Grading Curves Read online

  Grading Curves

  Naima Simone

  NaimaSimone.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Naima Simone. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover Art: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Editing: Cat’s Eye Proofing

  Grading Curves

  I didn’t know him the night I climbed into his chair and under his tattoo machine. I didn’t know him when he taught me about the kind of pleasure I’d only read about in kinky millionaire romances.

  I didn’t know that when I walked into my college classroom the next morning the man who’d inked my skin and dirtied my body would be sitting in front of me.

  Dean Shaw is my student. My secret. And my downfall if the truth about us comes out.

  The problem is, he’s also everything I crave and can’t let go…

  Dedication

  To Gary. 143.

  Chapter One

  Nikki

  It’s a tattoo shop.

  Not the Hellmouth or the Bog of Eternal Stench.

  Or a BOGO sale at Forever 21. Not that I actually shop at Forever 21, because one, I left that age behind nine years ago. And two, I left the ass needed to fit into those clothes about fifteen years and four dress sizes ago. Still, with two nieces, I know from personal experience, a sale there is a special kind of torture…

  Aaaaand, 90s TV shows, 80s movies and skinny girl shopping habits aside, I’m stalling.

  “Woman, get your ass in there,” I mutter to myself. Inhaling a deep breath, I grab the handle on the front door to the tattoo shop and yank it open.

  Bells jingle above the doorway, loud enough to be heard over the rap music blasting from the speakers. All heads turn my way—all two of them. A tall, bearded man whose wide shoulders are testing the limits of his white T-shirt and a young, gorgeous woman, almost as tall as the guy, with half her head shaved, and the rest of the thick, long mass flowing over one shoulder. Both are covered in tattoos.

  I swallow, and the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously close to my mother’s screams, “Bitch, you crazy?”

  Without my permission, my feet take a step back toward the door…and the safe, boring world I’d meticulously planned for myself. Which directly contradicts me being up here in a tattoo shop ready to permanently mark my body in places that might not be as tight and elastic in ten years. For some people, this probably isn’t their definition of wild, but for me, with my fear of needles? It’s the equivalent of streaking through Kensington Palace brandishing a “Harry, marry me!” poster. I might have a thing for the redheaded royal…

  “You lost?” Lumberjack asks. He shoves off the front desk that he was leaning on and moves toward me. “If you’re looking for the café that was here, it moved to the other side of town over a year ago…”

  Okay, I know what he’s seeing. Older black woman—older than him anyway—simple, almost conservative clothing and jewelry. So I get his question. Doesn’t mean I’m still not offended. But with terror crawling through my veins like an army of ants headed to Armageddon, my throat is too dry to deliver a verbal smackdown.

  “No,” I blurt before he can give me instructions to said café while ushering me out of the shop. He halts, frowning at my most likely too loud and vehement protest. “I mean, no, I’m here for a tattoo. Please,” I tack on since he and the supermodel only stare at me more.

  “Where? Beneath the cardigan?” He nods toward my pale blue sweater that’s opened over a white tank top.

  Okay, that was just snippy. And uncalled for. My cardigan was cute as hell…and 50% off at New York & Company.

  “Forget him,” the supermodel interjects with a wave in his direction. “I’m sorry, but we’re about to close. Can you come back tomorrow? Or if you know what artist you’d like, we can set up an appoint—”

  “I can take her.”

  A new voice—a dark, rumble of a voice like a smooth scotch on extra hard rocks—enters the conversation, and the three of us turn in the direction of it. Relief flows through me that my mission hasn’t met an untimely end.

  “Thank you. I…”

  I think I’m hallucinating because no way on God’s green earth can you exist outside of an LSD-induced vision and Sons of Anarchy reruns.

  Jesus, this new man staring at me from behind the desk is…almost hard to look at. Because my mother insisted we all attend church on Easter Sunday and Mother’s Day if no other days of the year, I know the story of Moses having to hide himself from gazing directly at God’s glory or else be killed. That’s the dilemma I find myself facing. I never thought dying from lack of oxygen to the brain due to deadly hotness was a thing, but apparently my bachelors and masters—and the bible—didn’t cover everything.

  Dark, almost black hair shaved close on the sides and long-ish on the top, is slicked back from a face that is a little too sharp, a little too mean and way too beautiful. His cheekbones, nose and jaw are made up of cutting angles edging just shy of harsh. Not even the half-past-five-o’clock shadow covering his jaw can hide its marble-hewn lines. As if apologizing for the severity of his bone structure, his mouth is a creation of soft lushness. And his eyes. Blazing blue like the heart of the hottest flame. This is upstate New York in September, but his skin holds a golden tan that probably has more to do with genetics than a bed under ultra-violet lamps.

  If Lumberjack is wide and huge like, well, a lumberjack, then this man, equally as tall—if not beating him by a couple of inches with almost the same shoulder span—is cut like a swimmer. No. My eyes jerk back to his bright, unwavering gaze. A wolf. A lean, menacing but gorgeous wolf whose pelt you want to dig your fingers in and rub your face over and run away from at the same time.

  And the tattoos. Good God, they swirl over almost every inch of him. His neck, his strong, corded forearms that aren’t hidden by a black Henley, his hands. And if I’m not mistaken, even one side of his shaved head under the short hair almost hiding it.

  I can take her. His words ricochet against the walls of my skull, and suddenly they sound so much more salacious, dirty. Like a filthy promise instead of a kind offer.

  I should feel all shades of shame for even considering the softness of his mouth or if he offers filthy promises or not. Even with the scruff, the large frame and piercing stare, he’s young. Too young for me to have these kinds of thoughts about him anyway.

  Yet, my mind persists in wondering how those big, inked hands would look against my bare, unblemished skin…

  He arches a dark eyebrow, and a low snort from Lumberjack yanks me out of my plunge into that community pool of lust. Fuck. Where’s the lifeguard to drag your ass out when you need one?

  I clear my throat and act like I wasn’t just standing there ogling him like the last forkful of banana pudding. “Yes, thank you. I don’t want to put you out. But if you could fit me in, I would appreciate it.”

  He nods, then almost dismissing me, he turns to the supermodel. “Take her info and I’ll go get set up.”

  “Sure thing.” The other woman smiles at me, and motions me over. “You’re in luck. Dean’s usually booked months in advance and rarely takes walk-ins. He’s one of the best artists in the shop.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Lumberjack grumbles as I stride past him to the desk.

  She rolls her eyes, taking my license as I read the consent and release disclosure and sign it. Seconds lat
er, she takes the form, makes a copy of it and hands it back.

  “Your name’s Nikki? Mine too.” She smiles and stretches her hand out to me. “Nicole Miller. Nice to meet you, Nikki Barber.”

  “You, too,” I return, shaking her hand.

  I don’t bother to correct her about having the same name. Everyone assumes mine is short for Nicole. But it isn’t. My legal name is Nikki because my mother loved the song Darling Nikki by Prince. Yep, she named me after a sex fiend masturbating in a hotel lobby. If that doesn’t sum up the nature of our relationship, I don’t know what does.

  “Let me show you back.” She strides from behind the desk, and I follow her past a wall into a corridor. She turns left into a wide, open layout bisected by cubicles. There’s six of them, and she leads me to the one at the far end of the room, pausing at the one on the left. “Here you go. Good luck with your tattoo.” She sticks her head around the corner of the opening. “Unless you need anything else, I’m outta here, Dean.”

  “You’re good. I’ll lock up after we’re finished.” He appears in the entrance, giving Nicole a one-armed hug.

  “Again, nice meeting you, Nikki.” With that, she takes off, leaving me alone with...

  “Dean, is it?” I move forward the short distance still separating us. I guess I’d better get comfortable being near him. Very shortly, he’s going to have his hands on my body. Heat licks at my belly, and I fight not to squirm. But my gaze still drops to the aforementioned hands. Big like the rest of him. With long, elegant fingers. An artist’s fingers. They look like they could be gentle, soothing and then demanding, rough. My sex clenches at the thought of experiencing both. Because something tells me he would be a master at either soft or hard. Cajoling and commanding. Sweet and raw.

  Dragging in a breath, I return my attention to his face, and find myself locked in a visual showdown that ratchets the furnace inside me from contained-camp-fire level to Nero-playing-on-his-fiddle-let-the-shit-burn level. Unable to meet that intense blue gaze anymore, I duck my head like a coward and pretend that folding the disclaimer and shoving it in my purse is the most important task of the night.

  But, Jesus. If I’m this turned on by just the sight of him, what the hell am I going to do when he actually touches me? Maybe the needle on the tattoo machine will switch off this…

  Oh fuck. The needle.

  “Question.” I cough, squinting up at him. “Uh, just how bad is this going to hurt? I might have a tiny fear of needles.” And by tiny, I mean the nurses having to bring in the straps and cuffs to vaccinate me when I was a kid. “On a scale of one to ten. One being nothing-to-see-here and ten being knock-me-out-to-get-it done.”

  He crosses his thick arms over his chest. Don’t you look, dammit. Don’t look at those tendons and muscles flexing under all that inked skin.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  I blink. Blink again. “Umm, excuse me? I don’t see what my sex life has to do with getting a tattoo…”

  “A tattoo virgin,” he clarifies, his eyebrow arching. “I’m guessing you’ve never had a tattoo before.”

  Warmth that has zero to do with his hotness prickles my skin and races up my throat and pours into my cheeks. “Right,” I say, pushing a hand through my curls. “I should’ve guessed that. I’m sorry, I’m a little nervous.”

  “Because of the needles.” He nods, studying me with a scrutiny that seems to peer beneath flesh and bone to every secret, wish and need locked up tight from prying eyes and unworthy people. “Come on in, Nikki, right?”

  “Yes.” I follow him into the surprisingly spacious cubicle. I’ve worked in enough of them when I put myself through college to notice that someone actually put care into the design of it. The walls stand at least six feet, and though he towers over the top by a few more inches, it’s the perfect height to provide privacy for most people. A rod stretches over the opening and a black curtain is swept to the side to ensure even more concealment if needed. There’s a small table with a computer monitor, keyboard and printer set up in a corner, a drafting board like architects use and a red, steel, large piece of furniture that resembles a dresser with its drawers and flat tops.

  The rest of the space is taken up by what looks like a barber’s chair and several pieces of folded-up furniture against the walls. It’s neat and would be almost sterile if not for the framed art lining the walls. Drawings and even a couple of photographs of vivid Chinese dragons and koi fish, flowers, ships crashing onto rocks, even a mural of the X-men that appears to be inked onto someone’s back. Interesting choice.

  They’re all beautiful, exquisite, even. And though I can’t explain how I know, I’d bet the last twenty-two dollars my mother left in my checking account that they are all his.

  “Have a seat.” He waves toward the chair and drags over a stool, facing me. With his height, our knees are on the same level, almost bumping. “To answer your question. It depends on the person and their pain level. Most people find it tolerable, and nothing to cry over. Some even find it pleasurable.” My face must reflect the “What the fuck?” reverberating in my head, because he shrugs a wide shoulder. “Like I said, depends on the person. Also, where are you thinking on getting it? Some areas are more sensitive than others.”

  “I wanted it low on my left shoulder,” I twist to pat the area, giving him a more accurate idea of the location.

  “That shouldn’t be too bad. Now,” he leans forward, propping his elbows on his thighs and bringing him a little closer to me, “are you going through with this or do you chalk it up to having a wild idea and walk away?”

  I frown, a little offended. “What makes you think I’m having a wild idea?” Well, I am, but I’ve thought about it. Made up my mind about it.

  He scans my cardigan, tank and jeans, and without words accuses me of being—what? Too old? Too phobic? Too weak? I’m projecting on that last one, but the knowledge doesn’t stop the anger from simmering inside my chest.

  “What? Are you trying to tell me women my age don’t come in for tattoos?” I snap.

  “Nothing to do with age,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how old you are since I didn’t look at your license, but women of all ages come in here. That’s not what I meant. When you busted up in here, you looked like you were forcing yourself to. That any minute, you could just as easily turn around, walk out and not come back. That doesn’t say certainty about what you want. Maybe pride or stubbornness is putting you in this chair rather than a desire for a tattoo. And that’s not a reason to be here, permanently modifying your body.”

  Had I thought he was too young? He can’t be more than twenty-four—six years my junior—but he possesses an insightfulness that was amazing…and unsettling. He needs to be a young, hot artist who makes my body tingle in places that have lain dormant for so long they’re probably atrophied. I don’t need for him to make me curious. Curiosity is a slippery slope that leads to a longing to discover more about him.

  When I leave here, I’ll never see him again. Will forget him. Curiosity would prevent that.

  “I’m sure,” I say, voice flat and brooking no argument. At least that’s how it works with my students. And though he arches an eyebrow, he doesn’t argue. Relief flows through me. “Do you interrogate all of your clients like this?”

  “No, only the ones wearing baby blue sweaters, diamond earrings her man probably spent a mortgage payment on, has gorgeous curls and a fear of needles.”

  I stare at him. Maybe gape. Did he… Did he just call me spoiled and complimented my hair in the same sentence? He can’t be flirting with me…? Tatted bad boys don’t go for older, boring college professors.

  And everything about him screams bad…for me. Usually, I go for men like Dr. Chris Russell, who I met at the faculty mixer days ago. Older than me, job that involves numbers or books, wears khakis or dark slacks, button down shirts with bow ties, has a 401k and is definitely ink-free.

  Adrenaline over the tattoo must be having my imagination working overtime.
>
  “Okay, do you have an idea of what you want?” he asks, that firm voice all business again. Business-like or not. That’s a loaded question, if I ever heard one.

  “Yes. A woodpecker.”

  “A woodpecker?” he repeats, slower. “Like Woody?”

  I frown. “Well, I guess. But less cartoon-y…and mean.”

  He studies me with that unnerving, all-too-seeing gaze for several long moments before he rolls the stool over to the computer and the drafting table. The next twenty minutes are spent in silence as he works over his tablet. Finally, he finishes and crosses over to me in three long strides.

  “Is this something like what you wanted?” He hands me the thin tablet, and I stare down at the screen.

  No. It’s not what I envisioned.

  It’s better.

  My heart pounds in my chest. From the bright red crest to the black-and-white streaked head and flecks of red near the beak onto the black and brown mottled body and feet, the drawing is gorgeous. Even the bark of the tree it clings to is so life-like, I lift a hand to touch it before I can stop myself. I’m half-expecting to feel the rough, knobby texture and the silken feathers and fragile bones of the bird.

  Awed, I raise my gaze to his.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathe. Tears sting my eyes, and I duck my head, batting my lashes to hold the betraying, silly moisture back. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, softly. Almost…gently. And I stiffen because surely I imagined the brush of fingers over my hair. Yes, it was most likely the air from the AC system. “I’ll get this printed and have it on you. Take off your sweater, and you’ll probably need to lower your strap and push the top down a little.”

  My belly executes a nervous stop-drop-and-roll. He doesn’t wait for my agreement but turns away toward the scanner and printer. I just stare at his back, speechless. Stripping in front of him, even if it is just my sweater and a strap… I swallow, trying to moisten my suddenly parched mouth and throat. My pulse dances at my neck and wrists, and my skin prickles as if every follicle and cell is standing at attention, impatiently waiting for the instant when his big artist hands touch me.