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Greatest night of our lives? What an asshole. If it was great, why did he leave so abruptly? How has he sat in my chair for nearly thirty hours without apologizing for what he did?
Every single ounce of hurt and embarrassment I felt rushes back tenfold.
I won't show him though. Methodically, I clean and bandage his arm without responding to his big reveal. I need to regain my composure. Behave professionally and complete this job.
Because I’m not putting myself through this. I need him gone. “Peter, I’m not sure what you mean. While it’s nice you’ve finally acknowledged me, I think you have a very skewed memory. Your greatest night happens to be my worst. Every second you’ve sat in this chair has been torture. Now, I’ve done my best to be polite and endure your innuendoes and veiled references because it’s my job. But I’m ecstatic today is your last day.” I take a deep breath and continue, “After you walk out the door, you’re no longer welcome at The Salty Siren.”
Peter’s face crumples with each word I say. By the time I’m done speaking, he’s looking at the floor like a shamed child, his fists flexing and releasing by his sides.
I turn back to my station and clean up, ignoring him as I bustle around the room. I can feel him watching me, but I don’t turn around. This goes on for a couple of minutes to the point where I’m about to ask him to get lost.
“Jordan?” His voice is quiet.
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Yeah?”
“That night was really your worst?” He’s fully dressed, coat and everything. “I don't understand.”
My teeth clench. Are men always this obtuse? “Do I seriously need to spell it out for you? Maybe take some time and give the situation some self-introspective thought.”
We stare at each other. Well, he stares. I glare.
“I don’t need to. It’s because I left suddenly. With no explanation.” Peter states this as a fact, not a question. No apology. No explanation.
I look up to the ceiling, count to ten then suck it up and face him. “I recognized you the second you walked in. Do you know how embarrassing it was? How hard it’s been to… The man who…” I shake my head miserably at the entire situation and my inability to form a coherent sentence.
“Jordan…” He grips my shoulder.
I shrug him away. “Don’t touch me.”
Seconds later, the door bursts open. Merc and Angus Courie, a visiting artist from Finland, muscle their way in to check on me. Every one of my tattooing rooms are outfitted with discreet audio devices to ensure artist safety. Clients even sign a waiver agreeing to the monitoring.
“Time to go, Mr. Vander.” Merc points to the door. “I warned you on the first day Jordan does not date her clients. As she said earlier, you are not welcome anymore. Please leave or the police will be called.”
I can’t help but notice Peter’s white as snow. His eyes are haunted and it looks like he’s about to throw up. “I’m so, so sorry, Jordan. I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe. I’m sorry about—everything.”
Then he’s gone. Poof. Just like I wanted.
Merc enfolds me into his arms. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m assuming you heard everything.” I cling to him and bury my face in his chest.
He pets my hair. “I have to wonder what his angle was. It’s all incredibly strange.”
“Did you think he was hurting me?” I pull away and move toward the open door, watching Angus make sure it’s locked.
Merc stands beside me. “Only your heart, babes. I don’t think he’s a physical threat.”
“No, he’s not,” I agree. “You’ve nailed it, as always.”
“Well, the tattoo is done and so is he. Are you relieved?” Merc throws an arm around my shoulders. “Maybe we should go out. Take your mind off things.”
I lean into him. “You’re the best. Thanks for looking out for me. I think I’d rather go home.”
Ten minutes later, I’m driving to my condo in my Mercedes GLE Coupe, reflecting on how the day turned to shit. Wondering how to reconcile the immense sense of loss currently invading my body.
It’s hard to believe the Vegas Guy chapter is finally and permanently closed. No more grudges. No more what-ifs.
No more anything.
