by Shandi Boyes
Not giving her the chance to reply, I head back to my desk to work on a set of sketches I’ve been designing the past six weeks.
A grin tugs my lips higher when the faint murmur of “Thanks, Brax,” sounds through my ears before my office door closes.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I murmur to myself.
Yanking my sunglasses off my face, I snag my cell phone out of my wallet and check the address Clara texted me earlier. The tick of my jaw increases when I discover the graffiti scrawled on the wall of the derelict apartment building matches the address Clara texted.
My fear that this rundown block of apartments is Clara's new residence surges when her little beat-up Ford Focus pulls to the curb behind my bike. I grit my teeth together, barely swallowing the string of illicit curse words dying to break free from my mouth. Not only is Clara's new crash pad closer to Inked, it is also in the seediest part of Ravenshoe.
Although Ravenshoe has seen massive growth the past three years, the money being pumped into the good half hasn't spanned this far yet. Broken beer bottles line the gutter, tennis shoes dangle off the power lines, and the sounds of sirens wail in the distance. And don't even get me started on the condition of the hideously ugly apartment building. If there wasn't a steel gray Audi parked a few spots up, I would have said Clara was the only thing of value on this entire street.
Clara curls out of her car and saunters to stand next to me. Sheltering her face from the mid-afternoon sun with her hand, her eyes run over the rundown apartment building. Her lips quirk and the scent of fear plagues the air between us. She keeps her shoulders high, endeavoring to ensure me she isn't rattled by the ghastly sight standing before us. Spinning a set of keys around her finger, she strolls up the cracked concrete sidewalk, her steps shaky and slow.
I hop off my bike and follow after her. “You're not staying here.”
If my abrupt statement wasn’t greeted with a glaring stare, I would have assumed Clara didn’t hear me over the blaring music pumping from an apartment three stories above. Clara’s furious gaze silently warns me she's on the verge of snapping, but I don’t care if she's about to blow her top. She can call me a brute, beast or any other name on her wish list, but I’m not budging an inch. I wouldn’t let the feral cats living in the dumpster at the back of Inked stay in a joint like this, let alone the woman my cock is infatuated with. And although I’ve said earlier my status as Clara’s employer gives me no rights over her personal life, I don’t give a flying fuck. Even if we didn’t share a kiss two weeks ago and hadn’t been flirting like it is going out of fashion, there's no way in hell I’d let a member of my crew stay in a dump like this. Male or female. No fucking chance.
“Call the delivery truck driver and get your furniture taken to the storage sheds on Traeter. Once we find you a new apartment, we’ll have your furniture shipped there.”
Acting like she didn't hear a word come out of my mouth, Clara shoves a key into a door that is hanging by a thread and enters the dimly lit apartment. Growling at her ignorance, I shadow her inside. The deepness of my growl intensifies when I walk into the mildew-scented living area.
“It’s not too bad,” Clara mutters, roaming her eyes around the paint-peeled walls and heavily stained carpet. “Nothing a bit of elbow grease won’t fix.”
“Elbow grease?” I arch my brow into my hairline. “The only thing that could fix this place is a gallon of fuel and a match.”
Clara rolls her eyes before moving to the front window. Dust particles riddle the air when she draws open the mold-covered curtain. I crunch my teeth together. Adding sunlight hasn’t helped the situation. This place is a fucking dump.
“You’re not staying here,” I advise again.
Seizing her elbow, I drag her to the door we only just entered. She tries to pull out of my embrace, but I stay holding on tight, refusing to relinquish her. She can dig her claws into my arm all she likes, sue me for harassment, or knee me in the balls; I'm not leaving her here.
My quick strides only stop when Clara whispers, "It is the only apartment available in my price range."
Even knowing she has never lied to me, I can’t hold in my retaliation. “Come on, Princess, cut the bullshit. Even if you weren’t dripping in wealth in your thousand dollar dresses and shoes, I know what you get paid, as I'm the man who pays you.”
I don't mean to snap at her, but my mind is spiraling, unable to adapt to what is going on in her life. First, her car was towed, then she got an eviction notice, and now she's moving into an apartment that is smaller than the storage closet at Inked. I don't know if this is all some fucked up rich person joke, but I ain't laughing. I'm all for branching out and trying new things, but this is taking it a step too far. She's not just experimenting with a new lifestyle, she's risking her safety, and that's something I won't stand for.
Clara takes on her fighting stance. Her hand is splayed on her cocked hip, her eyes narrowed. "You may pay me, Brax, but you don't pay my bills." Her words come out like hot lava spilling from a volcano. "I know what I can and can't afford." She nudges her head to the shoebox apartment we just vacated. "That is all I can afford."
“Then I’ll give you a fucking pay rise,” I snap back.
Anger envelopes Clara’s entire body, flushing her skin with a red hue. “I'm not a charity case,” she snarls through gritted teeth, her words rickety, hampered by a sob she’s barely holding back.
I scrub my hand over the stubble on my chin, giving myself some time to calm down before I say something I’ll later regret. “I’m not saying you're a charity case, but you won’t be anything if you live in this area of Ravenshoe. It isn’t safe, Clara.”
The anger lining her face softens when I use her real name. She knows I only ever use it in dire situations. This is a dire situation.
Her hand slips off her hip as the harshness in her eyes fades. "I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself," she replies, her words not as callous as earlier.
I ball my hands into tight, white-knuckled fists when she spins on her heels and ambles back into the rat-infested apartment. It’s the only defense I have to fight the urge to scream my frustration into the street.
I want to drag her away from here kicking and screaming, but instead, I stay standing on the graffiti-painted path. I need a few minutes to contemplate on her predicament. I’ll never win an argument with a woman who is as stubborn as Clara, but I have to do something.
Call me a chauvinistic pig, but just like she was wrong about catching the one AM express, she's wrong to believe she can look after herself in this part of Ravenshoe, and no amount of arguing will change that fact.
After a few moments of silent pondering, an idea formulates in my overworked brain. Instead of dragging Clara to a safer location, I’ll bring the safety to her. With a grin, I yank my cell phone out of my pocket and call in a favor with a long-time client.
Forty-five minutes later, Hunter Kane pulls his security van onto the curb at the front of Clara’s apartment building.
“Brax,” he greets me, slapping his hand into mine before leaning in for a man hug. “What the hell are you doing in a dump like this?”
“Long fucking story,” I mutter, returning his embrace.
Hunter’s astute eyes assess the apartment in great detail when I gesture for him to enter before me.
“What type of security system are you after?” he queries, intuiting why I requested his help this afternoon. It wouldn’t take a genius.
“The best you have.” I walk over to close the door of the main bedroom.
When I saw Hunter's security van pull down the street, I suggested for Clara to start unpacking her boxes of designer clothes and shoes. For the first time ever, she did as requested without a single qualm escaping her lips. I'm not hiding Clara away as I don't want her to meet Hunter; it's the fact I know Clara will put up a fight when she discovers the amount of coin I'm going to hand Hunter to have her apartment wi
red with the world's most advanced security system. Considering there's no chance of me budging on this term to feel comfortable having her live here, I'd rather keep our argument on the back burner until Hunter leaves. The fewer witnesses to my pussy whipping, the better.
After running his hand over his scruffy beard, Hunter shifts on his feet to face me. "I've got a new system I've just designed that will be ideal for a place like this. Motion sensors, burglar alarm, sirens, voice command, but it will cost you a pretty penny. I'm happy to give you wholesale prices, but the equipment itself is expensive."
“I don’t care how much it costs.” I shrug. “All I care about is when can you get it done?”
Hunter smiles a broad grin. “How free is your tattooing chair this month?”
“As free as you need it to be.”
His smile widens. “Then I’ll have this wrapped up before the sun goes down.”
The heaviness that’s been sitting on my chest the past hour lessens. “That will be great. Call out if you need any help.”
Hunter nods before making his way to his van parked out front to gather some equipment. I head to Clara. The smell of wet carpet filters into my nose when I prop my shoulder against the wall of the main bedroom.
Since Clara is sorting through boxes of shoes, she doesn't notice my presence straight away. I stay quiet, relishing seeing a side to Clara I rarely get to see: her outside the walls of Inked.
There's no doubt Clara is a girly type of girl. If the cute dresses, high altitude shoes, and glossy hair aren't enough of an indication, her fascination with color coordinating her shoes is a surefire sign.
I give myself a few more minutes to quietly absorb Clara before pushing off the wall and pacing deeper into the room. “Not enough room in your closet?” I ask when I notice she has several boxes of shoes and garment bags sprawled across her queen size bed. Because Clara's apartment is so small, the movers were in and out in under thirty minutes.
She screws her nose up. “Not exactly.” I follow her gaze to the half-empty closet. “I was considering giving them to the women’s shelter three blocks down from Inked.”
My lips purse, not only shocked by her generosity but also wondering if couture dresses would be suitable for homeless women. It seems pretty pointless. I've worked in the soup kitchen numerous times the past three years. From what I've seen, the women and children who live there only want food in their bellies and warm clothing. They don't need designer dresses worth thousands of dollars.
“But I’ve decided to sell them instead,” Clara continues, lifting her wintry blue eyes to me. “Half the money I make from the sale will be donated to the shelter. The other half will be put towards the security system you’re getting installed in my apartment.”
I balk, faking innocence. Clara doesn't buy my woeful attempt at candor. Not the slightest.
“You heard that?” I gesture my head to the living room of her apartment.
“Yeah,” she replies with a nod of her head. “Just like I knew you were stalking me for the past ten minutes.”
I give her a cocky wink. "So that's why you kept bending over to reach the shoes in the furthest corner.”
A hearty chuckle scuttles through my lips when she picks up one of the shoes off her bed and pegs it at my head. You can laugh. You haven’t seen the size of the heels Clara wears. They could kill a man. After picking up the stiletto that airport security would class as a lethal weapon, I pace closer to Clara. I’m shocked when she doesn’t cite an objection to me having a security system installed. My surprise only lasts as long as it takes for me to see the width of her pupils. Although she's putting on a brave front, she's just as petrified as I am about her staying here.
Nothing typically scares me, but the idea of her being hurt scares the shit out of me.
Chapter Fourteen
My brisk pace into the break room slows when my eyes are inundated with a set of curves I have no chance of ignoring. Clara has one arm braced against the refrigerator while the other is propped on her hip. The top half of her body is hidden as she seeks something in the sparsely filled fridge. The figure-hugging fire engine red dress she's wearing displays every perfect curve the clients at Inked won't stop raving about. Inches of luscious, soft skin, a mouthwatering ass, and a pair of legs that go for miles. And let's not get me started on the regions of her body I can't see. The inviting image of a bent over Clara has a particular area of my body springing to life.
Sensing a presence in the compact lunch room, Clara tilts her torso out of the fridge. The hardness of my cock turns fatal when my eyes zoom in on her painted red lips wrapped around the end of a whole carrot. Illicit thoughts slam into me on more appropriate things her plump lips could wrap around.
Just like the intense bout of flirting we'd been undertaking the two weeks prior to her move, nothing has changed. If anything, our playfulness is venturing into new territory since a few hours of our time together have been spent outside of Inked’s walls. Clara will never admit her new surroundings daunt her, but the fact she has invited me to her place for a late supper each night this week is all the indication I need to know she hates being alone in her dingy, cramped apartment even more than I hate her living there.
Don't take my admission the wrong way; our flirting has never crossed the path it did in my office three weeks ago, but we've been cutting it close. Although I'd love nothing more than to sample her lips again, I’ll never make the first move. I have a massive ego and confidence in the bucket loads, but in the back of my mind, I know a woman like Clara is way out of my league. Hell, she's way out of my universe. But by waiting for her to make the first move, I know she isn’t being coerced into doing something—or someone—she doesn’t want to do.
Shaking off the thoughts that will have my good mood sin-binned, I make my way to the coffee percolator in the corner of the room. Clara's eyes track me as I pace across the room.
“Did you enjoy my salmon, Brax?” Her tone is a unique mix of bitchy and playful. “Probably the first time a guy of your standards has sampled something so refined.”
I lift the coffee pot from the base and pour myself a generous helping before turning around to face Clara. “Salmon? What salmon?” I brace my back against the counter.
She arches one of her perfectly manicured brows high into her hairline. “I saw my empty container on your desk." Her eyes drop to a stain on the top left-hand corner of my white shirt. "Not only can I smell the garlic lemon sauce that was drizzled on my salmon leaching from your pores, but you also stained your shirt with it."
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t eat your salmon, Princess. That’s a toothpaste stain.”
That’s a total lie. When I first saw a fancy takeaway container in the fridge with Clara’s name on it, I had planned on jabbing my finger into her food just to mess with her. But when the delicious aroma swamped my senses, my initial plan went to shit. Although I’ve never eaten pink fish before, it was quite tasty.
Clara glares at me, not believing a single word seeping from my lips. I return her leering glare while taking a large gulp of my unsweetened coffee. Black liquid comes spraying out of my mouth, dousing the lunch table and my jeans when my taste buds recoil at the disgusting flavor besieging them.
I lift my shirt and run the cotton material over my tongue, doing anything to lessen the ghastly taste that has my stomach heaving. Although Clara is quick, I don't miss her eyes dropping to absorb the exposed skin of my lower stomach. Glad to see I’m not the only one having a hard time keeping my eyes above the belt.
While running my now thickened tongue under the tap water, I spot a nearly empty box of Epsom salt sitting next to the percolator. No fucking way. Is she pranking me? Although the crew and I have pranked Clara numerous times the past four months, not once has she gotten us back. If she's pranking me, this will expose a side of Clara I’ve never witnessed before.
Clutching the box in my hand, I shift on my feet to face her. Her amused eyes lock with mine as she t
akes a big bite out of the tip of her carrot. Even knowing it is only a carrot, my cock scampers away, frightened by the determined look in her eyes.
“Don’t touch my food, Brax,” she warns, glaring into my eyes. “Or things will get a lot more complicated.”
After issuing me a knee-clattering stink eye, she saunters out the room, her hips swinging even more provocatively than normal. Even though I won’t taste anything for a week, I have the biggest grin stretched across my face. Not only did Clara return my prank, she did it without a single drop of blood being shed. Finally, after four long months, the real Clara is emerging from the shadows, and I can't wait to share the experience with her.
My head lifts to the clock hanging on the wall on my right when the buzz of my cell phone clatters through my ears. Since my last client's tattoo didn't take as long as expected, I headed down to a fancy deli a few miles away from Inked to replace Clara's salmon I ate. Call me pussy whipped, but I hate the thought of her only eating a carrot for supper because I couldn't calm the cravings of my stomach.
After wiping my sweat-slicked hand down my jeans, I yank my cell out of the front pocket of my jeans. My lips quirk when I peer down at the screen and notice it is a call from Inked’s landline.
“Fucking hopeless,” I mutter under my breath.
I only left Inked twenty minutes ago, and they're already interrupting me. Unfortunately, this is nothing new. It wouldn't matter if I were gone for five minutes or fifty, I field calls from my crew the instant I step out of the premises. God forbid I ever have a vacation day.
I swipe my finger across the screen and press the phone into my ear. “What’s up?” I try to keep my annoyance at the interruption out of my voice. My effort is fruitless.
“Hey, sorry to disturb you.” Johnny’s deep tone is more jittery than normal. “But some shit went down out back I thought you’d want to know about.”