by Black, T. E.
I PARK IN my usual spot in the shop’s parking lot and gather my stuff from the passenger seat. As I walk through the front door, the bell above rings and it makes me smile. It's an older bell like the ones you'd find in a small barbershop. Its ring puts me in a good mood every time I hear it.
“Where’s your shirt?”
That fucking voice. That voice belongs to one person—the devil himself, Trent Wallace. I look toward where it comes from and see his dirty-ass Converse propped up on my desk. His hands rest behind his head and he has a stupid smirk plastered on his face.
I scowl, not answering his question. I storm over to my desk, slamming my bag down and leaning over to retrieve the key to the glass case where the shirts are stored.
“If ya wanted to give me a peep show, all ya had to do was ask. I would’ve made it easier for you. Leaning over the counter so I can see your tits is a little desperate—even for you. Don’t ya think?” He chuckles.
I hate him. I hate him. I swear I do. He’s the worst boss ever.
I come back with nothing, unlocking the case and digging through it until I find one in my size. Scratch that, not my size. I usually wear a medium, but the only sizes Trent carries are extra small and large.
I slam the door to the case, hoping it doesn’t break. That would be another thing for him to take out of my paycheck. As it is, the shirt is already a twenty-dollar deduction.
“Ya need help changing?”
“Nope,” I state point blank.
I can’t let him win. He’s pushing my buttons on purpose, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s pissed me off again.
Once in the back room, I lift my top over my head and pull the work shirt on in place of it. The shirt is halfway over my boobs, and sure enough, the door flies open. I scramble to tug it down so the only thing exposed is my flat, tattoo-covered stomach. I look at the door where Trent stands, watching me as if he’s about to have a heart attack.
Note—this isn’t new to him. He saw every part of my body when we hooked up. I fix the bottom of my shirt while stalking toward him and hit him with my shoulder as I walk past.
“That was your one and only break, Shay!” he yells.
“Nope. I get two ten-minute breaks and a half-hour lunch, asshole. You can take it up with the ones who created the labor laws!”
He murmurs something under his breath I can’t hear, but I’m sure he christened me a slew of names.
Too bad, so sad.
He can kiss my sweet, little, tattooed ass.
I GET LOST in the amount of filing I have to do before my shift is over. With the technology nowadays, you’d think the need to file paper shit would be nonexistent. They have software for this shit, yet here I am staring at six piles of customers’ information in front of me.
A throat clears behind me in the small room. I feel my face convert into a scowl as I turn around and get ready to rip Trent a new asshole.
“What the hell did I do now?” I snarl.
Gunner laughs to himself as my face softens.
“I’m sorry. I thought he was coming in here to give me shit again.”
He steps in the room with me, taking up space I already lack.
“He just left,” he endorses.
The breath I’ve been holding leaves me in a puff and my shoulders sag in relief.
“How’s everything going, babe?”
I continue filing my paperwork, turning my back to him. I know what he’s asking. How is paying your rent going? Are you going to be homeless soon? He doesn’t need to know about my landlord’s appearance at Mrs. Lidy’s place. I love him, but I don’t want him begging me to move in with him again. I don’t want charity. I won’t take it. I can do things just fine without anyone’s help.
“Fine,” I fib.
“That asshole still on your case about the rent?”
I roll my eyes and am thankful Gunner can’t see me. I have enough going on in my head. While constantly trying to figure out how I’m going to survive Trent’s harassment here at work, the rent is something I’ve been pushing aside.
“Yeah, but he’ll get over it. I’ve been paying him something every week. By law, he can’t kick me out,” I state.
Gunner raises his eyebrows before shaking his head.
“Well, if he does kick your ass out on the street, you and that little girl of yours are welcome to come live with me. It’d be nice to have a chick around.”
I laugh out loud at him. He’s such a bachelor. I can only imagine the chaos that would ensue from Abby and me living with him. It would never work.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I love you, but it would never work out.”
He scoffs sarcastically. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. Did ya decide if you’re gonna come out for drinks with us later?”
Now, it’s my turn. I roll my eyes again at him. “No, I can’t. You know I have to work at my other job. I’ve told you this a thousand times.”
“Where do you work again?” he attempts.
I refuse to share where I work with anyone at the shop. They’d give me nothing but hell if they found out, and it’s something I don’t want to deal with. I’m not proud of what I do, but it needs to be done. I have bills to pay and a little mouth to feed.
“Nowhere you need to know about.”
“I don’t know why you won’t just tell me. I’d never bust your chops about it. Plus, maybe I could get Trent to lay off your ass if he knew you were working two jobs.”
“There’s no way I’m ever telling you guys so just drop it. It’s no big deal.”
He throws his hands up in surrender, chuckling to himself all the while.
“Gotcha. Well, the big bad boss man just left. You ready to work on your ink, babe?”
I relax at the thought of Gunner working on my tattoo and nod my head. My latest piece is leopard spots that cover my foot and some of my leg. It’s coming out beautifully. Gunner hasn’t been charging me, and if Trent finds out he’s doing my tattoo on shop time, shit will hit the fan.
“Sounds good to me. I’ll meet you out there!” I thank him, spinning around to shove what paperwork I have left in the filing cabinet.
Eric Clapton – “Cocaine”
THESE PEOPLE ARE total whack jobs. Meetings are for the fucking birds. Why I ever let Ry convince me to do this shit is beyond me.
Trent, you need help.
Yeah. I need help like I need a hole in my fucking head. I like to drink, and I like to do a little powder. What’s so bad about that? It’s my way of unwinding at the end of the day. My nerves are fucking shot every night after being at the shop. Then they get fucked again when I talk to Mom. I wish I could say Shay was the problem, but she’s fucking not.
She’s anything but the problem. She’s a good worker, hot as hell, and I’m a total asshole to her. I don’t know how she puts up with my shit on a daily basis. I give her a hard time because I’m fucking bitter. The bitter taste has been stuck on my taste buds ever since I had her mouth on mine six months ago. Every time I see those lips, I think about how fucking sweet she tasted. It’s even worse when she wears her red lipstick because it reminds me of the red stains on my neck afterward that wouldn’t come off for days. I fucking scrubbed at it until my skin was raw and it still stood its ground.
“Trent, would you like to share?”
I shoot the leader of this whole fucked-up group of people a glare before I answer.
“Nah. I’m good. Thanks, though.”
Ryleigh elbows me in the ribs, causing me to take in a sharp breath.
“Motherfucker, Ry! What was that for?” I whisper harshly at her.
She looks at me, whisper-yelling back. “Share with the group, ya asshole. That’s why we’re here at one o’clock in the afternoon! So help me God, Trent! If ya don’t stand up right now and share, I’ll use my own foot to kick ya ass into next Sunday.”
I let out a long sigh, standing up to address the group to get Ry off my back.
; “Hello. My name is Trent Wallace, and my only fucking problem is sharing my problems with ya sorry assholes.”
Instead of everyone in the group cheering, “Hi Trent,” they all sit in their seats quiet and still, giving me stares of disbelief. One jackass has the balls to speak up; he tells me the first step to recovery is admitting the truth. Well, guess what? He can go scratch.
“WHY DID YA even bother agreeing to go to the meeting if ya were only gonna be a total asshole?” Ryleigh barks from her seat in the diner.
I shake my head as I take a fat bite of my burger. I chew my food, hoping if I eat long enough I won’t have to answer her question. When I swallow the bite, she’s still staring at me with a raised eyebrow and a permanent scowl.
“Look, it was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have agreed to go. I'm all right. Really. There’s no need to worry. I only use it on the weekends. I can control myself. I just like to have fun. Ain’t no shame in enjoying a little snow,” I tell her.
The truth is—I’m lying through my fucking teeth. I use a hell of a lot more than just on the weekends. Just last night, I was snorting blow off some chick’s tits at my house, but Ryleigh doesn’t need to know that. She’d have a bitch fit from hell.
My best friends Ryleigh and Gunner, are the ones who know about my extra-curricular activities. It’s better this way. If my buddy Mac knew … man, he’d kick my ass. He used to be hooked on the shit, and then he got clean when his fiancée died from it.
The motherfucker acts as if it’s so fucking easy to get clean. I can assure you it’s not. Cocaine is addictive as fuck. I crave the feeling I get after I snort it. Something about feeling like a feather has me fucking in love with it. For those couple of hours, I don’t give a fuck about anything else in the world. That’s why I want it. That’s why I do it, and that’s why I won’t be stopping anytime soon.
My mom’s been battling cancer for the past six months now. I try to be strong for her. Well, I attempted to be strong, but I couldn’t do it. I fell apart quick. Like father, like son.
My older brother, Rook, hasn’t been around much, but he calls my mom every day. He’s a fighter in the MMA, traveling all over as he competes to be the best. Rook started about seven years ago when he was twenty-four. Everyone doubted he’d be good enough to win, but he proved them all wrong. He’s thirty-one now and has held the title in the heavyweight division for the past three years running. I’ve never seen him in a match in person, but from what I hear, he’s a force to be reckoned with. They even nicknamed him Rook “The Reaper” Wallace. The nickname alone means something.
Ryleigh snaps me from my thoughts, bitching about the whole drug thing.
“What are ya gonna do if the shit gets serious, Trent? What are ya gonna do when ya can’t control it anymore? Ya wanna end up dead in a ditch somewhere?”
I run a hand through my beard, fishing through my wallet for my half of the bill.
“Ry, calm the fuck down. I told ya, I won’t let it get bad. Give it a fucking break already. I love ya, but you’re being a pain in my ass right now! I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. I don’t need ya going all mother hen on me. Got it?”
She throws her half of the money down on the table then stands up and storms away from me in a fast-paced manner. Well, I guess that was a yes in the got it department.
I PULL MY truck up to the garage and see Mac’s pickup outside as well. I throw it in park, opening the door and stepping out, only to get the stink eye from Mac’s evil hound, Nook. She and I coexist, but that’s not saying we like each other. She only likes me when I feed her.
“Back off, bumpus,” I warn, matching the angry glower she throws at me.
She surrenders first, turning around to scurry back into her house Mac built. Yeah, that’s what I thought.
I push open the garage door, letting myself inside. The sight in front of me causes me to smirk. Mac has Callie pinned against the hood of the Mustang he’s been building.
Well, well, well.
They’re almost sucking each other’s faces off. Clawing at each other as if they’re a pair of animals during mating season. Lucky son of a bitch.
Mac got lucky when Callie fell into his lap. She’s smoking hot. I’ve never seen a body like hers. Normally, I like my women tall, being I’m around six-foot myself, but Callie—fuck. She’s tiny and short as hell, and it works for her. She might look smaller compared to Mac’s massive body, but either way, I would’ve loved to get my hands on her.
The door closes behind me, causing both Mac and Callie to shoot their eyes in my direction. Surprise. Callie pushes Mac away, righting her top and giving me a nervous smile.
“Hi, Trent,” she squeals, her cheeks all red from being caught.
I nod my head, giving her the same greeting I always do.
“Hey, darling.”
“Did ya forget how to knock, motherfucker?” Mac all but roars.
I scoff, flicking my eyes to the door behind me then back to him.
“If ya locked the fucking door, I would’ve knocked, asshole. But when ya leave it open, anyone would think that means to come right in.”
He rights his jeans, grabbing his smokes off the workbench.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. What could possibly be so important you had to interrupt us?”
I fish out my own smoke, lighting it before he does his own.
“Nothing really. Ry was on my case, as usual, and I can’t go back to the shop until the evil bitch is gone. So here I am.”
Callie hops off the hood of the Mustang, putting in her two cents where it isn’t wanted.
“You know, she’s not bad, Trent. I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to lay the hell off her. You’re borderline harassing the poor girl!” she screeches.
Just as I’m about to turn to Mac for backup, he, of course, steps in front of his girl, pushing her behind him in a protective manner as if I’m going to go after her. What the fuck is wrong with him? I’d never lay a hand on a woman, and definitely not my best friend’s girl.
“Jesus Christ, Mac! Why are ya pushing her behind you? Ya think I’d seriously touch her?”
“Just keeping a distance. I know how you get,” he states coolly.
Why does everyone feel the need to piss me the fuck off today? First, Shay with her snippy attitude, then Ryleigh, and now, these two clowns.
I’m fucking done.
I toss my smoke on the ground and storm out of the door I just came in. They can all go to hell, every last one of them. I gotta go blow off some steam.
AFTER A QUICK stop at my buddy’s house to pick up my stuff, I drive back to the shop to see if I can convince Gunner to lay down some ink on me. I know I’ll feel better the minute the needle touches my skin. Well, at least after snorting some happiness up my nose.
I park in my spot, grab my baggie of white powder, and shove it in my pocket. I’ll head back to my office, snort a little, and fill out some paperwork while I wait for the magic to happen inside my head.
Opening the door, the view of Shay laying on Gunner’s table greets me. He tattoos her while I gaze in awe at the way she looks when she’s getting inked. Perfection. She looks fucking edible. Her long, curvy body stretched across the table, her Etched T-shirt gone, leaving her in only a wife beater where her ink is on full display. Her top lets me see the twins I’ve burned into my mind. I couldn’t forget that image if I tried.
“What the fuck are ya two doing? Shay, ya better be paying the shop for ya ink!” I snap.
There’s no reason to be an asshole to either of them, but until I get the shit in my pocket shoved up my nose, I’m irritable as hell.
Gunner acknowledges me first, setting the tattoo gun down and nodding his head at me.
“Just tattooing Shay baby here. What’s up, boss man?”
I let out a grunt.
“Nothing is up, but do that shit on ya own time! And Shay! Get ya ass back to work!” I order, heading to my office.
After sl
amming the door, I plop down at my desk and pull out the magical shit from my pocket. Emptying the contents of the baggy, I fish around in my desk drawer for my straw and my card.
I put them to work. I use the card to chop through the coke, parting the beautiful white sea into small lines. The sight in front of me tortures me. I scrub my hands over my face gazing at the four perfect white lines in front of me. Four passageways into the heaven they call the high.
My nose twitches at the thought. I battle with my conscience knowing I shouldn’t be doing this shit when I just got back from a meeting, but today, my conscience loses.
I put the straw in my nose, snorting the first line with precision. A small moan escapes as the numbness runs its course through my body. It’s the best feeling. It even blows fucking out of the water. This shit right here is unreal. I’m screwed. I love it way too much to ever stop.
I snort the lines one by one. I lean back in my comfy-ass chair and let the high take over my body and mind. I feel fucking good. I feel invincible. I feel like I can do anything that I want to.
Looking over at the paperwork, which I need to fill out, I grab the stack and knock it out in fifteen minutes tops. I love that about cocaine. I have so much energy that I could run a fucking marathon and still be hyped up afterward.
My pen taps in a repetitive motion. The back and forth clicking sound gets my knee bouncing up and down. I need to fucking do something. There're two options—fuck someone or tattoo, and since fucking is out of the question right now, I choose to tattoo.
I stand up, my chair skidding out from underneath me and hitting the filing cabinets behind my desk. I make my way to the door and open it as the natural light from the shop windows makes my eyes snap shut. Fuck. Fucking bright.
I regain control of my vision, looking around until I spot Shay sitting at her desk, clicking away on the computer. A smile graces my face while my eyes travel over her features. She’s fucking stunning. She has the whole rockabilly, pin-up girl look to her. It’s so sexy it’s devastating. Her long, black and red hair is curled to all hell, making it appear shorter than it is, but it still hangs loosely over her shoulders. It makes me think about when I had my fingers tangled in it while her legs were wrapped around my waist. Her makeup is flawless, making her already smooth skin look fucking better. And the red lipstick. The red lipstick will be my undoing. How am I supposed to keep myself from jumping over the counter and fucking her right where she sits?