Surprise Daddies (#1-4 Box Set)

by London James

  I sit back down at the bar and turn my back to the rule breaker, when a loud commotion has me swivelling around in my seat again. My eyes bug out as I see a gigantic, biker guy pulling Gray off the blonde girl like he weighs nothing.

  Gray slams into the pool table, and I wince. That’s going to leave a mark.

  I grab my four-hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey again and take a big gulp, watching the scene unfold in front of me. The bar chatter stops as everyone stares at Gray and the big biker man. The music is blaring Queen’s ‘Another One Bites The Dust’, and while I should be worried about what is happening with my friend, I’m more impressed by how perfect this song fits the situation.

  The man pushing Gray’s chest towers over Gray, which says something because he is six-two. The biker is packed with muscle, and tattoos are covering him from head to toe.

  I sigh and ask Heath for another bottle of the expensive stuff. Gray owes me. I get up and stroll over to the corner where the blonde is fighting with her biker boyfriend, and the boyfriend is fighting with Gray. How does he always get himself in these situations? The man pulls his fist back before I can get there in time and slams it right into Gray’s jaw.

  And Gray still stands.

  Huh, maybe he’s a little more used to this than I thought.

  “Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa,” I slur. “No need for this.”

  “And who are you?” The man’s voice promises death with how dark and deep it rings.

  “Just a friend. I promise he didn’t know the girl had a boyfriend, did you?”

  Gray holds his hand to his cheek and shakes his head. A pool of blood drips down his lip.

  “Look, I’m really sorry, my friend here is sorry, and I think this is all just a misud—musid—misunderstanding. How about I pay your tab and we just go separate ways? And here, it’s top-shelf whiskey. Drink your worry away.” I slam the bottle into his oversized body, waiting for him to grab onto it. When he does, I turn around and grab Gray by the arm. I nod to Heath, and we push our way through the crowd.

  We get outside, and the fresh, winter air sobers me up a bit. “What the hell was that?”

  “She said she was single,” he argues, bringing his hand back to see blood. “That asshole.”

  “He has a right to be mad, but not at you. I get it though.”

  “How do I get myself into these situations? It happens every time.”

  At least he is aware. “I have no idea. Maybe don’t make out with badass biker chicks that probably don’t care if they have a boyfriend?”

  “But they are so hot in their leathers,” he whines, stumbling into a tree. “Ow.”

  I slap my forehead with my hand as he falls over into a holly bush, screaming when the sharp thorns stab him. Damn, how the hell can we run a multi-million-dollar company? We are a wreck.

  Chapter Ten

  Everly

  “And they’re married?” Blaire asks as she pours some tequila in a coffee mug because we are too broke for real shot glasses.

  I rub my temples from the headache I have from the previous night of getting hammered after telling her Rowan is now my stepbrother. “Yes, Blaire. Nothing has changed since yesterday.” The smell of alcohol makes my stomach roll, so I push the mug away, turning my nose up. “I can’t do it. It smells like bad decisions and nightmares.”

  Blaire pushes it forward insisting, “Hair of the dog. It works.”

  “I can’t,” I gag when I see the light reflecting off the alcohol when I peek inside the mug.

  “Here.” She grabs my hand, licks it—

  “Hey!”

  Throws salt on the wet spot and gives me a bottle of lime juice because who needs real limes?

  “There. Lick, drink, suck.” She makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Well, drink again, there’s no sucking this lime juice since it is in a bottle.”

  My crazy best friend drinks from the tequila bottle and squirts the lime juice in her mouth after. “Woo!” she shakes her head, causing her cheeks to jiggle. “Now that is a good morning pick-me-up.”

  “You are insane. I don’t know why I’m friends with you.” Since the fourth grade. How I have survived this long without getting tattooed and pink hair, I’ll never know.

  “I’m the wild side of you. Now drink up, and I’ll put the bottle away and make some coffee.”

  “Ugh, fine.” I wrap my fingers around the mug with trepidation and lick the salt off my hand, the same one she licked, but I didn’t want to think about that. I grimace and chug the tequila from the mug, and then squirt the lime juice in my mouth until it is overflowing.

  “Better, right?” she chirps, with a big, bright smile.

  I grunt, leaning my head on the countertop. “If you call death alright, then yeah, I’m great.”

  “You’re so dramatic.”

  No need for me to lift my head up and see her eye roll, I can hear it. The smell of coffee brewing makes me open one eye. I’m slowly coming to life as the rich brew drips into the pot. The smell of heaven and freedom. I don’t know who created this wonderful invention, but I’m eternally grateful.

  “You have a coffee problem.”

  No, I have a Rowan problem, hence the tequila.

  “You don’t know me,” I protest, which is a weak argument considering she is the only person in this world that truly knows me.

  Not true, Rowan does too.

  I hate my inside voice.

  “How are you doing, Eve?” Blaire asks with a softer tone. “I’m worried about you.”

  I lift my head up and hold my hand to my head. “Oh, too fast.” I wait a minute before answering her and shut my eyes, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself. “I’m fine, Blaire. Really.”

  “You don’t look like it.”

  “Well, yeah. I’m trashed. Thanks to somebody.” I shoot an accusatory glance her way.

  “We both know it isn’t me to blame.”

  I let out a heavy, annoyed sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this again, Blaire. Let it go.”

  “I can’t let it go. I love you, and things have been hard enough the last two years, now you find out you’re sorta related now, and you see him for the first time since…you know. And we didn’t really talk. We drank.”

  I hum a sound of agreement. “I’m starting to notice that.” Because my head won’t stop throbbing.

  “Talk to me, Everly.”

  I get up when the coffee beeps to let me know it’s ready. I grab another mug, one that isn’t laced with poison and regretful choices, and pour myself a cup of coffee. “I don’t want to talk. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix anything. Rowan hates me. I have to live with that. There’s nothing else to it.”

  “There’s so much more to it.”

  I whip my head around and take in her black hair and messy eyeliner from the night before. I’m ready to yell, to scream, to fight, but the concern in her bright, blue eyes takes the wind from my sails. “There’s nothing I can do, okay? Can we leave it at that? Please.”

  “Okay, when you want to talk, I’m here.”

  I place my mug on the fake granite counter and pull her into a hug. “I know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Be more miserable than what you are. I’m starting to wonder who the punk with a darker soul is. I don’t think it’s me,” she jokes.

  “I know. I’m so emo, isn’t that what you kids call it?”

  “Something like that.” She pulls back and stands on her tiptoes to grab a cup from the cabinet. Blaire is short, really short, not even five feet tall and is super skinny. I’m surprised she didn’t climb onto the counter like she usually does.

  “So, I have an idea for today.”

  “Don’t think too hard; you might hurt yourself.”

  I narrow my eyes at her over my coffee cup. “Funny.”

  She snickers under her breath as she pours herself java. The side of her shirt falls off her shoulder, showing the colorful tattoo that takes up the entire lef
t side of her torso. It’s a geometric design of different shapes. She got it because she says there isn’t a day where she feels the same, so she got a kaleidoscope of shapes. It suits her.

  “Okay, what?”

  “Today I got my student loan disbursement.”

  “Okay?” she drawls out, not understanding what I’m saying.

  “I want to go to your tattoo guy today and get something.”

  “No fucking way!” she screeches, piercing the ache in my head. “You’re serious?”

  “Blaire!” I whine, my hands shooting to my throbbing head.

  “Sorry!” she whisper-yells. “But are you for real?”

  “Nothing big, just small and cute. I have an idea in my mind, and I’ve been wanting to get it for a while.”

  She squeals and jogs in place with excitement. “Finally! What are you going to get? Where? Color? Or greyscale? Black and white? Traditional?” Blaire spins me around in a circle. “I’ve always wanted to see you with a massive back tattoo.”

  “Okay, whoa, calm down. Nothing like that. Literally, something small, like the size of a half-dollar or something.”

  Blaire pouts her bottom lip. “That’s boring.”

  “Does anything make you happy?” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “A massive back tattoo,” she mutters before taking a large sip of coffee.

  “I’m not going to show you until after I get it.”

  “Can you at least tell me where?”

  I lower my shirt off my shoulder and trace below my collarbone. “Here.”

  “Oh, that’s hot. I’m so excited. Maybe I can get one too.”

  “Blaire, you just got one the other day. It’s still healing.”

  “So?’

  “So…”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. When can we go? I want to get a nap in first.”

  “Shop doesn’t open till one in the afternoon. So, you have time.”

  I kiss her on the cheek. “Good. I’m about to fall over.” I stumble to my bedroom, barely able to hear her say something about not letting the bed bugs bite and close my door, collapsing in my bed.

  Before I settle in, I open my nightstand and take a picture out of me and Rowan. He is staring at me like I’m the sun to his moon. I’m laughing; I think at a butterfly landing on me and flying away. He doesn’t know, but it is my favorite photo of all time. And that’s what the tattoo is going to be based on. Rowan might hate me forever, but I’ll never hate him.

  He will always have a part of me, if not all of me, until the end of time and space. Something we used to say about our friendship when we were younger. I swipe my thumb over his face, missing him with every beat of my aching, struggling heart.

  I place the photo back in its place, keeping it out of sight and out of mind until I go to look at it again before I go to sleep every night. Sighing, I plop down in the bed, sinking into the soft, pillowtop mattress. I close my eyes, and my dreams take me to another place, another time. A time when I wasn’t an idiot and Rowan would love me.

  I sleep longer than I wanted. And by the time I’m up, ready, and at the tattoo shop, it’s seven at night, and I’m freaking the hell out. The tattoo machines buzz in the background, marking up blank canvas. Next to me is a guy with a bull ring in his nose, and the whites of his eyes blacked out. On the other side of me is Blaire, talking it up with a stranger and giving best friend advice even though she only met them five minutes ago.

  That’s Blaire, though. Always outgoing and thoughtful. I pick up one of the books sitting on the beaten-up black coffee table and flip through the artwork of one of the artists. It’s all skulls, flames, and spiderwebs. I put it back down and pick up another, flipping through the pages, and this one grabs my attention.

  I like this artwork. It’s not as dark. I come across a butterfly that takes my breath away. It looks just like the butterfly that landed on me in the photo. It has bright blue wings and a black body. It’s perfect.

  “Hey, Blaire?”

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  “Who is your tattoo guy again?”

  “Andy.”

  I flip the book over and smile with relief. It’s Andy’s work. Whew.

  “Everly?” he shouts from the front desk.

  My heart slams against my ribcage when I see him. He is huge and has tattoos from the neck to his fingertips. I swallow and hold his book against my chest like some schoolgirl and make my way to the counter. My cheeks blaze, and I know he can see how red they are, which only makes them flush even more.

  He leans against the counter and smiles. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How can I help you today, beautiful?”

  My face gets hotter until my eyes are burning. “Um, I’m here with my friend Blaire, and she says you’re the guy to come to for tattoos,” I whisper, not being able to meet the intense gaze in his blue eyes. I can see why girls like the bad boys. He has trouble written all over him, and it is affecting me in ways I like—and really don’t like.

  “Ah, you’re the famous Everly she rants about,” he replies.

  I turn around and pierce her ‘innocent’ face with my eyes. Just what has she said? “That would be me, I suppose,” I confirm through clenched teeth.

  “All good things, I swear! She didn’t mention how gorgeous you were, though. I have a thing for long wavy hair.”

  “Oh.” And there goes my face again, blazing like the flames of hell. “Um, thank you?” I do not know how to handle men expressing themselves like this. Is this a part of the bad boy persona women flock to? I get the appeal.

  He smiles, showing his dimples. Of course, he has dimples. Unbelievable. “How can I help you today?”

  I swallow, trying to coat the dryness in my throat. I slip my sweater down my shoulder and trace my finger along my collarbone. “I really love this butterfly in your book, and I was hoping to get a smaller one here with the words, ‘Until the end of time and space’, with a few stars in the background. Like a galaxy or something.”

  He straightens his stance and nods, becoming completely professional. “I can do that. Give me a few minutes to draw it up. How big do you want it?”

  I cough. “Excuse me?” My mind only goes to one place.

  He tosses his head back and laughs, “The tattoo, doll. How big do you want it?”

  “Right, I know.” I clear my throat, feeling the awkward build-up choke me to put me out of my misery. “I’d like it along the collarbone. I don’t want it covering my chest or anything. I want it to look graceful, pretty; I don’t know, timeless? Maybe.”

  “I get it. I love it. It’s different from what I’m used to doing.” He starts drawing what I’ve imagined. As the butterfly takes form, tears threaten to spill out from me. I’m fascinated with how quick he can sketch out what I said I wanted. He draws a smaller version of the butterfly, landing on the first lettering of the quote with its wing spread. The writing is in beautiful cursive, and he holds it up just a few minutes later, stunning me.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I wanted. How did you know that?” I reach out to touch it to make sure the drawing is real.

  “You look like the kind of girl that likes it simple, but meaningful. I try and add that to all my clients.”

  “You’re very talented,” I say.

  “Thank you. Let me size this up on your shoulder, and we will get started, okay?”

  I lower my sweater again, and he marks my skin and the paper. My heart thumps with nerves and anticipation. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I feel like I’m going full speed ahead in my life, not even derailing for a moment. But it feels good. I see why people do this.

  Five minutes later, I’m walking back to the chair. Andy shaves the skin where the tattoo will be going, wipes it with an alcohol wipe, and prepares the machine with a fresh needle. He gets all of the colors ready in small plastic containers and fills them with blue, white,
black, purple, and pink.

  “Alright, so for the galaxy, I’m going to fade it under the words, too. Think of it like fading into your original skin tone. What do you think?”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I trust you.” I glance to my right to see Blaire leaning against the counter with a smile on her face. She gives me a thumbs up.

  “Is this your first tattoo?” he asks with a buzz of the machine.

  “That obvious?”

  “Virgin skin is the best skin. The first tattoo is unlike any other.”

  I had no idea tattoos can be sexualized, but here we are, and he is making me flush from his words. “You enjoy embarrassing me.”

  “The flush is cute; I can’t help it,” he winks.

  I’d have to be dead to not feel something from the motion.

  “Ready?”

  I lean my head against the headrest and exhale, inhale, and exhale again. “Ready.”

  “Here we go.” The first hit of the needle makes me hold my breath. It feels hot and coarse, like the roughest sandpaper just melting into me. I wince from the pain, and he must notice because he stops tattooing. “Breathe and relax, don’t flex. I know it’s hard, but think of something that makes you happy.”

  I nod before he starts in again, and I think of the time Rowan and I went ice skating for the first time. He sprained his ankle, and I bruised my butt. Neither of us could walk right for a week, and I couldn’t sit straight for three months.

  “All done.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s been an hour. You did great.” He soaks a piece of gauze with liquid and puts it on my skin.

  I groan with relief. That feels so good. It’s cold against the heated flesh.

  “It’s the best part. I know. Stand up and see it in the mirror before I cover it and tell you the routine.”