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I leave him at the door, heading back inside. I've got a client coming in to finish a sleeve this afternoon. And that's just the start of my day.
"Late night?" Bronx asks, following after me.
"Yeah," I mutter, making a beeline for the kitchen to get some coffee started. "Dante Arakas was in for a back piece. We didn't finish up until almost three."
My brother's silence is loud. The Arakas family is infamous around here. But their money spends just like anyone else's, and I actually happen to like Dante. If half of what people say about him is true, he's a criminal, but I've been in the tattoo business long enough to know that perception isn't always reality. People say a lot shit about a lot of people that isn't always true.
I'm a prime example of that. As far as most people are concerned, I'm just a punk with ink. They have no clue that I'm the artist responsible for some of the expensive art they shit themselves over. My pieces hang in some of the most expensive houses and exclusive galleries in the United States. People pay thousands for my work.
They're the reason this punk with ink lives in a million-dollar home in one of the richest towns in Texas. They're the reason I get to spend my days doing what the fuck I want to do while most people work their asses off at jobs they hate, killing themselves trying to stay afloat.
I'd rather be a punk with ink than dying in a cubicle somewhere.
Bronx is different. He doesn't work in an office. He isn't killing himself at a job he hates. He runs security at The Sterling Rope, the BDSM club Roman Sterling opened in town a while ago. And he doesn't dislike Dante Arakas. He just doesn't trust anyone.
"Why the fuck are you up so early?" I ask him, pulling the fridge open to poke through it. I need to go grocery shopping. "Didn't you work last night?"
"That's why I'm here."
I grab an orange and a bottle of creamer. "The dots aren't connecting, brother."
"Elodie Jackman."
My hand tightens around the orange on instinct, my eyes narrowing on my brother across the kitchen island. Something dark and dangerous rips through me as soon as he says her name.
It's been three days since she left me standing in my office. Three long, miserable days. She's avoided me every fucking time she's come into the shop. If she sees me coming, she goes the other way. But that ends tomorrow. It's her first day of work.
She won't be able to avoid me when we're working side-by-side.
But if Bronx is here to tell me that she was at the club last night, I may snap. A man can only take so much. The thought of her with anyone who isn't me is not one of the things I can handle.
"She was at the fucking club?" I growl. "Did you let her in?"
"I didn't say she was there."
"Then what the fuck does she have to do with your job, Bronx?" I demand, trying like hell not to jump to conclusions even though I'm already doing that.
He pulls a familiar square card out of his pocket and places it on the countertop. "She pinched this. Gave it to Gemma Marsh."
"Jesus fucking Christ," I swear, staring at the invitation. There aren't many like it out there. I'm not a member of the club, but the invitation grants me carte blanche anytime I want to use it. Roman gave it to me in thanks for helping with Bronx security when he needs the extra muscle.
Frankly, I've never seen a need to use it. There's no one there that interests me. For most of my life, I've been too focused on art to worry about fucking around or relationships. My parents weren't exactly accepting of the fact that I wanted to be an artist. They always wanted me to be more like Bronx, who played football growing up.
I ended up getting in some trouble as a result. It wasn't anything major—I got busted tagging the local grocery store. But being the art kid with a criminal record wasn't good for my dating life. By the time I outgrew that reputation, I was juggling my art and a tattoo apprenticeship.
I've spent the last ten years focused on my career.
Until Elodie hit me like a freight train, anyway. And there isn't a single fucking thing about her that I want to share with anyone in Roman's club. When it comes to her, I don't want anyone else looking at her. I don't want them thinking about her. And I damn sure don't want them touching her.
If I ever take her there, it won't be to participate in any public events. Those curves and that perfect body were meant for my lips, my tongue, my cock, and only mine. At least that's what I tell myself when I've got my fist around my cock, thinking about every filthy thing I want to do to her.
