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They all sported buzz cuts and were pumped, big-time. God, they looked . . . too damn young. Just four years older than Seth. While the others browsed the art books and chatted with Nyx, my client, whose name was Zac, shyly walked up to me. Tall, a little lanky, but lean, with a pair of clear blue eyes, he flashed a hesitant smile. He was staring at my arms.
    “That is some wicked cool artwork,” he said. “Can I see the rest of it?”
    I lifted one brow and smiled. “You’re not as shy as you look.”
    Zac’s face immediately turned as red as a ripe tomato. “Oh—no disrespect, ma’am. I’d heard about it and honestly, I just wanted to—”
    I laughed and shook my head. “Take it easy there, Private. No need to get all flustered. I get that same question asked nearly every time my shop doors are opened. I’m always prepared.” I grinned. “Swimsuit top underneath, so don’t get too excited. Got it?”
    Zac laughed. “Yes, ma’am.” His buddies were instantly at his side. Nyx stood behind them, a smirk on her face, swinging her hips in a little Nyx dance to the music. I wiggled my brows, and in one easy, practiced move I lifted my Inksomnia shirt over my head and turned around. Everybody always wanted to check out my dragons, and I admit—they were pretty kick-ass. Inked in emerald green, with random ruby scales and lined in ebony, the art started at my lower back and twisted up my spine. The dragons on my arms started at my biceps and wound down to my wrists, the very tip of each tail wrapping around my index fingers.
    “Whoa,” Zac said with appreciation in his voice. “That is sick. How long did it take?”
    “Did it hurt?” one of his buddies asked.
    “Who did it?” another inquired.
    “That,” Zac said, turning even redder, “is freaking hot.”
    I smiled and shook my head at the questions I’d answered hundreds of times before, and just as I went to turn around, I saw this guy, standing at Inksomnia’s large storefront picture window, staring in, and I froze. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and my heart slammed against my ribs. No more than three seconds passed, yet it seemed as though we’d stood there for an hour. Although he wore a pair of dark shades, I felt as though he could see clear through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
    When I blinked, he was gone. Yeah, that fast . I thought to hurry over to the window, or even better, the door, and look for him, see which direction he went. But I didn’t. I have no idea why. Something kept me planted right where I was.
    Hastily, I pulled my shirt back over my head and turned to the guys and shrugged. “Eh, hurt a little, but not too bad. It took six sittings, at probably four hours each.” I grinned. “And the artist is standing behind you.”
    They all turned and stared appreciatively at Nyx, who gave a blasé wave. “It was nothin’.”
    “Awesome,” they all said at different times.
    I looked at Zac. “You ready?” I asked. “Whatcha got for me?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said again, making me feel totally ancient. But those were the manners of the South, born and bred, and once baked into your brain, they always and forever remained. From his back pocket he pulled a folded piece of white sketch paper and opened it up. He handed it to me, and I inspected it thoroughly. It was a hand-drawn sketch of a Celtic-inspired tribal lizard.
    I nodded. “Nice.” It was, too. “Fantastic detailing. You draw this?” I asked.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Good work.” Inclining my head, I met his gaze. “Let me copy this and run a transfer off the computer, and then we’ll be ready to ink.”
    “I’ll fire up the Widow!” said Nyx with excitement, and hurried to my station to start the generator (called a Black Widow). I had Inksomnia set up completely in the spacious front room, almost like a beauty shop—a sitting area with a sofa, two plush chairs, and a few ladder-backs. A square leather-topped coffee table with