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She pulls away from the dick and shakes her head no at something he asks. I’m transfixed, yet want to look away all at the same time. This makes her real—a person, not the fantasy I have in my head of who she is.
I feel nervous for some fucked up reason, like this will impact my life, become a pivotal moment.
Just as she turns to face me, I tense all over in anticipation, then the door closes, hiding her from view. Fuck.
Inhaling a lungful of air, not even realizing I’d been holding my breath, I laugh and shake my head. This isn’t fucking healthy.
Her name is Summer.
Summer.
Summer.
Summer.
Fuck, I am a stalker.
“You want to reserve her room?” the bartender asks, grinning.
I down the rest of my beer and push the bottle toward him. “Nah, I’m good,” I lie, like a pathetic loner. Damn, I need to get myself some company.
With a slap of a twenty on the counter, I make my way through the crowded club to find the blonde from earlier.
Pulling out a wad of cash, I crook my finger at her. She grins like a cat that got the cream and abandons the guy she was working to follow me to a booth at the back of the club.
As soon as my ass hits the leather, she straddles my lap. She smells of vanilla and a mix of men’s cologne. God knows how many laps she’s been on tonight alone.
Her blonde hair whispers over my face as she pushes her tits into my chest and thrashes her head. Each beat of the music causes her to twist and move, her big ass grinding down on my dick. She’s not unattractive, just too…“in my face” and not my type.
An announcement comes through the room about the private rooms being open and the list of girls dancing tonight. When they say Summer, I will myself to resist paying for her room.
I’m not a stalker.
I can walk away.
Pushing the blonde from my lap, I stuff some bills in her G-string and slap her ass.
“We can have more time, baby. Tell me what you like,” she purrs, running her hands down her tits and squeezing.
“Not you,” I grunt before walking away.
Fifteen minutes, that’s how long it takes to walk home, and every inch of the way will be spent resisting the urge to turn around and go back.
But I’m stronger than that.
I’m not a stalker.
I walked away.
I fall through the door of the tattoo shop twenty minutes late. Couldn’t sleep last night pacing my apartment with nothing to do but think. It’s a slow torture. Insomnia’s a bitch.
“You’re late,” my boss and friend Jake states with a quirk of his pierced brow.
Jake is an oddity. He has all the brute and style of a biker, but the face and manners of a pretty choirboy. Women come in here to get tats just as an excuse to drop their pants for him. He’s fucking good at his craft, though, and I struck gold getting an apprenticeship with him.
I don’t think about the favor my baby sister’s boyfriend pulled to get me in here. Ronan Hayes isn’t a man I want to owe anything to, but I’m also not as stubborn as I used to be and can see an opportunity when it’s presented to me.
I spent years of my life raising my sister after our dad died. Gave up school and lost the woman I thought I’d spend my life with—all for my sister, Sofina. Unfortunately, I was angry and bitter for most of those years. Clipped her wings without even realizing I was dulling her colors.
Ronan is a prick, but he loves her and has been real fucking good to her. I’m learning to take the losses. Everyone leaves in the end. It’s why I don’t fucking trust people anymore. Why I like to watch from a distance.
“You still asleep?” Jake snorts when I haven’t said anything.
“Sorry, man. Crashed late. Slept through my alarm.”
“You should see a doctor. Get some pills. I’ve got some ganja if you want some to help you sleep.”
“Yeah, I might take you up on that. For now, I’ll survive on these.” I smirk, holding up an energy drink.
The buzz in this place is relaxed and has more of a family vibe than coworkers. Jake built his reputation, and this shop, from the ground up with his own sweat and tears. It’s a well-established place. Appointments are booked months in advance. And every year, Jake and his team travel for conventions and competitions. I hope to be going with them this year.
Dumping my things in the back room, I come through the shop to see both the other artists already busy with clients. They offer a head nod, which I mimic.
“You want to sit in and watch my eleven o’clock? It’s a continuation of an original design she brought in. Pretty sick.” Jake rubs his hands together in excitement.
