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“I meant a fry up, or bacon at the very least.” I mean, I know it’s futile. It’s nearly impossible to get proper English bacon in the states, and even harder in L.A. This place is a health food Mecca for nut jobs. I barely manage to survive on my usual diet of crap, but luckily I know a guy who delivers.
“You need to stop eating shit and start taking care of yourself. You’re not a child anymore.”
I grind my teeth and count again to keep from saying something. I push the granola away untouched.
“Shall we go?”
Aston checks his watch. “Yeah, we better. I don’t want to be late, not when this guy is doing me a favor.”
That feeling of dread returns. Aston doesn’t seem the type to be friendly with a tattooist, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He likes to think of himself as popular. I sure as shit won’t be letting some unknown loose on my skin, but I don’t even know what I’ll do if that’s not what he has planned. If he takes me to a laser clinic, I might lose my shit.
I grab my keys and my purse, and as I walk to the door of my apartment, Aston puts his hand on my lower back. I shudder where his palm meets with my bare skin. It’s not a chivalrous, gentlemanly move. His touch is too firm for that. No, this is far more controlling, the pressure on my spine is his way of silently asserting his unwelcome dominance over me as he sets the pace he expects me to move at. I could drag my heels and slow us down even more, but it’s actually preferable to speed up and remove myself from his touch entirely.
Ironically, when we reach his ridiculously flashy sports car, he doesn’t open the door for me. But I’m used to that by now. I pull my cardigan on before getting in because Aston always has the air on, blasting out ice-cold, and I learned the hard way that my nipples will stay as hard as diamonds for hours after getting out of his car, even after a short journey.
I silently climb in and wonder why I’m either silent, biting my tongue, seething, or fighting whenever I’m around Aston. It’s definitely a toxic relationship, but I turn all that toxicity inwards on myself. It isn’t healthy, and I know that this shit show of a relationship has run its course. I just need to get him to realize it too.
“Listen, Aston…” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t start, Belle,” he warns, shifting through the busy traffic and heading downtown.
“Start what?” I’m immediately defensive, crossing my arms over my chest and turning to glare at him.
“You know what, Belle. I don’t want to hear any of your shit today. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to sort out that fucking eyesore on your back, and the least you can do is offer a bit of fucking gratitude.”
I huff and go back to staring out of the window. I don’t want anyone else touching it. My unfinished back piece is not a fucking eyesore, it’s a stunning work of art, even if it is incomplete. I don’t care. No one else is touching it, even if that means I have to leave it as it is forever.
I turn the radio on, switch to my favorite soft rock station and, when Aston huffs, turn the volume up. It may be petty as fuck, but how many times has he insulted me today already? I’ve only been up a damn hour!
Eventually, he pulls up outside a tattoo parlor, ignoring the no parking signs. If he wants to get his stupid dick extension car towed away, who am I to say anything?
I look at the sleek exterior of the shop. Beauty’s. I’ve actually heard of this place. It's only been open for a few weeks, but it already has a stellar reputation, and I heard from Candy at work that they’re already fully booked until Christmas. I don’t know how true that is, though. It’s kind of an L.A. thing to spread around and then brag that you got in despite the wait.
Whatever.
I don’t care if the owner of this place has tattooed the Queen herself, they’re not touching me.
“Just hear me out, Belle…” Aston begins when I don’t say anything. I don’t know what he wants from me — does he expect me to jump up and down and clap my hands with glee? “This parlor is closed to the public. I’ve got the place and the owner himself for the whole entire day. He’s happy to meet with you and discuss your requirements for sorting out your back, and he’s even going to start work on you today, even though they’re fully booked for months. This is an amazing opportunity for you to sort it out once and for all. Please don’t be…rude about it.”
I slowly release a silent sigh.
Okay, so what Aston’s done is actually kind of nice. Especially for someone who knows nothing about tattoos and who actually hates them. It can’t have been easy to get a brand new, up-and-coming shop to close their doors to the public on a Saturday. I know Aston’s solution to everything is to throw money at it, but at least he seems to be doing this for me.
I give him a small smile. “Thank you, Aston. I might not want this guy to tattoo me because there has to be a lot of trust between the artist and the customer, but I am prepared to meet with him, hear his ideas, and see if it’ll work between us.”
“Jeez, Belle. Grow up. You’re getting a tattoo, not having a relationship with the damn guy.” He snorts at his own lame-ass joke and climbs out of the car, leaving me to scramble after him. I growl under my breath and vow that’s the last time I try to be nice to him. I also know that if I do let this guy tattoo me, I’m going to have to deplete my traveling savings to do so, because there's no way I can let Aston pay for it. It’ll make me beholden to him, and I don’t want that. There's no such thing as a nice deed or a gift without strings attached where Aston’s concerned.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, gathering myself. The shop really does look nice, absolutely top of the range and not some dirty little back-alley cesspit. Only the best for Ass-ton. I wonder what his angle is here, what’s in it for him? How does he even know this guy?
With my hand on the handle, I take one final deep breath, and push…the chime of the bell welcoming me into the unknown.
