Page 48 of Ink and Insults
“You wear glasses?” he asked, then shook his head sharply, brushing off his own question.
“Come in.” It wasn’t a request. I stepped out of the doorway, giving him room to make his way into my apartment. He hesitated for barely a second before doing as I’d ordered.
“I’m not taking off my shoes,” he grumbled, as though I’d be upset.
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing at his attempt at defiance. He was clearly outside his wheelhouse. Despite being only a few years younger than me, he’d obviously been sheltered in a way I hadn’t since I was a kid. The idea was amusing, considering he worked for Luke and regularly interacted with the Kings. How did someone turn out this way with friends like that?
“Oh no,” I drawled, keeping my tone light and teasing. “You’re a real rebel without a cause. How could you do this to me? You’re going to break my heart.”
His glare narrowed farther and he huffed. “You’re a dick.”
“Yep, and I’ve also got a nice one.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Want to get on your knees and let me take a turn at using your mouth?”
His pale cheeks and neck flushed, red spreading down onto his chest and over his shoulders. I’d never seen a blush take up so much of someone’s upper body. It was cute.
“Shut up.” He shifted his sketchbook to his chest and hugged it like it was armor, as though I wouldn’t just rip it right out of his arms to get to him.
I held out my hand. “Pass it over.”
“No.” He tilted up his chin, eyes flashing in irritation. He alternated which foot he rested his weight on before he inched away from me.
I cocked an eyebrow and took a step forward, then another, bare feet padding across vinyl floor with the stealth of a hunting predator. He kept backing away until he hit a wall, and his shocked realization of being cornered gave me time to snatch the sketchbook out of his arms.
“Hey!” He attempted to reach for it again, but I held it over my head. I was a lot taller than him, and he had no chance, but that didn’t stop him from jumping and trying to steal it back.
“Enough,” I growled, using the tip of my pointer finger to shove the middle of his forehead, sending him backward again.
His glare intensified. “Why are yousuchan asshole?”
“You can thank my family,” I answered without missing a beat. “You need to come up with better insults than that, pretty kitty.”
His shoulders slumped as the fight left him, warping his face into frustration as he walked back until he met the wall again. He leaned against it, sighing. “Fuck you.”
Itskedwith a smirk. “No, I fucked you.”
“Very original.” He rolled his eyes and waved his hand impatiently. “Fine, open it. That’s what you want, right? Do it. Tear me down like everyone else. Tell me how bad they are.”
I froze and took in his expression, his anger bleeding out as heartache and disappointment. His shoulders slumped and his mouth pursed, and he curled in on himself again, an action I’d noticed when he was trying to hide from inevitable defeat. How many people had crushed him over the years? I’d learned a long time ago not to base my worth on other people’s opinions, but obviously that was a life skill Oliver hadn’t acquired yet.
I opened the cover of his sketchbook, coming face-to-face with a drawing that wasokaybut not great. His rendering wasn’t quite right for his perceived light source and the perspective wasn’t perfect. Little things were off all over the place. As I flipped each page, I took note of his technique and the expertise he lacked.
Shit, it was easy to see why PD wouldn’t take him on. While Oliver wasn’t terrible, he wasn’t at the level someone needed to be if they wanted to be a tattoo artist. Human skin was a different canvas, one that was irreversible. Mastering composition and linework was a must before anyone picked up ink and needles.
Of course, these things were the reasons apprenticeships existed. There was never any shortage of people willing to volunteer to be guinea pigs for a free tattoo, no matter how bad it might be in the end.
Despite the easy to spot issues, his art was beautiful. He’d poured his emotions into the sketches, the lines crafted with anger. Longing. Desperation. Creative works were our outlets,filled with a humanity no machine could replicate. In these sexy drawings of muscular men, I saw Oliver’s hunger. His hopes. His dreams. His pain and pleasure.
And God, it wasn’t difficult to pick out Oliver’s influences. Red hair and muscles were everywhere. I stopped when I was staring at a muscled, redheaded lumberjack whose dick was about to bust out of his jeans. It didn’t take Freud to know what Oliver wanted to do with KC.
I licked my lips.
Poor Oliver with his sharp claws and broken heart.
He yearned for more, eager for the future of his choosing. Unfortunately, for now, his illustrations needed refining. But that was the human experience, too.
Practicing. Perfecting. Trying again and again to get what we want. Be who we want to be.
“Hmm.” I glanced up at him from under my lashes, taking in the nerves that flittered across his face and the stress in the way he held his shoulders close to his ears. He chewed the corner of his lip, clenching his hands together until his knuckles turned white. This version of Oliver was adorable, but I preferred it when he was spitting venom and hurling insults. “I can tell by your drawings that you’re leaning toward realismorthat 1950s lushness that isn’t quite reality. You could probably work on a webtoon, something that it would be okay to get better over time with. I can see that here. You’re good with color. But your linework and perspective need to be refined. You’ve only got one shot when the work is permanent. You don’t want to be practicing these kinds of things on a person. Well, at least not someone paying.”
