Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Sure, most people aren't invested the way I'm invested in her life.
But, hey, I have my reasons.
My fingers itch to unlock my cell. I want to read every word, to sop up every drop of her thoughts. This is my favorite part of the day, week, month; my little slice of her.
But I don't have time to get lost in her. I don't even have time to shower. Not that I want to wash the smell of Imogen from my skin.
I shift from affection for a stranger to lust with ease. Maybe that's ridiculous. Maybe I'm a hypocrite, wanting a woman I don't know after screwing another woman I barely know, but, hey—
We're all hypocrites somewhere.
And Imogen practically kicked me out of her apartment. It's not as if she wants to spill her guts.
She called. I answered. We both had fun.
Win-win.
Fuck, I can't keep thinking about this or I'm going to be late and hard.
I pull on the first clean outfit I find and I race to work.
When I arrive at the shop, my ten o'clock client is waiting. He's not in a rush—he's shooting the shit with Dare—but I can't exactly excuse myself to read my online crush's latest post.
Besides, that's not how this works. She stays in my cell, on my computer, in my bedroom.
Work now. Words later.
I meet my client at the counter, finalize the mockup, move him to my suite.
One line at a time, I fall into the familiar routine. The smell of sweat and A&D ointment, the feel of skin against my gloved hands, the hum of the tattoo gun, the mumbling pop-punk emanating from the speakers.
For some reason, our manager loves the genre. I don't mind the riffs, but the lyrics? Why are these suburban guys so angry at women for screwing someone else?
Move the hell on.
Not that I'm a bastion of letting go. Sure, I'm not screwed up over an ex—I don't have any exes of note—but I'm still obsessed with the woman I lost.
And I do love the arc of this album (our manager has an old school devotion to albums). The lyricist starts out cheeky, pushing people away with his wit. Song by song, he drops his defenses, admits hurt, pulls people closer.
In the end, he's still a mess, but he's not afraid to face it.
I always think of Hearts and Thorns, though I'm sure she'd hate the comparison. She loves women who pour their hearts out. Sometimes, I listen to her favorite artists, to get a feel for what she went through, to find a deeper level of understanding.
But there's no way I'm going there right now.
I shake off my thoughts and slip back into my work. The sleeve is epic. A massive octopus sinking a ship in stormy seas. I draw the last line of black ink. That's it.
My client rouses as I turn off the gun.
"That's it?" he asks.
My eyes flit to the clock. "Two hours."
"I can take more." He's in the zone, buzzing from adrenaline and dopamine, ready to face a mountain of pain.
"I know you can." He'll come down soon, but I might as well stroke his ego. "I'm wiped." I wrap his arm in plastic. "Take it off when you shower. Then breathable clothing."
"We can't finish today?"
"We'll be done soon. I promise."
I walk him to the counter and shake his hand.
Luna flirts all through checkout. Sweet smile, hair twirl, giggle, the works.
She's not really the sweet smile type. More the I know what I want and I ask for it type. The same as Imogen.
They're friends, actually—Luna recommended me. And they're both sexy in a take-no-shit way.
Not that I want Luna. She's a knock-out, no question, but I've never felt an interest.
Now, she's my friend, and fellow Inked Love tattoo artist, Oliver's girlfriend. And that's simply out of the question.
Luna switches the music to one of the mumbling teen girls she adores. Would Imogen like the artist? She was wearing a band shirt, but, for some reason, I keep picturing her in nothing but the combat boots she wore to her appointment.
The ring of the bell distracts me from my dirty thoughts.
Luna waits until the client leaves, and the door swings shut, then she clears her throat. "Earth to Patrick."
"You're Earth?" I ask.
"Mars to Patrick?" she offers.
"Venus."
"You think I'm the goddess of beauty? That's sweet."
"But you prefer the god of war?" I ask.
"Why not both?" She smiles and her grey-green eyes light up. She's not sunshine, exactly, but she's pretty damn joyful.
She's good for Oliver, the world's grumpiest tattoo artist (and trust me, that is some stiff competition).
Speaking of the recently sober artist—"Is Oliver in?"
"Luna, it's great to see you today. I love your outfit. Very chic." She motions to her snug black dress.
"You look hot."
"Okay, that's boy for chic."
"Is he in?"
She clears her throat. "Let's try again."