Page 18 of Mountain Beast

“Well, I can attest that living by your own rules still doesn’t stop that from happening. The problem is people, not necessarily the rules you choose to obey or break.”

My phone alarm goes off to signal the end of the work day. “Maybe you’re right,” I say as I turn the annoying sound off. “Though, your sudden wisdom is unsettling.”

“And you call me the asshole,” Briggs snarks before stretching his arms overhead. My eyes immediately drop to the deep vee lines exposed above his jeans waistband.

Damn, he’s hot, and apparently, easy to talk to when he decides to drop the attitude.

Clearing my throat at the softening in my feelings towards him—as if that hasn’t been happening for awhile now—I gesture toward the door. “I believe that concludes our appointment, sir.”

“Ah, you can dish it, but you can’t take it, huh, doc?” He playfully winks, and oh my god, why was that so sexy?

A man with such a bad attitude shouldn’t be so attractive, but I like that Briggs is honest about what he thinks and who he is.

Jason is the opposite. He pretends to be nice and heartfelt, but it’s all an act to cover up his narcissistic tendencies.

Guess I prefer honest assholes over lying bastards.

Who knew?

CHAPTER NINE

BRIGGS

AUTUMN: My last appointment was cancelled. Wanna meet up?

BRIGGS: Sure. 23 Parks St in 5 min.

AUTUMN: That’s not your address. That’s a tattoo parlor…

BRIGGS: Congratulations. You know how to Google.

AUTUMN: Shut up, asshole. Why am I meeting you at Valhalla Ink?

BRIGGS: I’m getting a tattoo finished and figured you might be interested. If you’re not, that’s cool. We can get together later.

AUTUMN: …No, that’s okay. We can meet there. Maybe I’ll get a tiny tattoo myself to see what it’s like.

BRIGGS: There’s my brave valkyrie.

Valhalla Ink has been my go-to tattoo parlor ever since they opened in Suitor’s Crossing six months ago. They’re the second location to the popular original shop located in Guardian Valley, Montana, which went viral a few years ago on social media.

I’m not one to get permanent ink based on what the internet deems popular, but the co-owner, Archer St. James, is one of Connor’s best friends. I figure the best friend of my best friend’s brother can’t be that bad, and his lead tattoo artist is talented as hell.

“Hey, man. How’s it going?” Archer offers me a fist bump while I wait for Milo to start working on the motorcycle tat on my left bicep.

“Good. You? How’s your uncle?”

Archer shrugs and a shield falls over his eyes. “He’s alright. We’re all just keeping the faith, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand.” I may not have family I keep in contact with, but if Cormac or Deacon, or hell, even Connor, were sick with a terminal illness, I’d be praying for miracles, too.

The bell above the parlor door rings, offering the perfect distraction from the morbid turn of my thoughts.

Autumn shuffles inside with curiosity coursing over her features. Her gaze bounces over the walls covered in framed photos of past clients before landing on me, partially blocked from the front waiting area by a waist-level partition.

Technically, Valhalla Ink has rooms for privacy, but I never mind being exposed to the public during a session. I’ve never been one to worry about making other people uncomfortable, and a bare arm or chest doesn’t bother me.

“Welcome to Valhalla Ink,” Archer turns to say. “Do you have an appointment?”