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A thrill shot through me at the implication that all I needed to do was snap my fingers and Colt would remove this trash from our lives. “He got off on humiliating me. It made him feel like a big man. I don’t want him dead. I want him embarrassed.”
Colt frowned down at me and rubbed my lower back, dragging me closer until my body was flush against his. “Huh?”
Stepping away, I unzipped my bag and fished out a black permanent marker. I always carried one with me because you never knew when you would need one—or need to deface something. I walked toward John with a grin.
Royal frowned at me as if he was confused, and Colt strolled over to stand beside him. They looked like a confounded pair of statues as I popped the cap on the marker.
“Do you know anyone who does tattoos?” I asked, waggling my eyebrows. Colt must have a guy because he was covered in them.
Royal raced forward as I leaned in with my marker out. “Wait!” he said, then grabbed John by the neck to hold him still, clearly having already caught on to what I was about to do. Colt’s eyes widened as I wrote BIGOT across John’s sweaty forehead in large, two-inch letters.
“Wh-what are you doing?” John asked, and he had the audacity to sound outraged. He struggled, but Royal clenched his hands, and John stopped moving.
“Saving your fucking life, you dumbass,” I said under my breath.
“Oh, you want all the ink to be permanent?” Colt’s chuckle was charming as he wandered away from us, dragging his phone out of his pocket. My heart fluttered. The laugh lines and perfect white smile were new.
I decided only to write the truth about John and scrawled anything that came to mind.
I hurt people went across his heart.
I hate anyone different fromme looked good in cursive around his neck.
I get off on being a prick trailed down his right arm.
I went for bigot again across both knuckles.
By the time a man walked into the warehouse with a bike helmet tucked under his arm and a black leather jacket stretched across his wide shoulders, I was writing Cocks Go Here on John’s right cheek. Humming, I drew an arrow pointing toward his mouth. Let him look at that in the mirror every day. When I stood up straight again, the biker laughed so hard he dropped the large leather case he’d been carrying to cradle his face and stomp his feet with amusement. He spun a circle on the spot, and I caught sight of the Kings of Men patch on the back of his jacket. I shuddered. He was a member of a dangerous motorcycle club. I’d seen them on the news in the past.
“Oh, holy shit, that’s rough,” the man said and cackled. The cute guy ran his fingers over his short hair. It was at that length where it would be difficult to grab the strands, and maybe he’d done that on purpose if he got into a lot of fights. He glared at John. “What did he do?”
Standing, I capped my marker and shrugged. From here on out, I would never associate the smell of Sharpie with anything except revenge. “He wouldn’t let me buy dresses.”
The guy roared with laughter again and nodded. It took him a second to calm down. “Any last touches?” he asked around a hiccup as he swiped at the corners of his eyes.
“Nope. That’ll do it.” I tossed the marker at John’s face, and he flinched.
“We could do a similar arrow on his ass,” the man said with a wicked grin, and John flinched and strained away from us, for what little good it would do him.
“Leave me alone!” John yelled, but everyone ignored him. The words weren’t the clearest anyway, after having his nose smashed.
“You know, I’d love that.” I winked at the biker, not sure if he was actually going to do that or not, but I supposed it wasn’t any worse than what I’d done to John’s face.
“Let’s do that arrow in rainbow ink,” the biker said with a smirk.
There was a woman who seemed to be the biker’s assistant, a goth with jet-black hair, scary black contacts, and black lipstick topped off by all-black clothing. She had chosen to hit her theme hard, and I had to respect that.
“You have nice handwriting,” she said, deadpan. I got the impression she approved of this.
“When are you coming back to the shop to let me work on finishing that back piece?” the biker asked, and it took me a second to realize he was talking to Colt.
“I’ve been busy. Schedule me in and I’ll be there, PD.”
“Love it,” the biker said with a grin. The woman with him had been assembling what I thought was a tattooing machine, and she held up gloves for the man. He slipped them on. “No need to make sure the needles are clean,” he said loudly.
John began to struggle.
The biker winked at me.
