pain tolerance."

Overshare much? That stupid flush creeps over my cheeks, and I bite down on my lower lip. Now, Dex is smiling.

"Is it from your favorite song?" he asks.

"Oh, well... umm, sort of... It's, uh... 'The End of What I Knew' by Stateside." I know why I don't want to talk about it, but do I have to sound stupid in the process?

He nods but remains silent.

"It has a special meaning for me," I add.

"I don't really know their stuff. But I remember them from the news a while back when that guy was murdered," Dex says.

That guy. It's hard to believe that people can be that removed from it. Hell, the only reason the media let it go was because that kidnapped girl escaped after being held for ten years. She gave them something else to feast on.

"Wasn't the guitar chick from that band a local?" the tattoo artist in the next station chimes in, leaning over the half wall that separates us. "What was her name?"

"No clue," Dex shrugs.

"Ugh, it's on the tip of my tongue," he says, frowning. "Whatever, I'll remember it."

"Hey," Dex says. "Since you're here. Is that your sketch?" Dex points to a piece of paper resting on the half wall.

The tattoo artist picks it up and studies it. I can see through the paper with the overhead light shining through-it's a sketch of a hummingbird.

His face scrunches in confusion. "Nope, not mine."

"It was sitting on my chair when I got in earlier," Dex explains.

The artist shrugs, looking over his shoulder. "I can ask the other guys."

"Cool," Dex says with a nod.