Tattooed Read Online Free PDF Page B

his time, his brain adjusting to the overwhelming variety. The back of his neck prickled. The sales clerk was staring at him. He chose a five-pack of disposable razors. He tucked it under his arm while he sniffed the shaving gel. One of them had a clean, fresh scent.
“Mmm…you smell so good,” Kenzie murmured into his neck. “Like citrus or something.”
This one smelled citrusy. He added it to the package of razors tucked in his arm and walked to the back of the line at the cash. He skimmed the tabloid magazines until it was his turn to pay. The cashier eyeballed the pockets of his jacket.
He dropped his purchases on the counter—enjoying the cashier’s flinch—and paid for the items. But as soon as he resumed window-shopping, his neck prickled again. Everyone stared at him. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and retreated to a magazine store.
It was cool. Quiet. He drifted down an aisle. The images from the magazines jumped out at him. For years, he had only been permitted to use a black or blue pen for his drawings. The saturated color and pictures of beautiful women stirred a desire to create something in ink. Preferably in the flesh.
The tattoo magazines were tucked into the bottom shelf of the far corner. His heart rate quickened. Tattoo magazines had been contraband in prison. The few that circulated were before his time. He crouched down, his gaze jumping from cover to cover. He couldn’t decide, so he grabbed a copy of each, and strode to the cash. It added up to more than he expected—more than he could afford—but he bought them anyway.
Half an hour later, he lay on his mattress, flipping through the magazines. Midway through one of the most popular tattoo magazines, his fingers paused. He stared at the page.
Kenzie Sloane, The Goddess of Japanese Tattoos. The headline slammed into him.
Kenzie gazed at him—only a foot and a half from his face—glossy and in hi-def. So now he knew how the past seventeen years had treated her.
Well.
Very well.
Black eyeliner outlined those sky-blue eyes. The years had given her face a new assuredness. A plain black tank top provided stark relief to the riot of Japanese designs swirling on the skin of her arms, her chest, her neck.
Her neck.
His eyes flitted back and forth between the words of the article and the exuberant images of the photo spread.
The more he saw, the hungrier he grew.
The more he read, the angrier he became.
Had Kenzie ever once acknowledged that he was the one who had introduced her to tattooing?
No.
She’d used him.
And then abandoned him. “The bitch!” He threw the magazine onto the floor, jumping to his feet, his heart racing.
He knew she had been successful with tattooing, but he had had no idea what a celebrity she had become.
Had he just been naive? Willfully blind?
Or stupid?
He snatched the magazine from the floor and studied her face again.
The chronic infection of his heart—which had not eased over seventeen years—intensified.
He needed to see her. Talk to her. Make her see how terrible her mistake had been.
Make her sorry for never once calling. Never once visiting. Never once letting him know how much she regretted running away that night.
No, instead she hooked up with some guy who made her an apprentice at his shop in Montreal. And then she moved to the States. And now—his jaw tightened—she had a Q&A column called KOI—“Kenzie On Ink.”
You think you’re so clever, he thought. But I bet all that tattooing advice you dish out is the stuff I taught you when you were seventeen.
“Kenzie welcomes questions from tattooists at all levels,” the magazine gushed. It then listed her website, where “All of Kenzie’s guest studio appearances are listed.”
He stuck the magazine in his jacket, grabbed his set of master keys and strode down the hall to the manager’s office. One of the tenants turned from the row of mailboxes that stood sentry to the office door. “You’re the new super, right?” the short, tubby guy