Free Whirlwind by Layla Chase

Whirlwind
    Senna Whitefeather strode into the San Antonio Alamodome, her long heavy braid bouncing between her shoulder blades. Anticipation at being a first-time exhibitor in the World Tattoo Convention put a spring into her steps.
    At the entrance, people wove in a crisscross pattern, jockeying for the fastest track to reach the display booths. All around her, conversations buzzed, adding to her excitement. She lifted the plastic badge slung around her neck, angled it toward the security guard then turned left toward the area of her designated booth. And bumped smack into a male—solid muscle from chest to knees—and she stumbled.
    Firm hands grasped her upper arms and steadied her. “What’s your hurry?”
    The deep voice rumbling near her ear resonated through her bones, kicking up her heart rate, and set her further off-balance. Both hands tangled with the supple cotton of his T-shirt and held tight. All she saw before her was a broad expanse of black cloth. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—” She glanced up—straight into midnight black eyes that seemed to look deep into her soul. Her gaze clung for a long moment then she forced herself to blink.
    The stranger smiled and the bronze-toned skin around his eyes crinkled. “Good thing I was, or we’d both have gone down.”
    With a quick look, Senna registered the slash of his dark brows, high cheekbones, and long, black hair pulled back along his neck. Another Native American. Strong features balanced by an open smile. Why did she have the sudden urge to sway forward against his broad chest? A chest that appeared capable enough to harbor a woman tied in nervous knots over today’s exhibit.
    Spirit of Life, she was late.
    “Again, I’m sorry.” She stepped back, away from his broad hands and fought against acknowledging the immediate loss of warmth. No time for distractions, even tall, dark, and sexy ones. “I’ve got to get to my booth.”
    With a dip of his chin, he swept a hand in the direction she headed. “The right-of-way is yours.”
    Senna hustled down the side aisle but couldn’t resist a quick backward glance over her shoulder. The tall stranger dressed all in black had disappeared into the crowd. As well he should have. Probably on his way to meet up with his family. She shook her head at the absurdity of any momentary connection they’d made.
    The path she walked was along aisles lined with colorful banners and vivid photographs of amazing tattoos. The names and logos of shops she’d only read about—Dragon Ink, Artist’s Well, and St. Ink—sped by in a multi-colored blur. Her blood raced in acknowledgement of the sheer amount of talent under this roof.
    Ten years earlier, when she’d left the Wyoming reservation to accept her college scholarship, she’d only dreamed of making a living by creating body art. Now, being a finalist for a national residency grant was pure icing on the cake.
    At the last row of booths, Senna turned the corner and stopped. Over the heads of the waiting crowd, she could barely read the banner of her Kaleidoscope booth midway down the aisle. Earlier that morning, she’d reviewed the list of appointments but still couldn’t believe this many people waited to receive her signature tat—a whirlwind. Tornado spirals of varying sizes and colors.
    Excitement buzzing through her body, Senna hesitated. The sight of a crowd always brought back memories of her first rock concert and the crush of bodies tight together. The feeling of being pulled along without enough control.
    A shudder ran through her. She was so much better one on one, relating to another individual through her tattoo artistry. A hobby that quickly became an obsession once she learned the depth of emotional connection she gained.
    Squaring her shoulders, she ducked her head, murmured “Excuse me,” and edged her way through the waiting people. Within a few steps, she overheard whispers of, “Is that her?” and “She’s so young.”
    A printed