Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“It’s not the same,” she murmurs softly, and my heart breaks at her letdown, defeated tone, which is a thousand times worse than the pissed off tone.
“I know,” I tell her, turning off the car. I get out and open her door while she unclicks her seatbelt and jumps down out of my new SUV. After having the Cayenne for eight years, it finally was ready for retirement, so I traded it in and got the same model, only newer. My brothers laughed at me, saying I’m so predictable. It’s not my fault, though. I’m not good with change. I know the SUV is good and reliable, so why chance buying something else? I’ll be forty years old in less than six months. It’s a little too late to take a walk on the wild side now.
We walk into the shop, and since it’s only nine in the morning, they’re not open yet. I haven’t been here in quite a few months, but it still looks the same as it has since they opened the place over fifteen years ago. Graffitied walls, black leather comfy couches, a pool table on one side, and a front counter on the other. In the middle is the hallway that leads to each of the six rooms. When Jax and Jase first opened this place, it was just them. Now, every room is filled with a tattooist.
Forbidden Ink is one of the most well-known places to get tattooed. It probably has something to do with their best friends being retired NFL players, and Jase’s wife, Celeste, being an international supermodel, who owns her own clothing line. But the truth is, even with all of that publicity, a business will only flourish if it provides quality service and product, and my brothers, along with their employees, are the best of the best when it comes to tattooing. People drive from all over just to get inked by them. Hell, I have several tattoos, and I would never let anyone but them ink me.
“Who are you?” Kinsley asks, grabbing my attention. When I look to see who she’s talking to, I spot a guy standing at the front counter, who I’ve never seen before. He must be the new guy Jax mentioned he hired. The first thing I notice is his silver barbell brow ring. Moving my eyes downward, they land on his neatly trimmed mustache and thick, bristly beard. It’s well-groomed, but still long enough that if he were to go down on me, he would leave rug burn behind on the inside of my thighs.
With a grey beanie on his head, I can’t see the color of his hair, but I imagine it’s the same golden copper color of his facial hair. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that stretches across his chest, showing off all of his ink that covers his arms. I spot the Forbidden Ink signature logo in the corner. When I take a closer look, I notice he has sea-foam green eyes, and under all that facial hair is a baby face. He can’t be any older than mid-twenties. And with that thought, my cheeks heat up, remembering I was just imagining his face between my legs. Which is kind of crazy in itself because I can’t even remember the last time I thought about a man in that way, let alone him doing those types of things to me.
Without meaning to, my eyes lock with his, and I know without looking in a mirror, my entire face and neck is now flushed pink—thanks to my pale complexion I was just talking about. He smirks knowingly, and if it’s even possible, I’m positive my flesh is now scorching hot. Jesus, he’s fucking gorgeous…and young, I tell myself. Too damn young.
“I’m Lachlan,” he says with a tinge of an accent that sounds like it might be Irish. He smiles warmly at my daughter before he looks back over at me—his smile turning from warm to arrogant. He totally knows I was checking him out. “We’re not open yet,” he tells me, “but I would be more than happy to help you in any way I can.” His gaze trails down my body, and even dressed in a modest pair of dress pants, a loose blouse, and professional pumps, I feel completely exposed. I stare at him for a long second, waiting for the look of disgust to come now that he’s gotten a closer look at me. And then I mentally slap myself for thinking like that.
Every time I think the wounds Rick caused have finally healed, these self-conscious, self-deprecating thoughts resurface. I should push them away, bury them right next to Rick, six feet under. I know I should. I’ve spent the last five years finding myself. Finding my strength, my voice, my sass—as my brothers call it. But one look from a good-looking guy and I shrink back into my old self. Worried I won’t be enough. Scared he’s not going to like what he sees. That he’ll take a good look at me and be disappointed or let down or repulsed.