But I’d move into my tiny shitty tent if it meant I got to sleep by his side again. I love him. I know it’s probably too fast, and there is an element of gratefulness that he found me and helped me. But what I feel for him is so much bigger than that.
I love that when he was worried I wouldn’t eat his food, he spent hours prepping meals for me. I love that even when he’s at work, he calls and texts just to check that I’m okay—and still there. I love that when he found out I didn’t have a purse, he bought me one. I love that he doesn’t particularly like hockey, but when he found out that I did, he paid for a TV subscription so I could watch it whenever I want. I love that he takes care of me. I love that he wants to take care of me. I love him.
Oh god, I love him, and instead of telling him that, I made this fast, crazy, intense relationship into something dirty and ugly, not the miracle that it actually is.
I have fucked this up so badly, and yet instead of dumping my ass on the side of the road with my shitty tent like I deserve, he found me an apartment and arranged to pay for it until I have enough money to take care of myself.
He’s too good for me.
I don’t deserve him.
But I want him, and I have no idea how to fix this, or how to even start to make this up to him.
I need to figure out how to show him that I’m sorry, that I love him, and that I’ll do whatever it takes to make him love me again.
Staring at the cell, I wallow in my own misery and hope that he’ll call. But the screen stays dark, and I finally decide that I can’t just sit here and do nothing. Bringing the cell to life, I search for Montana Mountain Ink and find walking directions on how to get there. Stepping over my bags, I ignore them and grab the keys as I leave, closing the door behind me.
The tattoo studio is only a few blocks away, but I pause outside the door, wondering if this is a good idea. I might like Octy and Knight, but they’re Warrick’s friends, and once they find out what I’ve done, they might not be interested in helping me.
“Hey, do you have an appointment?” a gorgeous woman with bright red hair and lots of tattoos asks from behind the front desk when I finally pluck up enough courage to step inside.
“No, I was actually looking for Octy, if she’s here.”
“She’s with a client right now, but she should be done in about thirty minutes. You can wait if you want,” she says.
“Is that okay?” I ask, my gaze spanning the raised platform where several people are getting tattoos, their faces a mixture of pain, excitement, and serenity.
“Sure, take a seat,” she says, motioning to the couch to the right of the desk. “Are you looking to get a tattoo?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Octy’s a…friend, and I need some advice.”
“Do you want a coffee or anything while you wait? I’m Leo, by the way,” the woman says, rising to her feet and circling the desk to offer me her hand.
“Verity,” I say, shaking her hand and trying not to stare at the stunning Amazonian woman towering over me.
“I’m six-two in these heels,” she says, like she’s expecting me to ask. “People always want to know how tall I am.”
“I’m barely five-five.”
“God, teenage me would have given anything to be five-five,” she says wistfully.
“But not now?” I question.
“God, no. I enjoy terrifying men, and they have no idea what to do with a woman who can look them at eye level,” she says, laughing lightly.
Honestly, I’m not surprised that men are scared of her. I’m a little scared of her. Her hair, tattoos, and lipstick are the only color she has. Her clothes are all black, from her black latex crop top to her skin-tight black leather pants and sky-high black leather pumps. Even her fingernails are painted black.
BJ’s wasn’t the type of place that put much thought into the costumes. The only theme the club had was almost naked and fully naked. But Leo looks a little like a more badass version of Dita Von Teese, the burlesque dancer.
She’s terrifyingly sexy, and honestly, I feel incredibly dull in comparison. After I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, I start to regret coming here. Octy has been nice to me so far, but we barely know each other, and once she hears what I’ve done, I doubt she’ll be interested in helping the woman who has hurt her husband’s friend.
“I should go,” I say, pushing off of the couch.
“I’m pretty good at advice. Why don’t you tell me what you planned on telling Octy, and maybe I can help,” Leo offers.
“Oh…I,” I mumble.
“Hey, we’re strangers, so there’s no judgment here, and if I do get judgy, well, then we probably won’t ever see each other again unless you decide to get a tattoo or something pierced.”
