Jameson couldn't stop himself from grinning, noting the mild amusement in the blonde man's terse laughter and reply. He was smart enough to know a more sensitive individual wouldn't have deemed his comment “polite,” quite the opposite perhaps, but he enjoyed testing the waters. Not like he had anything better to do. “If I recall, I said most of you looks good,” he laughed, slightly tilting his head and watching closely as the stranger examined his own hands. “All right, you earned them.” The young tattooist nodded and let it be. He had assumed the muscle had received the tattoos from some buddy in a garage, celebrating the acquisition of his new “tattoo gun,” but tattoos like that weren't usually categorized as earned. They were mistakes, plain and simple, but if the blonde didn't see it that way then there was probably a story behind the rough lines to which Jameson wasn't privy.<br/><br/>He went back to organizing his shelf filled with ink bottles, admiring the bold colors. He wasn't expecting the man to speak again; his tone had seemed final and uninterested. It took a moment for his brain to register the sound of the blonde's voice hovering at his ear. “The language?” Jameson swiveled on his leather stool, rolling a couple of feet away from his station and raising a curious eyebrow in his company's direction. “I'd say Dale has everyone convinced I have shit for brains just because I'm fresh meat, but I doubt he's mentioned me. I'm just as much of a bitch as you are. Hence why I'm down here. I can assure you, I'm not as dumb as I look.”<br/><br/>Jamie shrugged his shoulders dismissively, but the annoyance was apparent. It didn't matter, though. It wasn't his or the bodyguard's fault that Jameson was little more than a tool to be used. From the sounds of it, they were both in the same boat. The young artist met the bruiser's gaze and momentarily believed he understood why Dale had chosen him to be at his side. The blonde could be considered intimidating enough. His muscles practically bulged from his clothing; he was tall and broad, could obviously do some damage if he wanted to. But his eyes... There was something about them that left Jamie frozen, waiting like a startled deer until it was safe to move again. Why was he looking at him like that?<br/><br/>The man's voice cracked the pregnant silence between the two, igniting Jamie's interest. A grin sprung across the artist's face as he stood up, taking a few steps forward. “What I would do depends entirely on what you would want,” Jamie offered. “What do you like? Panthers, flowers, evil eyes?” There was a light teasing tone to his voice, but the inquisitiveness was genuine. “May I?” he asked, pointing to the man's hidden hands. “I'd like to get a closer look.<br/><br/>“I'm Jameson, by the way,” he said, smirking. “Dale let you keep a name, or are you just 'bitch'?”