Wednesdays at the shop are my short days. They’re normally uneventful, filled with mostly walk-ins unless I’ve scheduled long sessions. Which today, I have. This is Mark’s second session on his intricate geometric chest tat with a shit ton of fill-in work. I’ve been working on him for over an hour. He’s a pro at getting tats, therefore I’m able to work longer on him at a time.
“You got another one,” Del singsongs leaning on the railing.
Lifting my head as I wipe off the extra ink on his chest, I check out what she means. She’s blonde wearing too skimpy of clothes and too much makeup with a seductive but wishful glint in her eyes. The perfect concoction of desperate, these types of women pop in often and it’s off-putting. I’ve repeated multiple times that I don’t sleep with clients, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to change my mind.
“Make something up,” I sigh, ducking my head back down and getting back to work.
Del steps away only to reappear a few moments later. “You turn down every hot piece that walks in wanting your hands on them. What’s your type, Ash?”
I blow out a laugh and grin up to her. “You flirting with me, Del?”
Her laugh is raspy as her grin takes over her face. “You wish.”
“Your husband would murder me.”
“If you think you can handle her, you go right ahead and try, boy toy.” Tig shouts from somewhere in the shop. “Then afterward I’ll murder you.”
He knows I’d never betray him and touch her. They’ve been married for years and are still madly in love with one another. Besides, she’d cut my balls off before he could get his hands around my neck. But I wouldn’t try it. They’re like family.
Several years ago, I was trying to get my life back on course. I was destructive and it was imperative that I straighten up before I ruined everything. I asked for a job and with a nod, a smile, and a handshake, Tig hired me. I came in with hopes and Tig made them a reality.
Since then, I’ve gotten my shit together. I was made a shop manager although there’s not much I have to manage. Tig and Del own the joint and Fay is a part time piercer. But the job title? It gave me a sense of purpose and it’s as if Tig knew I needed it. I owe him my life—literally.
“I don’t have a type,” I answer. “Whatever catches my attention, but it sure as hell won’t be from a thirsty chick whose aim is to brag she’s the one who changed my ways only to turn into a class-A clinger. They know the drill. I don’t screw the clients.” It keeps me out of shitty situations.
Del’s laugh echoes off the cement walls. “You’re a heart breaker. Hot, mysterious, broody, and tatted up. A woman’s wet dream and no one can get close. One day you’re going to fall on your face. Mark my words, boy toy.” She slaps the railing and heads back to the front.
I shake my head and peer up to Mark. He’s hiding a smile, pretending he hasn’t heard anything, but I know he has. Usually I can hear the music from the earbuds in his ears and he keeps his head back, eyes closed while I work. This time though, he’s watching me.
I quirk a brow and he chuckles, giving his head a slight shake before resuming his normal position.
Thirty minutes later, I finish the section, bandage him up, and recite the after-care instructions as he follows me to the front. Del usually handles the money transactions, but I need the computer to execute my plan. Mark pays and leaves. Quickly, I search for her name and scribble her number on a piece of paper before clicking the X and running straight into a narrowed-eyed but grinning Del.
“What’s your plan with that?” She points to the paper I shove into my pocket.
“Call and check on her tattoo.” It’s a half-lie.
Del’s pierced brow shoots high. “I do that once a week. Are my concerns for our customers not meeting your expectations?”
“That’s not it.”
“Is it her or her virgin-skinned friend you’re breaking the rules over?”
She has the right to fire me on the spot for misuse of private information. I’ve been busted and a lie will only insult her. So I go with the truth. “Her friend.”
“Ah. So he does have a type.” She spins on her boots and walks away.
The thunder between my legs and the wind pounding against my chest give me time to figure out what the hell I want to say. I take the back roads to avoid the traffic hell on main street, which takes an additional fifteen minutes, but on a motorcycle, who the hell cares.
I pull up to the curb in front of the three-story, tan and battered brick building and kill the engine. I take off my helmet and grab my cell phone and the piece of paper that’s been burning a hole in my pocket.
Time to get the ball rolling.
“Hello?”
“Lucia. It’s Ash from Tig’s. I wanted to check on your ink and make sure everything is good.”
“Hang on for a second.” There are a few muffled voices and then quietness that gives way to the sound of heels clicking and a door shutting. “Sorry about that.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to check to see if everything was good and if you had any questions.”
Her soft laugh fills my ear. “My half-sleeve didn’t give it away that I’m not a tattoo virgin?”
I chuckle. “I know, but it’s my ink I’m trying to protect.”
“Uh-huh. And nothing to do with Kenlyn?”
I smile. Busted.
“For the record, I think you kissing her in front of Jason was a genius move. She was miserable with him,” she adds.
“Then why would she stay with him, especially if she didn’t love him.”
“Just because she didn’t love him doesn’t mean she didn’t care. She’s tightly guarded and…” She pauses for several long seconds. “Once you get past her walls, she has a heart the size of Texas. She’s a serial do-gooder.”
“I’m trying to get past her walls,” I admit. “She’s severely aloof.”
“She’s got a story that’s not mine to tell.”
Don’t we all.
“Anyway, I doubt I’ll get her to come back to the shop now, but,” she sings, “since I have your number now, maybe you’ll just start showing up.”
Ball officially rolling. My grin explodes. “I like the way you think.”
“Ash.” The playfulness drops and turns deadly serious. “She’s a good girl. If you’re out to hurt her, I swear I’ll castrate you and staple them to your forehead.”
“I’ll be upfront and honest with her.”
“She doesn’t do casual.”
Shit. I don’t do serious. Can’t. Everything I touch, I lose.
“I’ve known Kenlyn for years. She’s been through some tough things and it eats away at her, causing her to lose parts of herself little by little. The day you kissed her lit something up. She smiled and laughed her ass off, unguarded. She doesn’t take risks, but I do.”
“As do I,” I say. Maybe I can persuade her into casual?