by Shandi Boyes
Nothing against Hugo, he’s a tall, brute of a man who could easily put any guy on his ass, but the majority of his torso is covered with a range of oddly chosen tattoos. Although his tattoo selection is one-of-a-kind, every one I've placed on his body has a significant meaning to his life before he moved to Ravenshoe. It didn't take a genius to realize his tattoos revolved around one woman.
If the hidden inclusion of the name Ava in most of his tattoos didn’t give enough of a hint, the stories he shared while I added to his collection were a surefire indication. Tattoo artists are the male equivalent of hairdressers for women. The stories clients have shared while sitting in my tattoo chair could fill at least a hundred books.
After wiping the freshly inked skin with my cloth, I lift my eyes to Hugo. He's grinning a smile I’ve only seen on his face once before: when I inked his son’s name onto his chest. It sits just above his heart.
“I asked Ava to marry me,” Hugo admits, his smile enlarging.
My lips curl into a broad grin. “Shit, man, you work fast,” I jest. He only moved back to Rochdale three months ago.
Hugo laughs. "That's only the beginning. We are having a baby at the end of the year."
I cock my brow. “Damn, you better watch out; you’ll run out of skin to ink with all those memories you’re creating.”
I nudge my head to the bathroom while pulling off my latex gloves. “Go and tell me what you think. You’ll have to switch off the light to see Ava’s name since you went with the invisible ink again.”
Hugo stands from my tattoo chair, filling my cubicle with his six-foot-five frame. I clean up my station while he checks out his newly inked piece in the bathroom attached to my cubicle.
He emerges thirty seconds later with a broad grin on his face.
“Good?” I query, already knowing his answer.
“Perfect.” No more words are needed. The look on his face tells the entire story.
Hugo throws his shirt over his head while shadowing me to the counter to ring up his purchase. I've worked at Inked for over ten years, and Hugo is the only client I've agreed to tattoo a name onto without seeing a wedding band wrapped around his finger. I didn't need to warn Hugo about the lifetime commitment that comes with having a person's name inked onto your skin. His eyes relayed he was well aware of the commitment he was making. The fact he's getting married proves that I didn't misread his loyalty to Ava.
My brisk pace to the cash register slows when “Brax,” sounds from a pair of lips that can cause my dick and spikes to bristle at the same time.
Things between Clara and me the past three weeks have followed a similar path they did the weeks prior to my disastrous attempt at sharing a meal with her. Although she's a little standoffish with both the staff and me, she does exactly what she's paid to do. And she does it well.
The only thing that has changed is our game of tit for tat. It came to a screeching halt the instant she exited the restaurant three weeks ago. I guess finding out your scornful tongue gives your boss a raging hard on would dampen anyone’s eagerness to participate in a bit of friendly banter.
Clara walks out of my office balancing a planner in one hand while twirling a pencil in the other. "Your seven o'clock appointment just canceled. Did you want me to bump up one of your following appointments? Or. . ." Her words stop when they lift from the A4 leather stitched planner to the enormity of Hugo standing beside me.
The longer her eyes roam over Hugo, the more the raging tornado in her eyes grows. I can see her short temper flaring, dying to break free. I'm not the only one who has noticed her blazing reaction to Hugo's presence. The buzzing of tattoo guns quietens, and the usual hum of conversation dulls to barely a whisper. The longer Clara glares at Hugo, the more attention she gathers from her colleagues.
Sucking in a deep breath, Clara finally shifts her widened gaze to me. “You’re busy. I’ll come back.”
I balk, staggered by her odd behavior. She’s never been concerned about interrupting me before, so what’s changed now?
“No, let’s do this shit now, Princess. The quicker I get these appointments over with, the quicker my weekend will start.”
Her throat works hard to swallow before her narrowed gaze rockets back to Hugo. She stares at him as if she's daring him to say something. I bounce my confused eyes between Hugo and Clara, trying to work out how they know each other. From the dazed expression on Clara's face and the shit-eating grin on Hugo's, it doesn't take a genius to realize they have met before.
My back molars smack together as my mind runs through various scenarios of how well they could know each other. All my skits follow along a similar path – Hugo and Clara naked together.
“Yeah, come on, Princess,” Hugo says, his voice a thick drawl. “Brax hasn’t got all day.”
My brow cocks. Just from the contempt displayed in Hugo’s words, I think my initial assumption on his friendliness with Clara may have been wrong. But even with having my unwarranted jealousy checked, my mood is still woeful. I've been working with a massive headache the past two hours.
Actually, make that weeks. She's standing right in front of me. The biggest fucking headache of my life.
Like my crippling headaches aren’t irritating enough, my cock’s stint in segregation has become even more severe since Clara arrived on the doorstep of Inked. There's nothing that kills a man’s good mood quicker than losing his mojo.
Clara's narrowed eyes shift from glaring at Hugo to me. "We’ll continue this later," she instructs me, her tone smeared with superiority, like the real princess she is.
My eyes drift around at the handful of the Inked crew who are watching the exchange between Clara and me with eagle eyes. Charity’s mouth is gaped, Johnny has his brows stitched, and Diesel is leaning against the doorjamb of my office with an amused grin etched on his face.
Not willing to let any member of my crew believe this type of behavior will be deemed acceptable at Inked, I lock my eyes back with Clara’s and order, “Do it now or collect your last paycheck.”
Clara inhales a quick, jagged breath as her eyes dance between mine, no doubt seeking any deceit in my statement. Although I said the job was hers as long as she wanted it, I won’t be disrespected in front of my crew. I just hope she can’t see the deceit in my eyes.
Unable to determine if my threat is idle, Clara swallows harshly before marching to the counter with her head held high. She snaps open the planner and drops her eyes. “I contacted Clancy; he's happy to take an earlier appointment, but he has some alterations he'd like to make to his design.”
I adjust the tilt of my head, forcing her eyes to connect with mine. “Has Clancy’s designs already been drawn up?”
Shifting her eyes from Hugo to me, Clara shakes her head.
"Then keep him at his original time. He's fanatical about the draw up, and it can take hours to get him to agree to a design, so he’ll hold up the appointments following him. What about Riley?" I suggest, pointing to my 10 PM booking. "Call him and see if he can get here at 7 PM, then slot Colby in after him."
“Okay. I’ll make some phone calls. Once I have everyone scheduled, I will advise you of any changes,” Clara informs, her voice still high-strung.
Snapping the planner shut, she diverts the focus of her irate eyes to Hugo. “If you so much as breathe a word about me working here, I will ensure it is the last breath you take,” she warns in a vicious snarl. “In fact, if you even mention you saw me in this dump, I’ll do far worse than ending your pathetic life.”
My eyes bulge; Charity’s dropped jaw gains leverage, as does the grin on Diesel’s face, and Johnny. . . well, he’s just staring at Clara in complete awe. It’s not every day you see a princess sparring against a giant. Hearing the shocked gasps of her work colleagues, Clara’s eyes slowly filter around the shop. The fiery anger illuminating her face with a red hue fades when she realizes her little tirade has gained her the attention of half of her co-workers and a dozen clients.
Snarling, she spins on her heels and darts down the corridor. I run my hand down my face as my brain tries to work out what the fuck just happened. This is the first time in the ten years I’ve been working at Inked that I’ve had to deal with a member of my crew verbally abusing the clients. Usually, it’s the other way around.
After gesturing for my crew to get back to work, I lift my eyes to Hugo. “Sorry about that, she's a little high-strung at times,” I mutter, my voice hampered with frustration at being forced to apologize for the behavior of one of my crew, let alone a grown woman who should know better.
Hugo delves his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s all good. It’s nothing I haven’t handled before,” he replies, passing me one of the many credit cards housed in his leather wallet.
My brows furrow. “Since when did you stop paying cash?” I jest, saying anything to lessen the awkward tension plaguing the air.
“About as long as you’ve been picking up rich strays,” Hugo replies, waggling his brows.
I laugh, grateful he can see the humor in a difficult situation. “A dangerous endeavor for us both, no doubt?” I mumble.
“You have no fucking clue,” Hugo mutters under his breath.
After seeing Hugo out, I pace down the corridor in search of Clara. Due to the size of the shop, it doesn't take me long to find her camped out in the supply closet. Although she appears to be busy working, her usual feistiness that radiates out of her in invisible waves is missing, clearly indicating she's in hiding.
“I need to talk to you in my office.”
Clara places a bottle of blue tattoo ink onto the third shelf before hopping off the stepladder. “Okay. Let me just finish this—”
"Now, Clara," I interrupt, my voice conveying that this is not up for negotiation.
She places the ordering clipboard on the middle shelf and shifts on her feet to face me. When her icy blue eyes lock with mine, my furious composure slips for the quickest second. She looks more concerned now than she did when I threatened for her to collect her last paycheck ten minutes ago. I guess this is the first time I’ve used her real name in the past six weeks.
Nudging my head to the hallway, I demand for her to follow me. Not waiting for her to reply, I spin on my heels and stride to my office. If her rich floral scent hadn’t infused the air around me, I would have assumed she wasn’t following me. She's so quiet, not even the clicking of her heels on the tiled floor sounds through my ears as we make our way down the corridor and into my office.
I move to my desk, prop my backside on the edge, then lift my eyes to the office door. Clara is standing in the open doorway, looking prepared to flee at any moment. Her pupils are wide, and her face is flushed. This is the one part of my job I fucking hate. Just like I'm not a violent man, I also loathe confrontation. But Clara overstepped the mark tonight, and she must be reprimanded for it. I warned her when I offered her a trial at Inked that if she scared away any of my customers, she'd be out on her ass quicker than I could snap my fingers. Although it will take more than a spiteful threat to scare off a regular client like Hugo, she still shouldn't have said what she did.
When Clara remains standing halfway between the hallway and my office, I request, “Close the door.”
Her throat struggles to swallow before she does as requested. Once the door is closed—blocking out the buzzing of tattoo guns—I gesture to the couch. Clara’s eyes follow mine before she timidly shakes her head.
“I’m happy to stand,” she informs me, her eyes straying from the couch to me. “If you're going to fire me, Brax, can you hurry up and get it over with.”
A deep sigh spills from my lips. "You don't have anything else to say? No pleading for clemency? No begging for forgiveness?"
“No,” she replies with a brisk shake of her head.
I balk, utterly shocked.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, so why would I feel the need to apologize?” she argues to my baffled expression.
I arch my brow. “Are you fucking kidding me? You didn’t do anything wrong?”
I push off the desk and pace two steps closer to her. “You not only disrespected my business, my crew, and me with the little spectacle you unleashed, you disrespected yourself.”
Her eyes bounce between mine, her confusion growing by the second.
“We are a family at Inked. The instant you agreed to work here, you became one of us. Anything said or done to a member of our family, is done to the whole family. So when you ran your mouth about my business, you were running your mouth about yourself.”
She inhales a quick, sharp breath as the fiery spark in her eyes is smothered with shock.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “I’d always wondered why you chose to work at Inked instead of one of those fancy boutiques you buy your dresses from. Only now does it dawn on me why you showed up on this side of town. You don’t think anyone from your neck of the woods will turn up here.”
Clara's tongue delves out to lick her parched lips, but she doesn't speak a peep.
“Well I have news for you, Princess, having tattoos doesn’t make you trashy. I’ve doodled on judges, lawyers, doctors, and even stuck up little princesses who have fancy-colored credit cards that cost a quarter-of-a-mil a year just to have.”
The harshness of my words dulls when I spot a sheen of moisture forming in Clara’s eyes, but it doesn’t completely stop my reprimand. “If your plan is to hide away from your country club friends in a place you won’t be seen, the door is that fucking way.” I point to the entrance of Inked. “As I guarantee you have just as much chance of being seen here as you would in some fancy dress shop on the other side of town.”
After issuing my disappointment with her behavior with my eyes instead of using words, I walk around my desk and take a seat in my cracked leather chair. I secure a set of invoices off my desk and shuffle through them, needing something to distract my hands from the urge to take Clara over my knee and spank the sass right out of her. Maybe that’s half her problem? Perhaps her parents didn’t discipline her enough?
My gaze lifts from the invoices in my hand when Clara whispers, “Am I fired?”
The roaring of blood in my ears slows as my gaze drifts between her remorse-filled eyes. “I said your position at Inked is yours for as long as you want it. I’m a man who keeps my word.”
Relief swamps Clara’s eyes as she gently nods.
"But if you disrespect my crew or me again, I may reconsider.”
She once again nods before pivoting on her heels and stalking to the door.
The furious twitch impinging my jaw lessens when the faintest murmur of, “I’m sorry, Brax,” seeps from Clara’s lips before she slips out of my office as quietly as she entered.
Chapter Eight
Standing from my office chair, I down the glass of whiskey I've been nursing the past thirty minutes before snagging my jacket thrown over the edge of my desk. Considering it is a little after midnight on a Saturday, I don't bother checking if the premises is vacant. All the crew of Inked evacuate the instant the clock strikes midnight, more than eager to commence their two-day weekend. Clara included.
Ever since my run-in with Clara three weeks ago, things at Inked have changed. I’d like to say a majority of the change has been Clara’s attitude, but unfortunately, that isn’t entirely the case. Although she has toned down her primadonna attitude, she's still coldhearted and standoffish. You can’t throw a princess into a pair of low-riding jeans and call her a cowgirl. At the end of the day, she will always be a princess. But instead of treating the crew at Inked as if they're a piece of chewed up gum stuck under a bench seat, Clara has been treating them with more respect, as if they're members of her family instead of the enemy. It may be similar to an annoying little brother type of vibe, but it’s better than the previous attitude she had.
After securing the deadbolts on the front door, I make my way to my Harley parked at the back of Inked. My eager steps lengthen when my eyes catch
a flurry of blonde standing next to my bike.
I increase my pace as my eyes run over every inch of the fire engine red dress clinging to the curves of the tempting female. The beat of my heart kicks up a gear, as does the throb of my cock when my eyes are inundated with lavish curves on a knee-weakening body. My excitement doesn't last long when the blonde notices my approach and twists her neck to the side to greet me.
“Hey, Brax, you heading home?” asks Fallon, smiling a covetous grin that relays the question she really wants to ask, Hey, Brax, you looking for company?
Fallon is what I'd call a high-class bunny. With a body that brings mere mortals to their knees and the face of an angel, she could easily have her pick of any guy on the good side of Ravenshoe. Thankfully for the crew at Inked, she likes her men with an edge of roughness she can't get on her side of town. And the fact she's sprawled across my bike tells me she has her sights set on one member of the Inked crew tonight. Me.
Licking my parched lips, I run my eyes over her body for the second time. Red stiletto heels, lean runner legs, a smoking hot dress that hugs the curves of her more-than-tempting ass, and a decent rack I could easily be distracted by for hours. Fuck it. My dick needs warmth.
Arching my brow, I stare into Fallon’s bright green eyes. “You got any objections to fucking on a desk?”
“Not at all,” she purrs, prancing toward me, not the slightest bit intimidated by the crudeness of my words.
My sweaty hands strengthen their grip on Fallon's hips as her body quivers through her second orgasm since we entered my office thirty minutes ago. Thankfully, her cries of ecstasy are barely heard over the slapping of skin as I pound into her. My pumps are furious as my race to climax picks up speed. I need to come. I need the release. I need to get her out of my fucking head.