Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I may be a slut. Okay, there's no may about it. I sleep with a lot of women. But not clients.
Not in the middle of a tattoo.
Not at work.
This is the one place where I actually pay attention to shit. Where I actually give a shit. Where I actually try.
Not that I'd admit that.
If anyone asks, I'll deny it up and down. Say it's just a job. A way to pay the rent. A chance to hold a massive phallic symbol in my hand and paint women with my—
The damn thing writes itself.
"You have to earn that, sweetie." I snap my gloves. Pick up my gun. "I'm not easy."
"Really?" Incredulity streaks her expression.
"Hey." I feign offense. "I can't believe you see me that way."
Her lips curl into a smile. "You can't, huh?"
I shake my head. "You shouldn't stereotype."
"I shouldn't assume a guy who flirts with me every five minutes wants to sleep with me?"
"Wanting to do something and doing it are different things."
"True." She laughs.
"Now sit still. Maybe I'll forgive you."
"Maybe?"
"If I'm feeling generous." I wink. "You're lucky, I'm always generous."
She blushes as she shifts into the seat. Lays her arm on the chair.
I pin her with one hand. "You ready?"
She nods. "Count me down, okay?"
"Of course."
Her eyes close. Her expression shifts. All the fun and flirting fade into a mix of anticipation and anxiety.
Two sides of the same coin.
I need to keep her in the former.
Yeah, I'm not going to fuck her.
But there's no harm in letting her believe I am. It will get her through the tattoo. Keep her mind off the pain.
A lot of artists talk tough about how clients need to feel the pain. Because it makes them feel alive. Helps them earn it. Releases endorphins.
Whatever.
Sometimes, they act like it's for the client's good—they want the rush. Sometimes, they act like it's some price they have to pay—you want the ink, you suffer. But they're always self-righteous about it.
If this girl wants a pain-free tattoo, I'll do what I can.
"Three, two—" I bring the needle to her skin.
She yelps. "Bastard."
I chuckle. "You know me too well."
She smiles that same please take me home smile. It's quick this time. A few seconds. Then the pain takes over.
I understand why douchey tattoo artists get self-righteous about clients needing to feel the pain.
Tattoos hurt.
Like love. Or loss.
Of course, the trick to avoiding pain is the same.
No tattoo, no pain.
No love, no loss.
No loss, no heartache.
Simple. Not easy. But simple.
I flirt with my client as I trace the black lines. As I fill it in with orange, black, a hint of white.
A Monarch flapping its wings.
Classic.
Feminine.
Pretty.
It suits this girl. It's her little touch of badass. The same reason she wants me.
Don't get me wrong. There's plenty to want. I'm tall, handsome, in great shape. Women go apeshit for my green eyes and my smile.
Then they see the ink on my sculpted shoulders and they lose their shit.
I'm not going to pretend I'm not hot. I work hard to look this good. And I've spent a fucking fortune on my tattoos—good work is expensive.
Lots of women are like my client. They want a taste of bad. One night on the wild side. Something with no strings and no commitment and no chance of heartbreak. For either of us.
It's perfect.
So, of course, I flirt as I finish, clean her up, check her out. And when she presses her card into my hand and smiles, I wink and ask her to call me.
Sure, she doesn't inspire me.
But she's cute and eager. She meets all my criteria.
"Poor girl." Forest shakes his head. "She could do better."
"Of course. But she knows what she wants." I shrug. I'm not bothered by his insult. It's not like he means it.
Forest isn't just my coworker. He's also my older brother. He lives to keep me out of trouble. Or he did, when we were younger.
Of course, I lived to get into trouble.
And now—
Well, I guess not much has changed. "It's okay you're jealous."
He arches a brow really.
"You know the truth. That Skye has always wanted me." I wink as I mention his girlfriend. Forest and Skye were best friends forever. They just realized they want to bone each other.
I'm not sure what took them so long.
It was incredibly obvious.
But he's an idiot.
And she—
She's a curvy goth goddess. Too good for him.
That's it—"We both aim outside our league."
He chuckles. "True."
"And poor Ariel, dating down."
"Chase isn't here to hear you say that."
I shrug. "It will get back to him." Everything does. Everyone here gossips all the time. "You're going over tonight?"
He nods of course. Stares like it's the stupidest question in the world.
"Fuck." A loud voice interrupts us. Oliver's. He moves out from his suite. Looks to me. "Come here."
"Come here, please?" I offer.
He rolls his eyes get real. The guy is moody. He's in some sort of who can brood the hardest competition with my older brother.