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His chuckling immediately dies on the spot, which only causes me to pick it up for him. Miles never abandons an opportunity to put his art on anyone’s skin; apparently, it doesn’t matter where.
Miles opens his mouth, probably to counter why I’m laughing at his expense, but the deep octave of pure man painted in all-black tattoos cuts into his time like a knife.
“Miles, get the fuck back to work.”
My body instantaneously buzzes in response to his voice.
Hudson Stoll.
My boss.
A fucking god covered in ink on every inch of skin that I’ve ever seen. Owner of Rapture Ink, standoffish, no bullshit, head down, and he busts his entire ass here.
He’s a no-bullshitter, intense to the ultimate max, and he’s hot as all fucking hell.
I’d love to say that we have an excellent working relationship, but sometimes, he looks at me like he forgot who I am. Rarely does he ever utter a word but a one-syllable grunt. And, if he does need anything, he barks it out or has one of the guys order me to do it.
And, speaking of butt cracks, sometimes I’m even lucky enough to get a text at that time with all the shit he wants me to do for the day with random names he’s conjured up.
Ollie.
Opie.
Opal.
My name is Olive. Like the things you eat in a martini.
But, I’ve sworn off trouble, boys that exhibit a hint of danger.
However, Hudson isn’t a boy—he’s all man. One that is almost twenty years my senior and, if I’m being fully transparent, the only dude that has made my pussy clench in over a year.
“Cranky fucker,” Miles mutters, still standing in front of me and unbothered by the unvarying, broody vibe of our boss. “Needs some good pussy and a break.”
“Arrange it for him, then.”
And, even though it’s my suggestion, it doesn’t settle well.
We already have enough female presence trying to get into his pants. Hudson’s schedule is booked eight months in advance right now, and the appointments keep rolling in.
The guys here have a running bet on what numbered female will walk into the parlor and be the one who gets Hudson to blow his load all over her.
It’s fucking disgusting.
I bet number seventy-two.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Miles finally says, leaving me to get back to work before Hudson roars out something else and shits on everyone else’s day.
I’m quick to get back to posting and working on a sale Hudson wants to have next week that I don’t even hear the ring of the bell from the front door. But I sure as hell hear my mother’s voice of disapproval and irritation slice through my peace.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling and texting you for days, Olive.”
Slowly—and I mean snail’s pace slow—I lift my head to find my mother’s unamused glower directed at me.
How in the hell did she find me?
“Mom,” I reply as calmly as possible because my heart slams frantically in my chest with her presence and the constant anxiety she always gives me. “What are you doing here? How did you know?—”
“Norah told me.” My older sister is officially dead. “And…” She glances around the black-painted walls and band posters. Some are vintage and faded, while most depict half-naked women.
