Introduction
Tattooed Troublemaker is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Stuck-Up Suit. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
One
Charlie
“What do you know about working with pipes, baby?”
I glared up at the six-foot-plus tall drink of handsome. Chiseled jaw, thick arms, tats licking up his throat and peeking out from beneath his sleeves.
Derisive green eyes.
I sighed, having heard something similar from a variety of men over the last five years since I’d finished my apprenticeship and started out on my own. My foster father had taught me the basics of plumbing, and I was thankful every day that he’d given me something I could use to provide for myself.
“Look, fuckface,” I snapped, shifting my grip on my heavy metal toolbox. “You can either let me come in and do my job or you can explain to Tig why you’re wasting his money.”
“First,” he snapped back. “It isn’t fuckface, it’s Garret. And second, little girl, isn’t you playing with tools pretending you know what you’re doing, the definition of wasting Tig’s money?”
So, not just a typical asshole.
A judgy, special brand of asshole.
I dropped my toolbox to the ground just outside the front door and pulled out my cell, glancing down at the time. “Two hundred to come out on an emergency after ten at night,” I recited. “Two hundred per hour after that initial cost”—I did some mental math—“So, your five-minute delay at just letting me in through the door has already cost Tig $16.67.”
“That’s outrageous.”
Another glance at the phone. “And now it’s $20.”
Green eyes narrowing on mine, that chiseled jaw getting more chiseled. “That’s extortion.”
“Extortion or not, that’s my going rate and one Tig is fully aware of.”
Plus, I had to be up and at my first job at seven tomorrow morning. I didn’t have time to deal with this bullshit. If there was one thing I loved in my life, it was sleep, and any job keeping me away from my bed was going to be worth my while.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m picking up my toolbox and by the time it’s in my hand, you’ll have stepped to the side to allow me to fix the pipe that’s gushing water into my friend’s shop.”
Garret didn’t move.
“You—”
I bent, repeated, “Gushing. Water.”
A sigh as I straightened, toolbox in hand, and then the gorgeous mass of muscle, still eyeing me with narrowed emerald eyes, did some sighing of his own before shifting to the side.
Great.
I stepped through the door. “Where’s the—” My breath caught when Garret moved to lock it behind me, the abrupt movement bringing him very close and giving me a sudden nose-full of his very yummy chest. “L-leak?”
A squeak.
I finished on a squeak.
Great. All capable plumbers finished their sentences on squeaks.
But this man—tall, dark, tatted, strong features, plump lips—ticked all the boxes in my mental masturbation bank. Aside from him being a judgy asshole—
Hell, who was I kidding? Judgy assholes were consistently my type.
Hence, the reason I was single.
I was trying to change that affliction. That being the fact my vagina was only attracted to jerks.
So anyway, I was taking a break from all men and using the time to sort out my head. No dates. All work. Focus on saving for that apartment I had my eye on. I worked my ass off, took every job I could, and—
I was not going to allow myself to be distracted by some tatted jerk, no matter how pretty, no matter that he smelled of cinnamon and cloves and that particular mix of spicy scents was absolutely my catnip.
His head dipped slightly, and I could swear he inhaled.
But then he stepped back, whipped around, and started walking further into the shop. I shook my head at myself. Tall, tatted, and handsomes did not give plain, frumpy brunettes a lingering look . . . or smell, as it was.
Even if I had gotten out of the bathtub upon Tig’s call to come here and was probably smelling extra good since I’d been fully immersed in my favorite tropical sunset bath bomb and Mai Tai candles from Bath and Body Works. I might spend time elbows-deep in shit on a regular basis, but I was still a girl. I liked my skin to feel silky smooth and to smell good.
Normally, if I was bath bound, I wouldn’t have brought my cell to the tub, but I’d been addicted to this restaurant game on my phone lately, and I had been mid-level when the call came.
Note to self, attempting to reject a call while trying to keep my chain-delivery bonus could sometimes result in unintended consequences.
Such as, having to get my ass out of my tub.
But I got to build up good karma points by helping out a friend. Not that I was sure those karma points were enough to justify dealing with Garret McGrumpyFace. He might be pretty to look at, but I—
Eyes on the prize, McGovern.
And this was why I was a plumber instead of something else. My mind liked to drift, and there was nothing I loved better than to let my thoughts ramble while keeping my hands busy.
With pipes.
Heh.
And drifting again.
So anyway, I’d hit accept instead of reject and here I was—meeting the surly guest tattoo artist who was staying in the apartment above the shop. Tig had offered to leave his dinner, but he and his wife Delia were celebrating a much-needed night off.
I could handle a leak.
Whether I could handle Garret was yet to be determined.
I saw the puddle before I heard the hiss of water.
“I left my phone at my station and when I came down to get it, I saw the—”
“Towels,” I ordered.
“What?”
“Get some towels—”
“The leak is—”
“In the sink in the storeroom,” I said. “Yeah, I know. I told Tig that was a weak point when I came in to fix the toilet a month ago.”
“You—”
“Towels,” I repeated. “Before the floor is ruined. There are some in the cabinet.” I walked through the water and set my toolbox on the floor by the sink. “I’m turning the water off.”
“I tried to at the angle stop beneath the sink.”
“That’s not the right one,” I said, shucking my coat and hooking it over the top of the open door before lying down and reaching back behind the cabinet where there was a whole other set of pipes. “This plumbing is like a maze. The last tenant did a lot of under-the-table improvements, and everything needs to be replaced. I’m supposed to start working on that next week.”
Silence.
“Tig did mention some repairs.”
“Yeah.” A beat. “By me.”
“By someone named Charlie.”
“I’m named Charlie.”
“Oh.”
Where was the knob? My T-rex arms were always a disadvantage in cases like this. My fingertips grazed a U-bend, and I sidled closer to the old cabinet. It was just . . . there! I grasped the oval-shaped knob and turned it counter-clockwise several times.