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The traffic starts to pick up a little, and I let out a sigh of relief. A breeze drifts in through the window, bringing with it a whiff of some expensive-smelling food that makes my stomach rumble. The sidewalks are clogged with people heading out for a Friday night’s entertainment, and I glance at them as I drive. I’m entirely out of place here. A Lamborghini pulls around me, turning into a parking garage, and I see the man in the driver’s seat wrinkle his nose at my Chevelle. The pretty blonde next to him laughs, whispering something.
I flip them both off, just in time to see the blonde’s eyes widen.
I check my directions as I get close to my destination, seeing a closed-off parking garage underneath a high-rise. It’s not the type just anyone can pull into either—as I get closer, I see one entrance flanked by black-garbed security guards who look like they’re packing serious heat. My stomach twists a little—heavy security is to be expected, especially if this guy is a celebrity, but it still makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea of hanging out in someone’s penthouse surrounded by a small private army.
Unfortunately, I’m not getting much of a choice.
I turn into the garage, stopping as one of the security guards walks up to my window. “What’re you doing here, little lady?” He peers at me, his gaze sweeping over first my attire, then my car. His expression says that he thinks I’m either lost, or somewhere I have no right to be.
“Emma Garcia. I’m here on Rico Axton’s behalf. He’s out sick, so I’m tattooing his client. I’m fifteen minutes late,” I add, as apologetically as I can manage. “I was expected at seven.”
“Hang on. Let me call up and verify.” The guard takes a step back, reaching for the walkie at his hip. “Hey. Lady by the name of Garcia—mhmm, says she’s here for someone called Rico Axton. Tattoo artist—yeah. Send her in? Alright.”
The guard glances back at me, clipping the walkie back onto his belt. “Go on,” he says roughly. “Park towards the front. Door to the elevator up is on your right. Don’t go near any of the boss’s cars.” He hands me a slim plastic key. “This’ll take you up to the penthouse floor. Boss’ll be waiting up there.”
I take the card, pulling forward into the garage. As I get out and collect my equipment out of the trunk, I can’t help but take a look around—and whistle low under my breath as I get a look at the collection of cars and motorcycles on display.
I love cars. It’s not the most feminine of interests, but I grew up an only child with a father who came to LA to be a stunt driver. I grew up handing my father wrenches and going to the dinner table with smears of grease under my nails, and I’ve never shaken that—especially now. So looking around the garage and seeing an array of cars that would make any collector’s palms itch is enough to both send a wave of aching nostalgia through me—and make me possibly dislike this guy a little less.
At the very least, he has good taste.
The urge to walk through the garage and take a look at them all is strong. Right off the bat, I see a ‘69 Mustang Boss, a ‘62 Ferrari, a ‘54 Mercedes Gullwing, and even a classic Mini Cooper. There’s a row of motorcycles, too, which I know less about, but I catch sight of a Triumph Thruxton and an Indian Scout, and it’s all I can do not to go and take a closer look. But I can feel the watchful gaze of the security on me, so I hang a left and head towards the frosted glass that leads to the elevator instead, my bag slung over one shoulder.
I step inside, and I’m almost immediately confronted with two more guards flanking the elevator, both of them looking at me suspiciously as soon as they see me. I hold up the slim card, waving it like a flag as I stop in my tracks. “I’ve got—clearance to go up,” I tell them, sounding like an idiot to my own ears, but it’s enough. They nod, moving aside a little so I can hit the button for the elevator, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. They’re as speechless as the Buckingham palace guards, standing closer than I’d like as I wait for the elevator to come down.
Once inside, I let out a breath. I glance at my reflection in the mirror—brushing the pieces of hair sticking to my forehead away, trying to relax my jaw so I don’t lookquiteas much like I want to bite someone’s head off. Resting bitch face can be a boon in my industry, but I have a feeling this guy isn’t going to appreciate it.
Typically I wouldn’t give a shit, but tonight I kind of have to.
The doors open, and I step out. Unsurprisingly, there’s more security, and I flash the card at them again. “I’m here for an appointment,” I tell them flatly, feeling as if I’ve had to run a gauntlet to get up here. “Emma Garcia. I’m filling in for Rico Axton.”
This time, one of the guards verifies me again. He runs the same spiel that the one down in the parking garage did through his walkie, and then finally nods, turning to wave a keycard in front of the blinking lock on the front door.
“Boss is inside. Go on in.”
I don’t really know what to expect. I step in between the two guards, pushing the door open, and step into a room that smells of leather and sandalwood.
I immediately see that it’s an open floor plan, one huge space walled in on three sides by nothing but glass windows, letting the lights from the city flood in and add to the illumination of the space. On the left, there’s a modern kitchen that’s all gleaming stainless steel and black granite, cleaned so impeccably that I’d bet I could see my reflection in the countertops. There’s a half-moon bar with the same black granite separating the kitchen from the rest of the space, with industrial-style barstools in front of it, and antique brass shelving on the opposite wall with liquor bottles and crystal glasses. In front of me is a sprawling living room with long dark leather couches and an industrial-style coffee table with a neat stack of books on one end, set in the center of a thick tufted rug. There’s a long table near one of the windows with an antique record player on it, piping out mellow music that fills the space, and I see an iron staircase that leads up to the second floor.
At the far end of the room, his back to me as he looks out of the window, is a dark-haired man. He’s wearing what I assume must be casual clothes to him—dark grey chinos tailored so perfectly that I can’t miss the curve of his firm ass, and a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up that highlights the lean musculature of his back and upper arms. He doesn’t move, as if he didn’t hear me come in, and I clear my throat with muted annoyance, setting down my equipment bag with athud.
There’s a brief pause, and then the man turns to face me.
My first thought is that he’s incredibly gorgeous. Thick dark hair expertly cut, a shadow of stubble on his chiseled jaw, that perfectly muscled body under the fitted clothing, and sharp green eyes that fix squarely on me the moment he turns to look. But that’s hardly unusual here. Especially in this area, a person could trip over five supermodels before they walk a block. Still, there’s something arresting about him—a certain presence that could be arrogance, but I’m not certain that it is. I’m not sure what to make of him.
The man presses his lips together—full, soft-looking lips, I notice, much to my own annoyance—and looks at me curiously.
“You’remy tattoo artist? Not what I was expecting when Rico said he was sick and sending someone to cover for him.” A perturbed expression crosses his face. “I put the deposit for this down months ago.”
I’m hardly Rico’s biggest fan, but I feel a flash of irritation. “It’s not as if he got the flu on purpose to inconvenience you,” I tell him tartly.
His mouth twitches at the corners, as if I’ve amused him. “I’m sure he didn’t. And you are?”
“Emma Garcia. I apologize for being late—” I force the words out despite my resistance to apologize to this man foranything. “—and I assure you, I’m more than capable of handling whatever it is that you wanted Rico to do for you.”
“I’m sure you are.” His voice is deceptively mild, but I’m pretty sure I catch a hint of disbelief. It’s nothing new—we get walk-ins at the Night Orchid all the time who don’t believe a woman can be a capable tattoo artist—but it pisses me off all the same. I’ve spent my career in a male-dominated field, ignoring catcalls and lewd remarks, and disparaging commentary from peers and clients alike, until I got to a position where I could tell some of them to fuck off.
I can’t tell this man to fuck off, though. I have a feeling he’d simply have me thrown out of his building, and then I’d be out of a job as soon as Rico heard about it.
