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some energy out. Yesterday wasn't going too great, but hopefully I'll turn that around today."
    "Do you need a ride? The parlor is right by my gym," I offer.
    "Didn't you just come from the gym this morning?" Savannah bites her lip and I grit my teeth. I cannot pick her up and throw her on my bed. That's not a good idea.
    "Yeah," I say. "I have a big fight tomorrow." And I need to stop thinking about what I want to do to your body.
    "Ah, cool." She nods. "Yeah, thanks. A ride would be great."
    I grab my gym bag and then we walk to the door in silence, her looking over at me now and then, a tad uncertainly, and I swallow my smirk. Make them wait to talk and it barely takes any probing to get the words flowing when you finally do. I take my time opening the door for her, walking around the car, starting the engine, and driving a few blocks before I say something. Even then, it's not much. The trick to getting hesitant speakers to speak and, ultimately, to spill is by taking your sweet time. People will tell you everything you don't want to know, but too much interest will shut them up tighter than my left hook.
    "Tattoos, huh?" I finally ask.
    "Yeah," she says, shrugging and giving a nervous, relieved, laugh. Hurrying to fill the silence before it envelops her again, she continues. "It's one of the most permanent, and personal, forms of art. Takes a lot of trust, you know? Every piece has to have so much care in it, or you can tell. My—" She stops and turns her head, looking out the window.
    "Hmm?" I prompt.
    "Oh, my, um, interest is in the art," she replies. I can tell it's not what she meant to say. It's not what she means. But she's holding back. "I like drawing."
    "Did you take a lot of classes?" I ask, not even looking at her or indicating any kind of interest at all as I glance over my shoulder to switch lanes.
    "Eh, you know," she answers, shrugging her shoulders. "I took a couple classes in high school, but art is a passion. It sounds so cliche, but it's the expression of something that's more than just a technique. Learning the basics helps you execute the expression well, but you can't just do the techniques and expect them to produce art on their own. Or, at least, that's my opinion." The whole statement was so passionate and strong, with her face really lighting up as she talked, that I'm not buying the casual 'just my opinion' at the end.
    "You always knew you were going to be an artist, then?" I ask.
    She laughs, then shakes her head. There's a look in her eyes that I can't quite place, but I'm reading it as something between sadness and bitterness. "No. I would have loved it, but it wasn't what was meant for me."
    I test my luck. "What, parents wanted you to be a hot-shot doctor or lawyer, instead?" I say it in a joking tone, but I still see her visibly tense at the word 'parents.'
    She's silent for a moment, then hedges a response. "Something like that, I guess."
    She doesn't offer anything else and I know better than to push any more right now, curious as I am.
    "Here you are," I say, as I pull up to the front of The Ink Joint. "Need a ride back?"
    "No, thanks," she says, almost leaping out of the car before it even comes to a stop. "I could use a walk and one way really isn't bad." She's already out the door before she catches herself and turns around to say a quick, "Thanks for the ride!"
    Then she's bouncing off into the parlor, giving me a great view of her perfect ass. Looks like it's time for another workout.

Chapter Thirteen
    Savannah
    I have to force myself to focus as I walk into The Ink Joint. That, in and of itself, is enough of a warning sign. This is what I've wanted for as long as I can recall—a chance to show my stuff as a tattoo artist and strike out on my own merit.
    Well, okay. Maybe not quite as a tattoo artist, but this is the first step on the way to that. And the fact that a short ride with a handsome man who shows interest in me is enough to distract me and is highly disconcerting. I