Covet Thy Neighbor

raised an eyebrow. “And last I checked, Jesus never said a word about it.”
    I blinked. “You don’t buy into the story of Sodom and Gomorrah either, do you? About it being about people like us?”
    Darren wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Of course not. The people refused to be hospitable to the angels, which was a huge offense. I really don’t think you can use a group being punished for trying to gang rape a couple of men as an example of God’s disapproval of homosexuality.”
    I set the gun aside and took a disposable razor from a pack. “Doesn’t it bother you that the man who was seen as most righteous and wasn’t killed with the others was saved in part because he offered his own daughters to the mob instead?”
    Darren grimaced. “I’ve . . . wrestled with a few of those passages. Women were second-class citizens back then. Property. And . . . a lot of Scripture reflects that. I wouldn’t condone that now any more than I’d condone forcing a woman to marry her rapist.”
    “And yet it’s in the Bible.”
    “I know.” As he spoke, he watched the razor in my hand, brow furrowed slightly. “Which is why I strongly believe that Christians should be focusing specifically on the teachings of Christ, not everything else that the Council of Nicaea decided to include in the book for whatever reason.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “That’s . . . not something I’ve heard from too many ministers.”
    He shrugged. “Ask a hundred of us a question about the Bible, and you’ll get a hundred different interpretations.”
    “So how do you know your interpretation is the right one?”
    “I don’t.”
    “Then why . . . ?”
    “You were a believer once, Seth,” he said softly and without an ounce of condescension. “Even if you aren’t now, you know the answer to that.”
    “Faith.”
    He nodded. We held each other’s gazes for a moment.
    Then I remembered the paper sitting next to my ink cups, and cleared my throat. “Okay, well. We’re ready to go.” I held up the razor. “You sure about this?”
    Darren stared at the razor for a moment, holding his breath. Then he exhaled and nodded. “Let’s do this.”
    I shaved the mostly hairless area where I’d be tattooing. As I did, my knuckles grazed his shoulder blade, and even through the thick latex, his body heat reached my skin. A second later, goose bumps sprang to life all over his back.
    Through what sounded like chattering teeth, he said, “Thought you had me take off my shirt to prevent goose bumps.”
    “It’s not . . .” I swallowed. “It’s not foolproof.”
    “Apparently not.”
    “Are you cold?”
    “No. No, I’m . . . I’m not cold.”
    “Good.” Neither am I . I cleared my throat. “This might . . . um, be a little cool.”
    He watched me pick up a stick of deodorant off the workstation table. “What’s that for?”
    “Helps the stencil transfer.” I ran the stick over his skin. Then I pressed the stencil to his skin, smoothed it with my fingers, and peeled away the paper, leaving the design behind. Once I was sure everything was straight and centered, I had him check it in the full-length mirror.
    I watched him as he used another smaller mirror so he didn’t have to contort to see the tattoo. I should’ve known he’d be even sexier with ink. Most men were. It didn’t even matter that it was still a stencil at this point. There would be a tattoo there by the time I was done. Someone else’s design, but my ink. A permanent mark on Darren’s body. And even the religious significance didn’t detract from how hot it looked on him, like it was a sharp, black focal point meant to draw the eye to his powerful shoulders and the way his upper body tapered down to those narrow hips.
    He set the smaller mirror down and faced me again, and I jumped, my cheeks burning because he had to have noticed me staring like a goddamned fool.
    “I like it,” he said. “Now the fun part, right?”
    I grinned. “For me, yes.”
    His eyes widened.
    “Relax.” I patted the chair. “I’ll test the needle without any ink first. If it’s too much, I’ll stop.”
    Darren gave the massage chair a wary look, but after only a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat.
    I peeled off my gloves and, as I put on a fresh set, looked him up and down. Every muscle from his neck down was visibly tense, pressing against his skin in rigid plains and angles.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    “You haven’t started yet.”
    “Should I