J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [733]
Good thing vampires didn’t get cancer.
Blay turned his back on the Spice Channel by the cash register and went over to stand next to John Matthew.
“That’s cool.” Blay pointed at a dagger sketch.
You going to get ink ever? John signed.
“I don’t know.”
God knew he liked it on skin. . . .
His stare shifted back over to Qhuinn. The guy’s huge body was arching into the human woman, his broad shoulders and his tight hips and his long, powerful legs guaranteeing her one hell of a ride.
He was amazing at sex.
Not that Blay would know firsthand. He’d seen it and he’d heard it . . . and he’d imagined what it would be like. But when the opportunity had arisen, he’d been relegated to a small, special class: denied.
Actually, it was more of a category than a class . . . because he was the only one who Qhuinn would not have sex with.
“Um . . . is it going to sting like this forever?” a female voice asked.
As a deep male rumble replied, Blay glanced over to the tat chair. The blond who’d just been worked on was gingerly tucking her shirt in over her cellophane bandage and staring at the guy who’d inked her like he was a doctor telling her the odds of surviving rabies.
The pair of girls then went over to the receptionist, where the uninked one who’d changed her mind got a refund and both of them checked out Qhuinn.
It was like that wherever the guy went and it used to be the kind of thing that made Blay worship his best friend. Now, it was a never-ending rejection: every time Qhuinn said yes, it made that one single no louder.
“I’m ready if you guys are,” the tattoo artist called out.
John and Blay headed to the rear of the shop and Qhuinn dropped the receptionist like a bad habit and followed. One good thing about him was the seriousness with which he took his role as John’s abstrux nobtrum: he was supposed to be around the guy twenty-four/seven, and that was a responsibility he took more seriously even than sex.
As John sat in the padded chair in the center of the workspace, he took out a piece of paper and unfolded it on the artist’s counter.
The man frowned and looked over what John had sketched out. “So it’s these four symbols across your upper shoulders?”
John nodded and signed, You can embellish them any way you want, but they have to be clear.
After Qhuinn translated, the artist nodded. “Cool.” He grabbed a black pen and started making a picture box of elegant swirls around the simple design. “What are these things, by the way?”
“Just symbols,” Qhuinn answered.
The artist nodded again and kept sketching. “How’s this?”
All three of them leaned in.
“Man,” Qhuinn said softly. “That’s vicious.”
It was. It was absolutely perfect, the kind of thing John would wear on his skin with pride—not that anyone would see the Old Language characters or all that spectacular swirl work. What was spelled out was not something he wanted widely known, but that was the thing with tats: they didn’t have to be public, and God knew the guy had plenty of T-shirts to cover up with.
When John nodded, the artist stood up. “Let me get the transfer paper. Copying it onto you won’t take long and then we’ll get to work.”
As John put a crystal jar of ink on the counter and started to take off his jacket, Blay sat on a stool and held out his arms. Given the number of weapons John was packing in his pockets, it wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to just hang his shit up on a hook.
When he was shirtless, John settled into a forward lean position, his heavy arms resting on a padded bar stand. After the tattoo artist got the image on the transfer paper, the guy smoothed the sheet over John’s upper back, then peeled it off.
The design formed a perfect arch across the span of muscles, taking up all of John’s considerable acreage.
The Old Language really was beautiful, Blay thought.
Staring at the symbols, for one brief, ridiculous moment he imagined his own name across Qhuinn’s shoulders, carved into that smooth skin in the manner of the mating ritual.
Never going to happen. They