“Is that dinner?” Sebastian asks, suddenly behind me. I didn’t hear him coming. He’s as stealthy as I am.

“Yeah. Here.” I shove the box into his hands.

Fez’s left brow pops as he eyes the shirtless, pants-undone Sebastian. “Oh. I see how you playin’.”

I roll my eyes. “Fez, I’m serious. This is a friend, and I’m very clearly working on his tattoo. I’ve gotta get back to filling him in. Thank you for delivering.” I wait for him to step off the threshold before I shut the door.

“What was his problem?” Sebastian asks.

“You, likely . . .” I mutter, plucking the box from Sebastian’s hands because he’s not moving fast enough and I truly am starving. I toss it on the desk and rip off a slice, watching the cheese threads stretch and dangle and snap until it’s free.

“Please tell me you’ve never fucked him.”

“Even suggesting that is an insult.” I savor my first bite. Fez’s parents really do make the best pizza in Outer Mission.

“Thank God,” he mutters, stepping into my personal space to collect his own slice. “What’s that for?” He nods toward the thirteen-inch monitor.

“Nothing, now. The feed from the video camera out front used to be wired into this and a VHS player for surveillance. But the two guys that came in busted the camera and then took the player. So, it’s useless now.”

“A VHS player . . . I don’t think I’ve seen one of those since grade school.”

“I know, right? Ned was stuck in the eighties as far as technology goes. He hated anything to do with computers. He was probably the most New-Age-tech-illiterate person I’ve ever met. That computer out front? He had no Internet connection until I set it up. It still has Microsoft Office 2000.” I shake my head and laugh. “He just got a smartphone three months ago, because I made him. And he had no idea how to use it. Those assholes stole that, too.”

Sebastian frowns but says nothing. He hits the Power button and the same gray static that I saw that night fills the screen now. I turn away, the sight of it pulling me back to that night.

Why is it even still in here?

In fact . . .

I throw my pizza down on the cardboard box and, giving my hands a half-ass attempt at a clean with a napkin, rope my arms around the monitor and begin dragging it off the desk.

“Here, let me—”

“I’ve got it,” I snap. It’s not heavy, but it’s awkward.

Sebastian says nothing more, simply leaning down to yank the plug out of the wall. He trails behind me as I make my way toward the back door, reaching over my head to push it open because he knows I can’t, but I won’t ask him for help.

“Don’t let it close or we’ll be locked out,” I warn him as I head toward the Dumpster.

I hate this Dumpster. It’s not made with small people in mind, and I have to climb onto cinder blocks just to be able to flip the lid open. But before I can do that, Sebastian is there, still shirtless, with his pants unbuttoned and his rib cage a mess of smeared ink and raw skin, holding the lid open.

Waiting soundlessly for me to hoist the monitor over my head and into the bin with a loud crash.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and even though I don’t want to be happy that Sebastian was here to help and that I needed him . . . I am, and I did.

He trails me back into Black Rabbit, kicking up the doorstop to shut and lock the door behind him.

The last spot of unmarked flesh is filled. I take my time with a cloth, gently wiping the ink away. Even after seven hours, my hand on the verge of cramping, I’m thoroughly enjoying the process of cleaning Sebastian’s body.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, as I spread ointment over the entire piece. Not until I’ve done all that I can, do I lean back to admire my work. It was beautiful in the sketchbook. On the Sebastian canvas, though . . .

He’s watching my face.

“You’re done.”

He rolls off the table and stands in front of that full-length mirror again, to evaluate my work. This is the only time where my nerves override my outward confidence. When my work is finished and there’s no going back, and my client will either without doubt love or painfully regret his decision, regret putting all his trust in me. “What do you think?”

He simply stands there, staring at it, and I can’t see his face. So I grit my teeth and wait.

Finally he turns and comes back, stepping well within my personal space. He seems to be getting comfortable there. “I think you’re even better than you say you are.”

I feel the smile of relief stretch across my lips. “Better than badass?”

He smirks. “Better than badass.” His voice drops an octave, to a softer, almost concerned timbre. He reaches for my hand, taking it in his. “How’s your hand? Sore?”

It’s such an affectionate, tender gesture, and on the heels of such an intense experience with him. It’s too much, suddenly. I panic and pull away. “Sore. But I’ll survive.” Grabbing the plastic wrap, I command, “Arms up.”

He obeys, folding and resting both hands on his head casually, and watching me through that penetrating gaze as I wrap the plastic around his entire torso. “Keep this on for the night. I’ll give you an aftercare kit that should cover you for a day or two, but you’ll need to hit CVS to stock up.” I go through the aftercare steps with him. I could recite them in my sleep.

“And your shoulder? It must be sore.” Again, he takes the initiative, reaching out to massage the ball of my right shoulder, a boundary he wouldn’t have crossed before my work on him. This happens more often than not to me, when I make a connection with clients. Their tattoo is done, they’re relieved and enthralled and grateful to me. I call it the “post-ink high.” Sometimes I experience it, too.

Right now is one of those times, and his touch feels good—too good. Enough that I’d gladly stretch out on this table and let him tend to my entire body.

I shake off the thoughts. “Are you even listening to me? This is a major open wound on your body right now. If you don’t follow this, step-by-step, you will get a serious infection, and you don’t want this infected, trust me.” I like to use strong phrases, like “open wound” and “you will,” especially when I’m talking to men, who seem to have a hard time following instructions. I’ve only ever had one of my clients end up with an infection—a guy with questionable hygiene habits to begin with. He showed up at the shop where I was working a week later, wondering if the pus draining from his arm was normal.

Sebastian smirks and recites back to me everything I just said, word for word.

“Okay, Rain Man. So you were listening,” I mumble, though I’m impressed. “You’re good to go.”

He fastens his pants and buckles his belt, and disappointment stirs in me. Not that I expected something to happen, right here right now, after I’ve etched half his torso with ink. I’m just not exactly ready to say good-bye to him yet.

He reaches over to grab his T-shirt. “What do I owe you?” he asks, sliding a clipped wad of money from his back pocket. He begins flipping out hundreds.

“Seven hours at two hundred per hour.” I’m not going to charge him double, even if he is willing—and prepared, based on the money I’m seeing—to pay it.