Awesome. Tonight we’re celebrating a death and the douchebag who’s blown his chance fatally.
I drop onto my rolling chair, scooting closer. While Blondie smells as if she’s rolled around in a gigantic strawberry margarita, my face almost brushes my girl’s shoulder before I catch a hint of scent from her. Something subtle and discreet, the kind of thing the club girls try on at Macy’s because no way can they afford it for real. Beauty’s skin smells like vanilla and coconut, a warm, sweet invitation to eat her for dessert.
Sitting behind her on my stool, I glimpse her face in the storefront window. I deliberately brush my shoulder against hers as I offer her my hand. “Vik. Pleased to meet you, Harper.”
My hands are large, battered and scarred, the knuckles inked with Cyrillic symbols until there’s not an inch of bare skin. I was born here, but my old man came over from Russia when he was twenty. He pulled plenty of shit before and after he patched into his club, and he made a few introductions on my behalf after my Navy stint. Those connections left a mark.
“So you wanna give me more words about what you want?”
“Not flowers and hearts,” she says decisively. “Fuck that shit. Today’s been a bad day.”
“Tell Doctor Vik all about it,” I purr.
“I came home from work,” she says. “Seems like no big deal, right? Kick off my heels, heat something up, fall into the tub and then bed.”
The barest hint of a liquid slur to her words warns me she’s not quite sober. I nod, filling in the blanks. Another woman in her bed, a we-need-to-talk moment, a fight. A, B, C, or D—all of the above. Beauty doesn’t seem like a screamer, but she also doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who gets ink. I grab the Sharpie from my back pocket and uncap it.
“He’d kicked me out.”
He being the dead-to-her douchebag.
“Fucker,” I say agreeably, tucking her ponytail over her shoulder.
“Absolutely,” she agrees. “He had a service pack up my stuff and leave it in the garage for me. I didn’t even get to pick and choose which parts of our life I kept. He pointed and strangers put my pieces in boxes. He kept my cat.”
“I could go over there and kick his ass. Pull a little repo action for you.”
A smile ghosts over her mouth. “You have no idea how tempting that is.”
“Offer stands.” When I smooth my hand over her skin, she jumps. “Touching you is part of my job, babe. Your job is to tell me what you want.”
In bed, out of bed, up against the wall—I’m at her command.
“Give me something to celebrate getting free of him even if it wasn’t on my terms,” she demands.
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sweetheart?”
Her brow puckers as she holds her hands out in front of her. She’s wearing a bracelet, a pretty little toy with a heart and key on it. Had that fucker given it to her or had she bought it for herself? “Four. No—five drinks.”
“You trust me?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, proving she’s as smart as she looks. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Firebird.” I drag the Sharpie over her skin, bringing to life the image I see in my head. Maybe she won’t appreciate wearing a Russian fairy tale on her skin, but she’s not timid; and bold black, orange and red lines tracing the equally strong lines of her back feel right.
“You’re a man of few words, Vik.” Her lashes drift down as she exhales.
“Don’t fall asleep on me.”
She shakes her head. “Then don’t bore me.”
“Bitch,” I say tenderly. “Firebird’s a thief and hard to catch. She almost gets busted stealing the king’s apples when the king sets his sons to catch whoever’s been trespassing on his shit. Ivan gets a hand on her, but all he’s left with is a single feather. She leaves and he spends fucking forever chasing after her.”
“That’s the entire story?” She yawns, turning her face into the leather.
“Only part I’m inking here. Yeah?”
“Okay.”
I embrace the familiar adrenaline rush as I draw on her lower back, sketching the outline of a bird, wings outstretched to take flight to freedom. Her tail curls down, teasing, flirting, broadcasting a fuck you to the man she’s leaving behind in the king’s orchard. This is my skin, my piece of her to ink, to own, to give back to her filled up with the story she’s shared with me. Right now, I own her and she’s mine. She relaxes into my touch, my calloused fingers scraping gently, carefully over her skin, preparing her. Fuck playing by the rules.
I grab my needle and brush my mouth over her ear. “This is gonna hurt so good.”
Harper
VIK DOESN’T REMEMBER ME.
The hottest man I’ve ever touched—and thank You, Jesus, I’ve touched this man—introduces himself as if I’m a stranger. As if he’s never kissed me, never put his dick inside me, never made me see stars because he felt so damn good. High school seniors, a keg of beer and a wild party were apparently a recipe for oblivion.
Even through the rubber gloves he wears, the heat and strength of him sears me. It’s weirdly seductive, his soft touch. Or maybe I’m lonelier than I thought to find comfort in the simple brush of fingers against skin. I’m paying him to give me this contact, and I’m far drunker than I should be if I’m in a tattoo parlor.
Today—tonight—is a day for firsts.
He hums, blond hair falling around his face as he sets the needle against my back. The first touch stings, the bright, rough bite blossoming into something rougher and darker. I push down into the seat to escape the burn but there’s no out for me. Why am I here?
Because the man you thought you’d marry locked you out.
Because you do the same things over and over and you want different.
Because your life plan just hit an unexpected brick wall.
The sound that escapes my mouth is embarrassingly weak. I don’t have to do this. I can go. He finds new skin with the needle and I whimper.
“Breathe.” He pins me in place with one big hand. I should get up. Should tell him I’ve changed my mind. I had no idea this would hurt so much but when he scratches that needle over my skin, thin, wicked lines cut into me so deep I feel them everywhere. His thumb rubs back and forth over the untouched, uninked part of me in soft counterpoint.
I twist my head to glare at Brooklyn. “I blame this on you.”
She cackles, fishing her phone out of her jacket. Instead of offering sympathy, she immortalizes me for Facebook posterity. “You said you wanted to move on. That you wanted to do something bold and brave to commemorate this particular life milestone.”
“I said that after two dirty martinis,” I protest.
Vik hums, leaning closer. He hurts me. Part of me wants to kick Brooklyn’s ass for talking me into this, but the rest of me just wants Vik closer and closer. To touch me more, to ease the sting his big hands create. Or maybe it’s the quiet strength in the way he holds me in place, soothing and hurting and making something beautiful out of the pain.
Thankfully, Brooklyn provides a distraction. “Still counts.”
“She’s an IRS auditor,” I mutter as Brooklyn flips me the bird. She’s minutes