Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,21

It was just the two of us now, and a few remaining employees cleaning up the catering. The space was transformed with the emptiness.

The smell of Ian’s expensive cologne tickled my nose. He always went all out for these shows, wearing suits that were worth a year’s tuition and shoes that were always at the height of style. Next to him I felt every inch the student, with my thrift shop suit and borrowed shoes. That he lavished gifts on me, spent his money carelessly on exotic food and top-notch art supplies for me, was enticing and a constant reminder of how different our situations were.

“Thanks, Ian. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” I said, shivering as he trailed his fingers down my spine. Ian seemed to control my body’s responses with the smallest gestures. Sometimes it felt as if I were clay being molded in his hands.

He chuckled and brushed his lips against my ear. “That’s true, dearest. But you make it worth the effort. You are a gift.” The fingers dragged further down and he squeezed my ass, making me jump. The headiness of the night was getting to me—all the hand shakings and praise. People admiring me. Because of him.

My mouth was dry. “What next?”

“Next? Well, why don’t you come home with me and we’ll see where the night takes us.”

In truth, I wanted nothing more than to crash in my own bed. The evening’s stimulation had taxed my energy stores heavily. But I owed everything to him. And besides, when was I going to do better? He was rich, handsome, smart, charismatic...older. Experienced. He’d shown me how much I needed him. So if he wanted me to go home with him?

“Sounds great,” I said, forcing a smile on my face.

I shook my head, trying to disperse the memories. I didn’t want to do that to Channing. I didn’t want to stifle him or tether him to this place, to a person, before he’d gotten to choose a life for himself. I didn’t want to control or manipulate him. In many ways, I was in the same position as Ian. Older, established financially, experienced. Which is why I just couldn’t go there with Channing.

Definitely not now… and maybe not ever.

6

Channing

Twenty-one. It should feel like a bigger deal to me, but it didn’t— drank my first beer when I was twelve, so alcohol felt like an old hat, and now that I was getting my life together, I honestly didn’t even want it that much anymore. But that didn’t stop me from letting my friends at home take me out to celebrate.

My buddies were hitting up the dance floor, their terrible moves reminiscent of Dane—only Dane was fully aware of how awful his dancing was, whereas my friends were blissfully ignorant of the disaster their bodies were creating as they swayed and bounced. They’d been drinking, “pregaming” as they called it, for my big birthday. But I promised Chris and Dane my first legal drink would be with them, so I was just along for the ride.

Smiling, I nursed my club soda with lime. The bar was crowded, the dance floor packed, and the music was so loud I felt it in my teeth. As I leaned against the bar, someone brushed up against my arm. It was a young woman, her heart-shaped face quite pretty and her red curls falling over her shoulders. She looked at me through eyelashes so lush she had to be wearing falsies.

“Hey,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the music.

I leaned closer to her so she wouldn’t have to shout. “Hey,” I replied with a smile.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked, her lips shiny with gloss.

I pointed to my friends. “I’m afraid of being seen with them.”

We both laughed. She leaned in closer, and I could smell the vodka on her breath and the scent of perfume from her skin. “I think you’d stand out no matter who you’re with,” she said, right in my ear.

I felt a pleased flush blossom on my cheeks. During college I’d worked hard to develop my body, running and lifting weights regularly. Because I’d put so much effort into sculpting my muscles, I’d also paid more attention to what clothing would best show them off. Tonight I was in a navy Henley shirt with the neck unbuttoned and black skinny jeans. Dark colors made my skin and eyes pop—or so I’d been told.

“Thank you,” I replied. “Who are you here with?”

She