Page 11 of Spring Break Fling

“Type? What type?” I asked. “I don’t have a type.”

“Hot, emotionally unavailable, and gone by morning,” Jessie said, counting off on her fingers. “It’s practically your brand. You’re not a picky man beyond that. I believe you are a lover of all women, which is kind of sweet when you think about it.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t like to limit myself. I like variety.”

“Yes, as long as they won’t make you call them the next day,” Jessie said. “You don’t want to do the dating thing and conversation. You know, the part where you actually get to know someone. The part that requires real intimacy.”

“Back off, will you? Maybe you should go study to be a therapist instead of a tattoo artist if you’re so determined to stick your nose in other people’s business.” I shook my head.

Jessie shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe I will. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with your moody ass there.”

“Since when did apprentices get so mouthy?” I asked, looking at Diego. “She does know we can kick her ass out of here, right?”

“I’m not kicking her out,” Diego said with a shrug. “Plus she’s got a point.”

Before I could retort, the shop door swung open with a dramatic bang. In strode Samantha, my ex-girlfriend, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her dark eyes were blazing, and her jaw was set in a way that promised this wasn’t going to be a friendly visit.

There was a reason she was my ex. And she was very much a reason why I had zero intention of ever getting involved with another woman. Samantha had been out of my life for a while, but she was the kind of thing that didn’t just get forgotten. Like a scar. Always there as an ugly reminder of some horrible accident or mistake. Samantha was the latter.

“Speaking of needing a therapist…” Jessie muttered under her breath, retreating to her station with a smirk.

“Samantha.” I wiped down my tattoo chair with alcohol. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” I said, gesturing to my chair. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand,” she said, her tone cold enough to frost the air. “I just found out you hooked up with one of my friends.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just one?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“It was after we broke up.”

“Doesn’t make it any less shitty,” she said, her voice rising. “Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

“Not really,” I said, deadpan. “But thanks for asking.”

“Why her? Why Jenna? You could fuck anyone else but you chose my friend.” Samantha’s eyes narrowed. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

Jessie and Diego were doing a shitty job of pretending not to be hanging on every word.

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Jenna’s a big girl. She makes her own decisions. And last I checked, so do I.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Samantha hissed, stepping closer until there were only inches between us. Her scent—something floral mixed with anger—was overwhelmingly familiar. It triggered something akin to a fight or flight response. Since I wasn’t into hitting women, I stepped back.

“I never claimed to be a saint,” I replied, holding her gaze. “Besides, you and Jenna weren’t exactly best friends.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Samantha shot back, her voice filled with anger. “It’s about respect, Nikko. Something you’ve never had much of.”

I kept my expression indifferent. “Respect is earned, Samantha. And from what I remember, you weren’t exactly handing it out freely toward the end.”

“That’s because you never gave me a reason to,” she retorted sharply.

“Well then I guess you should break up with me. Oh wait. That already happened. So why the fuck are you even here?”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed and she took a step closer. “You’re an ass, you know that? I never want to see you again.”