Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,49

struggling not to be too desperate or hurt, but I wasn’t winning the struggle. “Let me please you.”

“Channing, you’ll get a chance. I promise. But today let’s just...savor this.” He licked his lips, and I thought it was possible I’d get hard again from seeing that alone.

Instead, we snuggled, his body a harbor for me to cling to while I came down from the heady rush of the best fucking blowjob of my life. We talked about nothing and everything. He told me about some of his favorite tattoos, and I told him about some of Dane’s most embarrassing ones. He told me he’d always prefer French toast to foie gras, and I told him about my bubble tea obsession. We talked until the sky started to turn pink and orange and it was too chilly to lie around naked in truck beds.

I dressed, he took me home, he kissed me good night. I knew rationally that all of it had happened, even if it felt like a dream. It had been one of the best days I could remember.

But you better believe all I’d been thinking about was how soon my chance to get my mouth on Reagan would come.

13

Reagan

The sketchpad on my lap was less than a week old and was already half full of charcoal and pencil images, some dashed haphazardly and others rendered in time-consuming detail. But each and every one of them had been inspired by my time spent with Channing. It was impossible to talk about passion, about following instincts and dreams, and not be reminded of the thing that had once brought me so much joy: painting.

All of these sketches were ideas for paintings. In the spare bedroom of my condo there were now a stack of canvases and paints. It felt as if I were developing a fever in my brain, and only putting images to paper and canvas could bring me the cooling relief I craved.

I was ignoring work. The pile of ever-present paperwork on my desk had been pushed aside, and my computer was running, but I was avoiding it. As I began another sketch, my heart steering my hand as much as my head, I saw a new email pop up on the open computer browser I was using as a reference. It was Ian Grant again. I clicked to open.

Reagan,

I still haven’t heard back from you regarding the alumni show. Yes, I’m afraid I’m going to hassle you. I’ve seen the work from your television show—you still have a touch of beauty that is just breathtaking. But those aren’t your images. You’re interpreting other people’s ideas, much like a ghostwriter for flesh. YOUR art is what I want to see. Please consider this an old man’s (and I very much hope, friend’s) last wish. Do you think you could manage? Even a piece or two? The deadline to apply is soon.

With insistence,

Ian

How was that for timing? I couldn’t argue that I’d been painting again. My credit card statement would attest to that, filled with expenses at the local art supplier. Channing had unlocked something in me. It wasn’t just that I thought about him all the time—it was how I pictured him. He’d have these moments where his face was so honest and beautiful that I needed to preserve them on canvas, horrified by the thought that they could be lost to time.

Art used to be like that, a place where I could turn emotions into art that inspired even bigger emotions… For a while, tattooing had been enough, but suddenly, at forty-five, I needed more. I wanted to start creating again just for me, because God knew I had so many emotions burbling inside of me that would need to be siphoned out. The best way I knew how to do that was through a paintbrush. And if I was painting anyway, what would be the harm of sharing my work…

I clicked reply.

Ian,

Send the paperwork. I’ll have at least one piece I can submit.

Reagan

As I sat with the knowledge that I was about to return, albeit briefly, to a chapter of my life I’d been certain was over, there was a knock at my door. I looked up and saw Mateo. He seemed...off. “You’ve got a visitor.”

He gestured behind him, and Bryan came through the door, stepping shyly into my office. It was the first time I’d seen him out of the jumpsuit uniform of the detention center. His ginger hair had been buzzed the last time