The Opposite Effect

by Shandi Boyes

  “I adhered to your rules by requesting for my tipsy friends to leave; now your fine establishment has no reason not to serve me.” She tries to make her voice sound sincere. Her attempts are fruitless. I don’t think she has a sincere bone in her body.

  Her eyes blaze as she stands before me with her fists clenched and a determined look on her face. I grit my teeth, loathing that I’m about to overrule one of my guys. Just the take-no-shit stance she’s maintaining assures she won’t leave until she gets what she came here for.

  “Do you have a design in mind or are we going into this agreement freestyle?”

  My dick strains against the zipper of my jeans when the blonde grins a traffic-stopping smile.

  Yeah, not happening, buddy.

  Her hand darts into her diamante-encrusted jeans to pull out the sheet of paper she was clutching for dear life earlier. I only just manage to hold in a swear word when she hands the paper to me. She wants a man’s name inked on her skin.

  Don’t ask me why, but the thought of any man’s name on her skin that isn’t mine pisses me off. And considering I’ve only just met her, and have spent most of our confrontation defusing her callousness, just having a thought like that pisses me off even more.

  After running my eyes over the guy’s name in thick black ink in the middle of the intricate design, I drop them to the blonde’s left hand. Noticing it is void of a ring—engagement or wedding—I lock my eyes back on hers.

  “Is this your father’s name?” I nudge my head to the tattoo design in my hand.

  A heavy line indents her forehead before she shakes her head.

  “Your grandfather? Brother? Deceased uncle? Any type of male relation?” I query, staring into her narrowed eyes.

  When she shakes her head again, I say, “Sorry, Princess, I can’t do your tattoo.”

  Her eyes slit more with every syllable I speak. “You just agreed to do it five seconds ago.”

  “Yeah, so?” I shrug my shoulders. “That was before you showed me the design.”

  “What’s wrong with the design?” She crosses her arms while arching her perfectly manicured brow. “Not tacky enough for you?”

  "There’s only one tacky person in this tattoo parlor, Princess. It ain’t me.” I draw out the word usually used as a term of endearment as if it is a derogative word.

  She huffs, her irritation growing by the second. She isn’t the only one annoyed. The hardness of my cock hasn’t lessened from her feistiness. If anything, it’s getting thicker with every snarl she does.

  “Look. I want to get this tattoo done, you're a tattoo artist. Do whatever you need to do to make this happen.”

  I jerk my head down to the piece of paper. “You’re giving me permission to make any necessary alterations to this design as I see fit?”

  “Yes!” she huffs, throwing her arms into the air. “Can we just get this done, then I can get back to–”

  “Prince Charming waiting for you in a crystal palace?” I turn my eyes to the clock on the wall displaying it is 11:05 PM. “It’s okay, Princess, you still have a good fifty minutes before you get turned back into poor, defenseless Cinderella.”

  She glares at me with shock evident all over her face. Of course, a real-life princess wouldn’t understand a fairytale.

  I head to the drawing board to transfer her design onto a piece of tracing paper while adding the adjustment I require to feel comfortable in tattooing a lifetime commitment to her no doubt virgin skin. She stands to the side, glaring at me while twisting her diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist with her perfectly manicured fingers.

  Once I'm happy with the design, I push off the desk and amble back to her. “I’ve altered the design–”

  “Yes, yes, whatever,” she interrupts, her tone obnoxious.

  I place the tattoo contract and a copy of my newly designed trace onto the glass cabinet in front of her. “If you're happy with the design, sign here, here, and here.” I point to each section of the contract she's required to sign.

  Snatching the pen out of my grasp, she signs each section in a frenzied hurry. After storing the contract into the locked drawer under the cash register, I gesture for her to follow me. Her eyes bounce in all directions, strengthening my initial assessment that this is her first tattoo.

  The width of her pupils increases when we enter my private cubicle at the back of the shop. Her face whitens when she spots my tattoo gun sitting on a sterilized stainless steel table.

  Closing the door behind me, I ask, “Where do you want your tattoo?”

  Heat creeps across her cheeks before she points to her lower right hipbone.

  “Then you need to remove your jeans,” I advise before moving towards my station to set up my instruments.

  When her eyes snap to mine, wordlessly demanding clarification to my request, I nod.

  I might be a fucking great tattoo artist, but I’m not a miracle worker.

  She hesitates for a moment before doing as instructed. I'm not at all surprised to discover she’s wearing a pair of panties I've only seen in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs Charity peruses during her lunch break.

  After ensuring my gear is in order, I nudge my head to my tattooing chair, silently demanding she sit. I try to keep my eyes planted on her face as she saunters across the room. I miserably fail. Even with her bitch-ometer rocketing to the next galaxy, she has a tight, fit body that would only look better if she removed the massive chip off her shoulder.

  Sitting in my swivel chair, I roll in close to her side. She stiffens when I lower the band of her panties to prep the area. When my eyes connect with hers, her stern mask falters for the slightest second, exposing a side of her I’m confident she hasn't seen in years.

  “First time being tattooed?” I query while placing the used alcohol prep pads into the bin at my side.

  When she fails to answer my question, I lift my eyes from the stencil I’ve placed on the creamy skin on her hip to her. Four simple words were all it took for her stern mask to slide firmly back into place.

  “Do we have to do the small talk?” She glares into my eyes.

  “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “Well, I'd rather you didn’t. You're not my friend. You will never be my friend. So, I’d prefer if you stayed quiet and did the job I'm paying you to do.”

  My back molars smash together. “Then let’s do this, Princess.” Before you give me a mother-fucking-headache.

  It takes all my strength not to dig my tattoo gun into her delicate skin deeper than necessary. The only thing stopping me is my professional obligation. As much as my client is a malicious cow, my name will forever be associated with this piece of artwork on her body, which ensures I tattoo nothing but the best, even if I want to send her out in the world with a stick figure of me flipping her the bird.

  Due to the intricate swirl pattern of the design she selected, the tattoo takes a little over two hours to complete. Princess stuck-up didn’t speak a word the entire time. I won’t lie, I loved the way her knuckles went white from her death grip hold of the armrests when I tattooed the skin near her hip bone.

  “While it heals it will itch like a bitch for a few days, but keep applying the ointment as per these instructions.” I hand her a pamphlet on taking care of freshly inked skin.

  When she snatches the leaflet out of my hand, I drop my eyes to inspect my newly created masterpiece. My lips purse. It is a pretty sleek design, feminine with the inclusion of a tiger lily, but not overly girly. If it didn’t have a name smack bang in the middle of it, it would have been a nice tattoo.

  After wiping the excess ink off her hip, I wrap her tattoo with a protective case and assist the still unnamed blonde from the chair. A grin curls on my lips when a grimace crosses her face as she bends down to collect her handbag off the floor.

  “Run that while I get dressed,” she instructs, wrapping the sheet I covered her bare legs with around her waist.

  Heavy grooves indent my forehead when s
he hands me an American Express Centurion card. I've heard rumors this card costs a quarter-of-a-mill a year just to have. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a woman who looks like she uses Benjamin Franklins as toilet paper.

  “It’s a credit card. You’ve seen one before, haven’t you?” she snarls, her tone condescending.

  “Yes, Madame,” I reply, fighting the urge to salute her pompous attitude with my middle finger.

  I jerk my head to the bathroom attached to my cubicle. “There is a full-length mirror in there if you want to check out your new tattoo.” When she smirks a condescending grin, I mutter, “I hope you like your pretty new tattoo, Princess,” under my breath before slipping out the door.

  I've only just run her credit card through the terminal and placed the credit of her sale into Johnny’s account when the blonde comes storming out of my cubicle. She barely notices the group of fraternity brothers getting matching frat tats wolf whistling and catcalling at her as she charges across the room wearing nothing but a pair of cream satin panties and a long-sleeve shirt. Her face is red with anger, matching her vibrantly painted lips, and her pupils are massive.

  “You son of a bitch!” she yells, raising her hand into the air.

  A chuckle topples from my lips when her wildly swung hand fails to connect with any portion of my face or body when I take a step backward, moving out of the firing zone.

  I point to a sign hanging next to the one I indicated to her earlier this evening. “We also have the right to remove any clientele deemed to be abusive to our staff or other clients,” I quote, my tone as mocking as the expression on my face. “If you try to strike me again, I’ll have no other option than to place you on the curb." I lower my eyes to her scarcely covered body. “Panties and all.”

  The anger lining her face increases. “Where is the sign that says you can tattoo whatever the hell you see fit onto a person’s body without first seeking their permission?”

  The grin tugging on my lips breaks free. “In the top drawer.” I point to the drawer I stored her contract in. “It’s on the same contract you signed stating the design of your tattoo was left at the discretion of your tattoo artist. AKA–me.”

  I can see her scream working its way from her stomach to her lips. For every second that ticks by, the fury blackening her eyes grows significantly. After releasing a window-shattering scream, she storms back to my cubicle, rambling incessantly under her breath how she’s going to sue me for every penny I have. If I were a good man, I’d tell her I don’t have many pennies. Pity I’m not.

  After re-dressing in her skin-tight designer jeans and four-inch-high stiletto boots, she saunters out of my cubicle, slamming the door behind her. Her nostrils flare as she snatches her credit card and receipt out of my hand and scrambles for the door.

  “Have a wonderful day.”

  She slams the front glass door so harshly, it knocks the two signs I’d referenced earlier off the wall. Hearing the commotion her abrupt exit caused, Ryder, the owner of Inked paces out of his office.

  “Everything alright?” His eyes bounce between the blonde standing at the curb shrieking into a cell phone and me.

  I lift my chin. “It’s all good,” I assure him, my voice hesitant.

  I really need to consider the consequences of my actions more diligently. If I knew I was going against a woman who has more money than sense, I may have considered taking a different route. Oh, who am I kidding? Nothing would have changed.

  Ryder nudges his head to the door. “So what’s the deal? She didn’t like the terms of your agreement?”

  I laugh. “You know as well as I do, Elvis, nothing but money is exchanged for my services.”

  Ryder’s heavy brow slants at my use of his infamous nickname. His son, Slater, let it slip a few months ago when he was here adding more ink to his already vast collection of tattoos. I’ve been keeping it up my sleeve, waiting for a prime opportunity to use it. Tonight seemed like the ideal time.

  When the blonde curls into a black town car that just pulled to the curb in front of her, I shift my eyes to Ryder. “I may or may not have changed her boyfriend’s name to princess.”

  A lewd grin curves onto Ryder’s lips before he shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you get her to sign the contract?”

  “Do you think I got this handsome by lining up for brains? I cut that queue and went straight back to the looks department. Who needs smarts when you look like this?” I run my hand down the front of me while smiling a shit-eating grin.

  Any humor in Ryder’s face vanishes, replaced with nothing but pure anger.

  “I’m joking, Ryder. Of course I got her to sign the contract. I even stenciled her tattoo with the name adjustment included,” I inform him, rocking on my heels. “She signed that too.”

  A chuckle escapes Ryder’s lips. “Then we are all good.”

  "Yes, we are," I reply, grinning.

  Although I have an inkling this won’t be the last I’ll hear from Ms. Clara McGregor.

  Chapter One

  Two months later. . .

  The doorman at Vipers greets me with a fist pump before opening the large wrought iron door. Sweaty leather, warm bodies, and the scent of alcohol filters into my nose as I enter the main section of the strip club. My eyes divert from a pretty redhead with gold tassels on her breasts to the entranceway bar when a distinctive throaty voice sounds through my ears.

  “Brax, it’s been too long.” Keke saunters around the bar to wrap her arms around my neck.

  I return her embrace. “Hey, Keke, what are you doing over on this side of town? The prim and proper get too dull for you?”

  She laughs before scraping her lengthened French tip nails down my forearm. “I’m always on the lookout,” she purrs while skimming the full-to-the-brim club.

  “For clientele or new staff members?” I give her a cheeky grin.

  Keke winks before she continues scanning the room. Keke is the manager of a very exclusive club on the other side of Ravenshoe – Maison du Sexe (French for House of Sex).

  Although she often refers to her establishment as a bordello, every male on this side of Ravenshoe calls it a brothel. A very high-priced, invited members only, exclusive brothel.

  Although if you're friendly with the manager, even guys from my side of the tracks can dip their toes into the high caliber services Keke offers.

  Does that mean I’ve accepted the numerous offers she’s bestowed upon me? No, it does not. Even though I only accept cash payments for my services, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to cough up my hard-earned cash for services I can get without money exchanging hands. Although with my dick on hiatus the past few weeks, I may need to consider other options.

  Keke curls her arm around the crook of my elbow and leads me towards the edge of the main stage. She stops in front of a beautiful brunette doing an aerial ribbon routine with a set of black satin ribbons suspended from a bolt shackled to the ceiling. Her outfit selection, although skimpy, is more conservative than the clientele at Vipers are used to seeing. It could be deemed more as a gymnast’s outfit than a stripper’s ensemble.

  My heart leaps out of my chest when the brunette rolls down the satin ribbon, her stomach-churning tumble only stopping a mere inch from the stage. One wrong move, and she would have been splattered on the highly polished wooden stage. After loosening the satin material from her slender thighs, the brunette curtseys to the wolf-whistling crowd before the stage lights are switched off, plunging the entire area into blackness.

  “Beautiful. Yes?” Keke questions, her fake French accent fully exploited.

  Smirking, I nod. Even with the brunette having her god-gifted assets hidden from view, her routine was provocative and entertaining. No doubt a rare treat for any male clientele in a strip club.

  “The clients at Maison’s speak fondly of her very often, but no matter how much money I offer, she never accepts my proposition,” Keke confesses.

  My shoulders lift into a hunch. “Sh
owing your body for money is one thing. Selling it is entirely different.”

  When Keke scoffs, I turn my brown eyes to her and arch my brow. The longer I stare into her rich, chocolate eyes, the more her refined posture slackens. The persona she displays when working is a completely different Keke than the one you see behind doors.

  Keke is from Fredericksburg, Virginia. She rides horses bareback, drinks beer by the gallon, and when she comes, her voice reverts to its original country twang. Y’all included. How do I know this? We’ve messed around a few times the past year.

  Now don’t take my admission the wrong way. Keke may be the manager of a brothel, but she has never once worked in that industry. Like the pretty brunette who just finished her ribbon performance, Keke refuses to sell her body for profit. Her strong stance on the issue ensures her staff at Maison’s are treated with the upmost respect and dignity. For the industry she works in, that is no easy feat. Luckily for Keke and her staff, she’s backed by a very notorious man: Mr. Henry Gottle Senior, mob boss of New York City.

  “Have you ever thought about asking her to do a routine at Maison that excludes the bedroom?”

  Keke’s face brightens more with every word I speak. “Brax, you little devil. That could work. Get her in the door and convert her once she has signed the dotted line.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  Keke doesn’t hear a word spilling from my lips. She just smiles and presses a kiss to my cheek before sauntering to the roped off backstage area. Once she has entered the dark red velvet curtains, I swing my eyes around the space seeking Damon. His rift with his big brother is the sole reason I’ve rocked up to a strip club at one in the morning on a Sunday.

  While adding three hours to his back tattoo earlier this evening, Damon suggested we meet up for a few beers with his brother. Considering I’ve known Damon most of my life and his brother is my best mate, I readily agreed. I just had no clue at the time his watering hole of choice was a strip club on the outskirts of town.