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It was probably why I'd been an incompetent employee in my dream. Nothing like a lucid memory to make your insecurities glaringly obvious.
So, I've had a few jobs. Big whoop. Life hadn’t been the easiest for me, and after several failed directions, I’d finally found one I’d stuck with, even if it had taken me a while to get here. I was about to turn twenty-six and it wasn't a crime to not know your future, despite how he made me feel about it.
I hadn't wanted to accept the position, knowing I’d have to work for him, but jobs were scarce in our town, especially for piercers. When you added in the salary, a job I enjoyed, and flexible scheduling, I couldn't turn it down.
A bonus was my best friend worked next door at the hair salon, making it an overall win when I truly thought about it. I just had to suffer through Mr. Bad Attitude on the daily. Of course, he was too freaking hot for his own good, so I spent half my day creating ways to creatively torture him and the other half drooling.
It was a fun game to pass the time.
My attraction to him wasn’t a proud one, and I wouldn't admit it out loud if you paid me. Our heated battles were well known in the shop, and I didn’t want to look like one of those girls who gave it up for the bad boy.
So, Slade Evans was my bossnemy—end of discussion.
We'd been slotted into our opposing corners on day one, and both of us were too stubborn to come out of them in real life. ‘Dream Me’ might want to bang him, but ‘Real Me’ knew where to draw the line. Preferably far, far away from one another.
A clearing of a throat had me lifting my eyes to find a middle-aged man staring down at me. Welcome to Bowling Green, Kentucky, a small town with a big city feel, or at least that was what the sign proclaimed. Our biggest achievements were the University and the Corvette Museum. Everything else was small-town America, and you tended to know everyone who lived here your whole life.
Being a hop, skip, and a jump from Louisville, Kentucky and Nashville, Tennessee, we’d become a pit stop for travelers, and this man was clearly one of them. I'd go with a truck driver based on the stench alone if I had to guess.
"Welcome to Emblazed Tats. How may I help you, sir, on this fine day?" I chirped, overexaggerating my southern accent. Just as I’d expected, the man softened, my greeting dripping in warmth and charm. No one could hate a Southern Belle; it was a proven fact.
"Well, aren't you just a pretty thing?" The foul-smelling man grinned, leaning his beer belly and sweaty, hairy arm against the counter to leer at me.
"Just as my momma made me. Can I get your name and what you're in for? Are we wanting body art or metal accessories today?"
"The name’s Dwayne, sugar, but you can have more than that, if you want it."
Dwayne’s attempt at flirting fell flat, his stale breath hitting me square in the face. The smell of beer and corn nuts overwhelmed me as he continued. "I'm here for a tat, and I hope it's withyou."
"Ah, shucks, Dwayne," I pouted. "I'm not a tattoo artist. Something about trusting me with guns," I cringed into a fake laugh. "You shoot one guy in the foot during 7th grade wilderness camp, and no one ever lets it go!" As I hoped, he pulled back some, clearly not wanting any of my crazy near him. "But it does look like you're with Bubba, and I know he'll takereal goodcare of you. One sec, hun."
I spun around on the stool, hopping off as I did, the move perfected at this point. As I walked away, I prayed the skirt of my dinosaur dress wasn't stuck up my buttcrack for Dirty Dwayne to peeve on.
Slade had thought it would be hilarious to make me sit on the stool as a jab at my height. The joke was on him though, I liked it. I had fun spinning around on it. On slow days, Bubba and I would see how many twirls we could go round before toppling off. It was a hoot as long as I didn’t get sick.
My platform espadrilles gave me extra height today, and I danced to the song in my head as I strutted over to the burly bear of a man. Bubba was the type of guy you expected to find at a tattoo parlor. Shaved head, long ginger beard, with more tattoos than you could count, and his customary leather vest made him appear unapproachable to most. But to me, he was a sweetheart.
"Oh, Bubbbaaaa," I sang, doing a spin as I got closer.
"Yes, sweetheart?" He grinned. "What can I do for you today?"
"You're so good for my ego, Bubba. You've got a live one upfront." Raising my eyebrows, I let him know he was in for a real treat with this one.
Chuckling, he nodded, giving me a big toothy grin. "I'll be up in five."
"Toodles!"
I finger waved at him, skipping off to head back upfront. When I spun, I smacked into the all-familiar chest of Tatzilla. Groaning, I backed up, holding my head. I did not want to end up on the floor with him under me two days in a row.
"Son of a bee sting! Do your pecs have to be so hard, Evans? It's like you purposefully try to injure me."
Rolling my eyes, I shook him off to return to my post, except his invasion had soured my mood, making my steps flatter, no longer feeling my dance.
"Yes,James. I purposefully workout just to knock you out with my muscles." His deadpan was on point, and I didn’t want to admit how it made me smile. Stupid hot boy magic at play again.
"Sounds like something you’d do, turd," I muttered, trying to dispel the lust wanting to course through me.
"For the love of tacos, James, use a real fucking cuss word, will ya?"
