He never looked up, not even once since she stepped through the doors of the filthy, disgusting, run-down tattoo parlor. Which she was both grateful, and kinda pissed off about.
She waited a full two minutes of just awkwardly standing behind him before clearing her throat to alert him of her presence.
"You need something?" His gruff voice barked at her, still he didn't look, just continued roughly pressing down on the tattoo gun as little drops of blood bubbled to the surface of the guy's skin. He either had this done before, or was immune to pain, because that shit looked painful.
Octavia wasn't even wimpy or anything like that, but she called it like she saw it. And right now all she could see was skin reddening and blood oozing as the needle jabbed into the tender flesh.
Mustering up as much courage, she put one hand on her hip, "yeah, I want a tattoo."
She said it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Why else would she be here?
"Guess you're in luck, that's kinda what we do here," came his short, curt reply.
She rolled her eyes, no shit Sherlock, obviously, that's why she was there. He shouldn't have asked if he could help if he didn't want a redundant answer thrown back at him.
When she didn't say anything, he audibly sighed and jerked his head towards the waiting area, "go wait in there, fill out the paperwork at the front desk and I'll be there when I'm done."
Saying nothing, she mutely complied, willing her feet to walk in the direction of where he motioned. It was just as dingy in the waiting area, if not worse.
There were two plaid couches, looking as outdated and worn out as the rest of the place, color fading in certain spots. Covering the entire table in front of the couch were countless books, filled with tattoo sketches. If that wasn't enough books, there were multiple binders sloppily placed onto a bookcase sitting caddy cornered in the room.
Plucking a piece of paper from the stack on the desk, she plopped down on the couch, immediately relaxing into it. It may have been worn out, but damn if it wasn't the most comfortable couch she ever sat on.
Beginning the process her hand was shaking a bit, not due to being scared, but rather a feeling of adrenaline rushing through her body.
She gave this a lot of thought, planning out scenarios in her head, but never thought of acting on her desire. She was just hoping like hell the fake ID she owned was enough to scoot by under the radar, since she was 17 and wouldn't be 18 for a few more months.
Could she wait and get the tattoo? Yeah. But was she going to? Hell no. When she wanted something, she wanted it right then and she was relentless. She would stop at nothing until she got it. It didn't seem like something major, but to her it was.
By the end of the form her handwriting got neater, more legible. Standing up, she glanced around trying to see if there was someone else she could return it too, but no one else was around in this deserted place.
She groaned, sitting back down, when she heard a familiar voice passing through the threshold, "sorry we don't live to serve you here princess."
His snappish tone irritated her, but still she stood, walking over to where he was sitting behind the desk.
For some reason, she hated that fucking name.
Sneering she replied, "doesn't look like you live to serve many people. Seeing as how this shit hole is empty."
It came off bitchy and rude, but the man heartily chuckled as he looked up at her for the first time.
His breath caught in his throat, she was a stunningly attractive woman with long dark hair flowing softly on either side of her face. While she had strong features and a very stoic facial expression, Lincoln could see softness behind those eyes, an untainted, innocent softness. That was his first warning sign.
Taking the paper from her outstretched hand, he pretended not to notice when her hand grazed his. The second time around, when he took her ID, he was careful not to touch her hand, Octavia picked up on that.
Internally she smiled because she could see the restraint on his face, and for some reason it excited her. It could just be her hormones talking, he was a fine ass man. Not even age could diminish his looks. His dark ruggedly handsome and erotic looks.
For what felt like hours, he studied the ID, although he already knew at first glance she was not 18. He was just trying to figure out how best to break it to her without sounding like an asshole. And ordinarily he didn't care how he came across, but for some reason, he didn't want to be the one to disappoint her.
"Look," she exhaled, resisting the urge to flinch when his commanding gaze met hers again, "I know, you know, I'm under 18. And yes I know the law so don't bother spouting that bullshit to me."
She tried to keep her tone bored, nonchalant, as Lincoln's brow furrowed, "well if you know you have to be 18 then why waste my time?"
"You're right it was stupid," her hand shot out to grab her ID as she continued, "I just thought…"
Without even thinking his hand wrapped around her wrist in an iron clad grip, "you just thought what?"
He wasn't even sure why he was humoring her, but it was like he couldn't physically resist.
"I thought—you looked like the kind of person who wouldn't give a shit about rules. You looked like someone who would give me what I want."
Even though she didn't say it in a sensual, sultry way, Lincoln couldn't help but suppress a groan threatening to escape the prison of his mouth.
No, he didn't give a fuck about rules per say, but he also didn't want to tatt up some 17 year old girl and then tomorrow get bitched out by her parents. She was hot as hell, but the last thing he wanted was more trouble in his life, especially when he worked so hard to get clean and stay on the right path.
Releasing her wrist, he immediately felt the loss, "do you have parents that are going to go ape shit on me if I mark up their otherwise spotless daughter?"
Peering down at him, a grin tugged at the corner of her lips when she realized he was close to giving in, and due to his tone.
"No, besides even if I did, it'll be in a place where I can keep it hidden until I turn 18."
"And when is that?"
Caught off guard, her mouth parted open in surprise, then she realized he was probably just trying to see how long he had to hold his breath in fear of getting in trouble.
"Less than two months."
"Alright," he conceded standing up from his chair, "follow me. You're the last customer of the night, and some of us do have to leave this shit hole."
He mocked her earlier words with a hint of amusement at her blunt honesty.
She followed his long strides to the back room where she entered from, sitting down in the chair.
"So what is it you want and can't wait two months for?"
Oh shit, she totally forgot about that part. The realization must've been evident in her face because he laughed, "let me guess didn't think you'd get this far?"
"No," she suddenly snapped, "I was just trying to narrow down the ideas."
Truthfully she hadn't thought it all the way through apparently because she didn't have one idea, let alone multiple ones. She only said that to wipe the smug expression off his face, like he had caught her red handed. It backfired as his face broke out into a full on grin.
Something about his smile, she could tell was genuine but rare, caused her to smile as well.
After a few moments he finally spoke again, not looking directly at her as he began setting up, "tell you what, why don't I surprise you?"
That seemed like a huge risk.
"More risky than coming into a tattoo parlor with some shitty ass, homemade fake ID?"
Not realizing she muttered the words out loud, she looked up to find him staring inquisitively at her.
"Fine," she glared, gritting her teeth, "but nothing stupid and nothing too girly."
Honestly, she was less irritated than she came across. If anything she was frustrated, not with herself and the situation, but with him. He sexually frustrated her, just his presence and the way everything seemed to glide off his tongue. So elegant, so graceful, even his laugh.
Absorbed in her inner monologue, she snapped her eyes up to meet his again when he spoke, "where do you want it?"
Originally she planned for her shoulder, easy enough to cover up, plus she heard it was the least painful. But upon seeing him, she opted for a different place.
Unzipping her coat, she tossed it aside and pushed down the loose flowing shirt she was wearing until her arm was free of the restraint.
Pointing to just below her clavicle on the left side, her eyes never left his, "here."
Tersely nodding, he moved his chair, along with all the other supplies to that side, "turn your head, no peeking."
Playfully rolling her eyes, she did as instructed, letting her head rest on the chair as she could feel his hand tracing on her skin.
A comfortable silence fell over them. She listened to the buzz of the tattoo gun as it pierced her skin after the initial sketching process. It didn't hurt at all, mainly because all she could focus on was how rough and calloused his hand felt against the smooth surface of her skin.
Before, with the other guy, he looked heavy handed, like he was forcefully shoving the gun down, with her it was different. It was a light, feather touch. So gentle she didn't even know it was there. It was peaceful, relaxing. So much she closed her eyes and hummed in satisfaction.
With her eyes shut, he was no free to fully marvel at her beauty, watching her lips vibrate every time a hum left her throat. He watched her for a few minutes before turning back to his work.
Octavia could feel his eyes on her the entire time, but she didn't say anything, afraid she would spook him like a scared horse. Instead she sat there until she felt the removal of his hand after awhile. With the loss of contact she frowned, but quickly shook that off her face.
"There, all done, now you can look."
Quickly whipping her head around, she was met with the most gorgeous shade of blue, filling in the shape of a butterfly.
It was an interesting choice, "I know you said nothing girly, but I thought it suited you."
It was like he could read her mind. She explicitly said nothing girly, and while this seemed to be the epitome of cliché and girly, she couldn't help but feel he had his reasons.
"How so?"
"Butterflies are a free spirit," she hadn't noticed how close he was to her until his hand traced the outline on her skin, "they represent freedom, change, honor, and beauty."
His hand trailed further down, revealing in the feel of her rapid heartbeat thumping against his fingertip until he plucked his hand away.
"Besides, in some places they're considered a sign of luck."
She smirked, "I guess luck was on my side tonight."