He pulls away without replying.

"What is this, some kind of honor thing?" I ask angrily. "If a girl gets drunk it's no longer a challenge?"

He shrugs, pours the contents of the second gla.s.s over the balcony. "Let's go."

I don't know where it comes from. It just explodes out of me. "You p.u.s.s.y! You're all talk."

Something changes in him. He drops the bottle and champagne gla.s.ses. I watch as the neck of one of them breaks against the tiled floor.

Pierce steps toward me, grabs my hands and pins them above my head, and lifts me into the gla.s.s window, presses his body right up on mine.

His face is in mine, eyes boring into mine, lips hovering millimeters away. "Is this what you want?" he says, and he kisses me hard, forces his tongue into my mouth. It's rough.

"Is it?" he asks, tearing his lips from mine. He presses his hips into me, and I feel his hardness. "Like this?" he pushes, taking my lips again, biting me until it hurts. I feel his hard c.o.c.k against my pubic bone.

I don't know how to respond. My heart is beating furiously. I want to say both 'yes' and 'no'.

"Well?" he asks, and his hand goes to my jaw. He rubs a thumb along my lower lip. He pulls it down, leans in and takes it in between his lips and sucks on it.

This time I kiss him back, but he pulls away again, and I let out a mewl of frustration.

"You want your first time to be like this?"

The world drowns away. I can't hear anything but a dull whine. It's like a bomb has just gone off.

"What?" I whisper.

"Do you," he says, s.p.a.cing out the words. He bucks his hips again. This time his hardness. .h.i.ts my c.l.i.t, and even through my jeans, the sudden sensation pulls a small sound from my throat, a jolt from my body. "Want your first time to be like this?"

My voice is scratchy now. "Who says it's my first time?"

"Christ," he whispers, letting go of my hands and letting me down onto the ground. He shows his back to me, leans over the balcony.

Again, I find myself feeling undone, unraveled, bared. Why is he doing this to me? An anger starts to bubble. I'm embarra.s.sed.

He turns around, and he takes my hand. "Pen."

"What?" I say, looking away.

He brings himself close, and again I can smell him. I want to fall into his arms.

"I want to be with you," he says. "G.o.d, I'd f.u.c.k you straight through to lunch." There's a flicker of his lips, an almost-smile. "But not like this. I'm not into this."

"Not into what?" I say. "You think it's no longer a conquest if the girl is drunk, ain't that right? Your ego needs me to be sober."

"Drunk girls are a sloppy lay." He shrugs. "It wouldn't be worth my time."

"f.u.c.k you, Pierce."

"Time to go, Pen."

"I don't need you to parent me."

"Parenting you," he says, "Is the last thing I'll ever do. But you're still going home."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going home."

"So? I'll stay here!"

"We close in thirty minutes."

"Then I'll stay the thirty minutes."

"With who? Do what? Go back down to the club?"

I don't reply. That's exactly what I don't want to do.

He coils an arm around my waist and pulls me forward. "We're going."

Chapter Eleven.

My head hurts. I'm hung over, and I can't believe I got that drunk last night. We only shared a bottle of champagne. Though, in retrospect, I had most of it.

But even more, I can't believe I let Pierce kiss me, and touch me... humiliate me.

The woman before me clears her throat. Tina Azume. She's way more intimidating than she looks on her website. Her face is all sharp angles, and her black eyes tunnel hard into my own. She's studying me. I haven't seen her smile yet. From the way she looks, I wonder if she's ever smiled before.

It's definitely not what I expected. Then again, I don't know what I was expecting from one of the best tattoo artists in the world.

"You got your visiting artist visa?" she asks me. Her thin lips barely move as she speaks. Her voice is monotone, uninterested, unenthused.

Already, my stomach is crunching up tight. Already, I'm worrying that I'm not going to get this apprentices.h.i.+p placement, that I will have come all the way out here for nothing!

My confidence falls out from under me. Why should I get it? Who is to say I'm better than the dozens of other people who have surely already interviewed for this position?

Oh G.o.d! I'm starting to panic.

I take a deep breath, calm my nerves. I've got to get through the interview. I can't let my nerves show.

I clear my throat, and tell Ms. Azume, "I can't yet, as I need a current tattoo artist to vouch for me."

She purses her lips. They are a dull pink, but even so manage to stand out against her chalky-white complexion. "I'm unfamiliar with the visa requirements for visitors. How long does it last?"

"Thirty-one days, to allow me to apprentice, and then you can vouch for me to get a different visa that lasts for longer if you want to keep me on."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she says. She's flicking through my black, leather-bound portfolio. Tina Azume is my favorite artist. She's got such an idiosyncratic style, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.

Like her face, the lines she draws are full of sharp angles, and yet have this wistful, flowing quality to them. It's almost like if water was geometric.

I can hardly believe I'm sitting in her office, talking with her! I'm star-struck. I burp, and taste stomach acid mixed with champagne.

"You did the tattoo on your foot yourself?"

I look down at my right foot instinctively. I'm wearing my favorite blue-and-white pinstripe flats, so I can't see the whole web of intricate and interwoven beanstalks that I designed myself. But I do see a bit of it.

"Yes," I say.

"How?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"How were you able to? I mean, with what instruments? Where?"

"I was friends with a local artist back home in Chicago. She said that if I wanted to practice on myself, she'd let me and watch me."

"And you weren't her apprentice?"

"No."

"So she just let a unlicensed friend use her tattoo equipment?"

I swallow. My heart stops dead. Should I have lied?

"Yes," I whisper.

"Quite a risk for her to take." Tina Azume is eyeballing me now, and her face has gone from mere indifference to something approaching hostility. "I don't do that in my shop."

"I understand."

"Take off your shoe."

I blink, and then immediately slip it off. She extends a hand, and I'm not sure what she wants me to do.

"Your foot, please."

A little embarra.s.sed, I lift my foot into her hand, and she holds it and pulls my toes down flat, and then peers at my tattoo.

"Your hand must be steady, especially since it hurts on the foot, and since you did this upside-down."

I don't know what to say, so I don't reply.

"You are skilled with curved lines a they are smooth. These are vines?"

"Well, in my mind they were kind of like beanstalks."

"But they are not straight?"

I shrug. "I started off with them straight, but after drawing and redrawing the design, realized I liked them more vine-like, tangled."

She sets my foot down, and I slip it back into my shoe.

"It's impressive for someone so young. Most people don't start getting into practicing body art until their mid-twenties, sometimes older. You've got a good hand, and a good eye. I can see that from your drawings." She gestures gently at my portfolio that's in her hands.

"Thank you," I whisper. I feel my heart quicken with excitement, antic.i.p.ation.

"But being a tattoo artist is not the same as being, simply, good at drawing. Tell me, what other skills are vital?"

"An excellent knowledge of the health-related ramifications of getting and giving tattoos," I say. "And also effective communication. Nothing is worse than a tattoo artist who cannot communicate with her client."

She just stares at me, as though she's expecting more.

"Um," I stall, buying time. "Mental discipline. Tattoo sessions can often go on for hours, and an artist must not only know how to concentrate and not get distracted, but must also know her own limits."

"And that's just the tip of the iceberg," Tina says, slapping my portfolio shut. "I like your style, but I must say I see a little of my own in it."

"I've been following your work since I was fifteen," I say. "On your website, on tattoo message boards, and social network groups."

"I see. And where are you living now?"

"Near St. Kilda."

"Ah, so just down the road?"

"Yeah," I say, grinning. "I walked here today."

"Don't walk home at night if you can avoid it," she says. "Especially on weekends."

I hold my breath. "Does this mean that, I, uh-"

"Yes, Penelope. Bring the license form tomorrow morning so I can sign it. I'm normally in the shop at eight, but you'll now be opening up for me, so I expect you to be here at seven-thirty."

I nod enthusiastically, but she sees the confusion on my face. Tattoo shops don't usually open so early.

"I run an online business," she says. "I sell temporary tattoos, and various paraphernalia. Some accessories, too, like rings, earrings, broaches, pins, badges, that kind of thing." She waves her hand carelessly, but I'm just even more impressed.

"That's amazing," I say. "So you're like a total one-woman show."

For the first time, she smiles. "Not anymore, I guess. I'll be handing off some of those duties to you. Pay will be minimum wage, and I expect to only give you two days off a week. Also, you must work weekends and all holidays."