I’m proud of myself for telling him to fuck off the night Dru went into labor. I know I’m young, but I’m of legal age. I’m not a simpering virgin. I may have only slept with a few guys in my 24 years, but he acted like I couldn’t handle casual sex. I wasn’t asking him to be my freaking boyfriend. I wasn’t going to break down in tears if I saw his dick. Jeez. I’m tired of his games, of the sexy looks, of asking me if I want a ride. It’s giving me a bad caseof whiplash, and I don’t feel like walking around with a crick in my neck.
But try as I might, I can’t stop the sneaky thoughts that worm their way into my brain. And it doesn’t help that all my friends are in love-up getting fucked by big, sexy men. Dru has Silas, and even though she just had a baby, the man couldn’t keep his hands off her when they were sneaking around. He practically dry humped her the night of her bachelorette party. My soon-to-be sister-in-law is having tons of sex with Jace. As gross as it is to think about him orgasming, Sophia loves it and is always talking about how great her sex life is. She’s almost nine months pregnant and still getting some. Meela just told us about her first sexual encounter with her best friend, turned lover, turned fiancé, Tatum. From public sex in movie theaters to middle-of-the-afternoon romps in open fields, Meela is enjoying herself. I thought I’d at least have Lara to commiserate with, but she also just told us that she and Sloane are officially dating. No surprise there. Ever since she told us about sleeping with the CFO of Kenzington Consulting at a sex club, while she was in disguise, which then turned into fake dating to save her career and his son, we’ve all been secretly invested.
Everyone is coupled up, moving on, and while I don’t want to be locked down in a marriage anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind some consistent sex, someone to talk to, someone to watch Netflix with, someone who could provide me with a few sexcapades to tell the girls at our monthly girls’ nights.
So yeah, I’m in a shitty mood because the one man I want to have sex with treats me like a leper, and the one man who would sleep with me if I called him is a leech and a loser. Not that I would call Reed. I haven’t heard from him in months. The last correspondence was a hastily written note where he apologized, calling himself an ass and telling me that he was sorry for being a loser. I was shocked shitless, laughing hard when he wenton to tell me he was in a bad place because he was struggling with accepting the small size of his penis. It was weird and totally unlike him, but I tossed it in the garbage and moved on. He’s probably still dating misguided undergrads. So yeah, I’m definitely not winning any awards in the romance department.
But no matter how much my mind tells me to ignore him, my body has yet to accept that he doesn’t want me. I haven’t stopped masturbating to him late at night. Or in the shower. Or on my couch. I’m becoming a fiend, and it’s all because of that look he casually throws my way every time I’m around him. That sinister, penetrating stare still sends both a shiver down my spine and a pulse straight to my clit. The soothing sounds of the string quartet I have on my Bluetooth isn’t doing shit to soothe my nerves.
I stretch my aching back, and I ignore the clock mocking me that it’s almost 3 a.m. My thumb throbs, but I pick back up my blade and get back to it. No rest for the weary, just classical music and a stubborn art piece.
Wakingup four hours later to blasting music, I roll over and lift my head off my too-thin pillow. The obnoxious noise is rock and roll no less.
Are you fucking kidding me? Bleary-eyed, I pick up my cell phone from beneath my pillow. Freaking 7 a.m.!
I try to focus. Is it my neighbor? I haven’t heard anything much from the neighbor who shares my bedroom wall. Thank god for that. I prayed I wouldn’t hear anyone fucking. ’Cause that’s all I’d need. Someone is getting their freak on while my prospects are nonexistent.
I strain and realize it’s coming from the tattoo shop below me. Who the hell gets a tattoo at 7 a.m.? Every inch of my body hurts from bending over my easel all night, but I was finally satisfied with the piece and fell face down onto my thin floor mattress.
The screams of the lead singer give way to the skull-thumping bass, and I feel like my bed is moving. More like my cot, but still.
All I wanted to do today was sleep in and spend a few hours cleaning my new apartment. My very first apartment. At 24 years old, it’s the first time I’ve lived on my own.
With its peeling paint, minuscule kitchen, thin walls, and slightly sloping floor, it is far below my father’s standard, even my brother’s, but it’s mine. My father may think that owning an art gallery, which provides a place for disadvantaged youth to create art, is some sort of hobby, rather than my passion. And right now, whoever is playing head-banging music is shitting on my newfound freedom.
I yank the sheet off my body and crawl off the thin mattress and stand. Stretching, I roll my neck, feeling the vibration of the music beneath the floor in my feet. Even the walls are shaking. Asshole.
Angry at the disruption, I pull on a pair of ripped shorts and the same tank top I had worn the night before. I sniff my armpits. Not bad, but I’ll need a shower soon. I smell like turpentine and acrylic paint. But a hot shower and clean clothes will have to wait until I confront this inconsiderate dickhead. I pull my hair into a messy bun, and I head to the bathroom and quickly brush my teeth. Fresh minty breath is a must when you curse someone out. Flip flops complete my outfit.
Head pounding, I stomp down the stairs and out the front door of my gallery. It’s a dusty, hot mess that smells faintly of garbage and mold, but I smile, standing in the empty space,spreading my arms wide and looking up at the ceiling. Fuck. There are water stains. Damn. I’m going to have to add a plumber to the list, among the many other things I’ll need to get done. But it’s okay. It’s fine. Soon it’s going to be a fucking amazing art gallery, starting with letting my fellow neighbors know to pipe the fuck down before 9 a.m., otherwise we are going to be really unneighborly.
The music changes again, and I’m more determined than ever. I march to the front door, stalk down the sidewalk, and pound on the front door of Legends Ink. I wait, but nothing. Even with the music disruption, I can admit that I have wanted to visit. Not to get a tattoo, necessarily, but the front windows drew me in. They are black glass with some amazing drawings in white. Sexy curling lines and swirls with skulls interwoven. Legend Ink has a dark and moody aesthetic that calls to me.
I pound again, but again no one responds. I try the door, surprised when it opens. My mouth drops open when I see the interior. Holy Fuck. It’s gorgeous. Dark and moody, with smoky gray walls covered in gorgeous black and white portraits.
The floor is dark too. A rich chocolate color. It’s almost as big as my gallery, but not as wide. The layout is more of a galley style. The reception desk is front and center, boasting a modern computer system. The heavy metal blares from what seem to be built-in speakers. There’s a long hallway also lined with portraits. I move closer to examine the images. Each is a close-up of a tattoo. Sexy thighs, bulging arms. Necks. Chests. Calves. A tongue. An eyelid. A cheek that has the words tongue in cheek. I smile at that. I blink when my eyes travel, and I see the curve of a woman’s ass, including a part of her crack, displaying a tattoo across the lowest part of her back. It’s sexy, not to mention the actual tattoo. Everything I’ve seen so far is sexy and functional. Another starts, and I remind myself why I’m here. Yeah, it’s a great place, but it’s still run by an asshole.
I cup my hands around my mouth, shouting over the decibels, “Hello?!”
Again, no one responds, and I roll my eyes. Christ. I’m going to need a microphone at this point. “Hello!”
“Take a seat.”
I jump at the response, holding my chest to stop the frantic beating of my heart. I turn to correct the person that I’m not here for a tattoo when out walks a giant of a man, bare-chested, covered in tattoos, a backward baseball hat on his head. A man I recognize all too well.
“Riggs?”
Behind him steps another giant of a man, even taller, wearing a black T-shirt and black rubber gloves.
“Onyx?”
Riggs starts laughing, bending at the waist, spluttering, “Oh this is going to be good,” while Onyx mutters, “Fuck,” before he sighs and peels off his gloves.
“You two!? You two own this shop!? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Chapter 25
I need coffee. The strongest shit that’s ever been cultivated. Pulling on a clean shirt, generally irritated about life, I head to the bathroom to wash the meager sleep out of my eyes. I’m surprised that I got any sleep at all. Usually, I’m too keyed up after a kill, but last night when I got in, I heard classical music coming through the walls. The music was haunting, resonant, and I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
