Sinful Southern Ink

by S. J. Drum

  Maybe… No.

  She would not entertain the possibility of a relationship—or casual sex—with an attached man. “This might sound ridiculous after the way I attacked you in the kitchen, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not interested in getting involved.”

  There. Done. Now they could just forget about this whole mess and—

  A strong hand landed on her knee and gave a gentle squeeze. She tried to convince herself she didn’t want his touch.

  “Abigail, I’m not going to see Sherrie anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Right, she’d heard that line before. She huffed a laugh and forced herself to lift his wrist between two fingers and deposit it back on his side of the truck as if she found his touch distasteful. “You don’t have to say that. I know you probably felt bad for me after I told you about my parents and that’s why you didn’t stop me when I kissed you. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

  Forget about it? No. Fucking. Way.

  Abigail thought he’d simply “allowed” her advances? That couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Now she was brushing him off? Acting as if those mind-blowing kisses and the way she’d worked his nipple piercings hadn’t affected her at all. And she obviously thought he’d be content to fuck her on the side while still dating Sherrie. To hell with that.

  He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands around the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white.

  In the calmest voice he could manage while his gut roiled with indignation, he asked, “Do you honestly think I would have let things between us go as far as they did if I didn’t want you? If I hadn’t already decided I wasn’t going to see Sherrie anymore?”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Abigail shrug one shoulder, still staring out the window as if the answer didn’t matter.

  She didn’t trust him, didn’t think he’d follow through on his word. That, or she simply didn’t care either way, and damn it, that hurt.

  When he pulled into the parking lot next to the shop, she kept her face averted and started to get out without a word. He put a hand on her elbow to stop her. “Abigail, look at me, please.”

  He heard a soft sigh and when she turned to him, her eyes were like black marbles, shiny with unshed tears. He cupped her cheek in his palm and used his thumb to brush aside the single tear she allowed to fall.

  His anger drained away until determination alone remained. The only way to get her to accept him as more than a coworker would be to show her he was trustworthy, show her she could depend on him. No amount of talking would break through the iron-clad walls she’d built around her heart out of necessity.

  She climbed out of the truck cab, looking dejected. Before she shut the door, he said, “I’ll see you tonight.”

  Her dark brows drew together and she swiped a hand under her reddened nose, making a cute sniffling noise. “But you’re not scheduled to work tonight.”

  “I know, but you’ll still see me.”

  She shook her head, closed the door with gentle pressure and took off toward the shop.

  Now, he thought as he drove away, he just had to deal with Sherrie.

  It was impossible to park his dually on the street, the extra wheels stuck out too far into the road. After finding a space behind the grocery a few blocks from the shop big enough to accommodate the truck, he parked and walked the short distance to Sherrie’s apartment. He lifted a fist and rapped his knuckles against the faded green paint on her door, hoping she was home.

  A minute passed and then he heard the sound of footsteps trekking through the small apartment. He plucked his ball cap off his head, ran a hand through his hair then slapped the hat back on, giving the bill a final tug. Sherrie opened the door—her eyes lit with pleasure when she realized who was standing on her stoop.

  “Well, hello, handsome,” she purred, propping one knobby shoulder against the doorjamb and eying him from boots to ball cap with a hunger he used to find attractive.

  Now he thought she just looked desperate.

  “Can we talk?” Jed motioned for her to move aside so he could step into her apartment. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have while standing on the stoop.

  Her eyes narrowed in recognition—eyes that were a dull gray instead of their usual electric blue. Apparently she hadn’t yet put in her colored contacts. She raised her pointed chin, sniffed, and turned to sashay into the living room, her spandex-clad ass swaying provocatively.

  He blew out a calming breath, shut the door behind him and headed in after her.

  Sherrie crossed her thin arms under her breasts, the tight tank top she wore showcasing what she considered—and probably were in reality—her best assets. Her lips pursed and he was baffled to note that even though she still wore the lounge clothes she’d probably slept in, she’d already lacquered her lips with the cherry-red lipstick she seemed to favor.

  Scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he met her accusing stare. “Sherrie, I’m sorry but I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  She cocked a hip out. “And why is that?”

  He couldn’t tell her the truth, that he suddenly wanted to fuck his boss and he thought he might even be a little bit in love with the woman. So, he resorted to the old standby. “I like you. You’re a fine woman. I just don’t see this going anywhere. It’d be best if we cut ties now rather than drawing it out.”

  Sherrie’s arms uncrossed and her hands lowered to her bony hips. She prowled toward him, resembling one of those female lions he’d seen on the nature channel.

  Jed held his hands out in front of him to warn her off. “Sherrie, don’t—”

  Sharp nails dug into his chest as her hands fisted in the material of his T-shirt. She gave him a shove, tumbling him onto the sofa that sat directly behind him. He refrained from putting up too much of a protest, afraid he’d hurt her without meaning to.

  Before he registered her full intentions, she scrambled on top of him, straddling his hips and began jerking at the button on his jeans as she leaned forward and mashed her mouth to his.

  He grabbed her shoulders, as gently as he could while still able to get the job done, and wrenched her away. “Sherrie! Damn it, woman. Hold on a second!”

  She’d managed to snake her hand inside his barely open jeans and through the gap in his boxer shorts to palm his dick. A small twisting motion was the only movement available to her in the space provided and she took full advantage.

  Fuck. This isn’t right. Have to get her off of me. Now. I’ll push her away now.

  She slipped her thumb over the tiny slit on the head of his cock, rubbing the pearl of fluid she found there in a circle. Damn his traitorous dick. Didn’t matter to that particular appendage if his heart and mind wasn’t interested in screwing Sherrie. His dick was more than happy to make up for any lack of support from the rest of him.

  “Stop,” he finally gritted out. “I can’t do this. You have to stop.”

  “Looks like you can do this. Looks like you want to. Real. Bad.” She tipped her head toward the considerable erection jutting up through the opening she’d made in his jeans.

  Some of the blood that’d flooded his cock must have started to seep back into his brain because his mind began to clear and all he wanted to do was get the hell out from under her and out of the apartment.

  He gripped her wrist and tugged until she released him, then he lifted her by the hips and set her aside while he stood.

  “You think you’re gonna find someone better than me? There ain’t a woman around here who looks better or fucks better than me and you know it. Especially not one willing to put up with your broke ass and that trashy dive you work in. You’ll be back, Jed Weston, and I won’t be here waiting.”

  Jed looked up from the careful process of zipping his jeans over his slowly deflating erection. Trashy dive? She’d certainly frequented Hart’s Ink enough in the past. Now all of a sudden it was beneath her? She was a w
aitress for fuck’s sake.

  Without a word, he spun on the heel of his cowboy boot and walked out of Sherrie’s apartment for the last time. Just as he pulled the door closed behind him, he heard a frustrated scream and something—a vase or a glass—smash against the other side. He shuddered, glad his eyes had been opened to the mess that was Sherrie before they’d gotten more involved.

  He felt lighter for having the confrontation over. Next, he needed to come up with a plan. Abigail needed convincing, and he was going to do it by throwing some serious Weston-style wooing at her.

  Chapter Six

  Abigail sat at her desk, asking herself why she’d been sitting in the same spot working on a drawing for a tattoo that’d probably never be inked. After inking Jed’s steampunk spur, she’d been inspired to do another design. For him.

  Seeing Jed without his shirt on that morning and running her hand over the bare patch of skin on his right side, an idea had popped into her head and she couldn’t evict it from the front of her mind until she had it on paper.

  She touched the screen on her cell phone to light the display and check the time. No wonder her hand was cramping around the pencil held in her grasp and her back, neck and shoulders felt squeezed by a vise. She’d been sitting in the same position for nearly three hours.

  The first client of the day had an appointment scheduled in twenty minutes.

  She dropped the pencil onto a mess of papers and pictures scattered across her desk and massaged the cramped muscles in her wrist and fingers. With a groan, she leaned back, stretching both arms above her head and then twisted from side to side to pop her back.

  After giving the design she’d sketched one last look, she stood, stretched her legs and ambled to the studio, the room she used for tattooing, to prepare for her first client. A printout of the tattoo her client wanted was already pinned to the corkboard on the wall and it only took a cursory glance to determine what colors she needed to pull for the work.

  Another fucking butterfly.

  Abigail could have drawn an amazing, unique version of the clip art butterfly but the client had paid ten bucks for the design on some cheap, cut-and-paste website and didn’t want it altered. She could have explained to the woman how the design hadn’t been sold solely to her and that potentially hundreds of other people were walking around with the same lame, generic butterfly inked on their ankle or shoulder or hip.

  She lamented doing these cookie-cutter tattoos. Everyone and their mother seemed content to wear either a butterfly, cheesy skull, tribal tattoo or Chinese character they had no idea how to translate and couldn’t be sure what it really meant,.

  Lining up the tiny cups of color, she struggled to keep her thoughts on task and away from Jed Weston. Thinking about him or the too-intense make-out session they’d shared would result in nothing good.

  The bell on the front door jingled as someone entered. Thinking it was the night’s first client, she called out, “I’ll be with you in a just a minute.”

  She scanned the room, making sure everything was ready to go, and spun around to go collect the client from the waiting room. An undignified squeak left her lips when she turned to find a tall male body taking up most of the doorway. “Jed! You scared the hell out of me. What’re you doing here?”

  He stood with one shoulder leaned against the doorjamb and one ankle crossed over the other in a nonchalant pose. Those damn distracting Wranglers still wrapped his lean hips and he wore the same tight T-shirt from this morning. One arm was twisted behind his back as if he was concealing something and a mischievous grin stretched his kissable lips.

  “I’ve got a client coming in a few minutes.”

  “I know, this won’t take long. I just came to give you these.” He withdrew the hand hiding behind his back to reveal a bouquet of flowers—and not the cheap kind you can pick up at the supermarket, but calla lilies, her favorite.

  She stared at the beautiful arrangement of white and pink, lightly fragrant flowers. Realizing he’d been standing there with the bouquet extended toward her for long enough to make it awkward, she quickly moved to accept them. “How did you know calla lilies are my favorite flower?”

  Jed shrugged, his green eyes changing from worry to relief when she finally took the flowers. “I guessed. I stopped over at the florist in Mason and they must have had about a thousand different kinds. These reminded me of you. Sweet and pretty, not too delicate.” He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of those sinful jeans and cocked his head to the side as if to study her.

  Abigail knew she probably looked like an asshole, standing there with the flowers clutched to her chest and a blush on her cheeks. No one had ever done something so nice for her.

  Wait a minute. No one has ever done something this nice for me.

  “Why?”

  Jed raised a dark-blond brow in response.

  “I mean, thank you. But why did you buy these for me?”

  He plucked the ball cap off his head and repositioned it, accomplishing a look that was a mix of bashful and hopeful which sent her heart into overdrive.

  “Well, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry about this morning and let you know I broke things off with Sherrie right after I dropped you off.”

  “Why would you breaking up with your girlfriend require buying flowers for your boss?” She knew she sounded like a bitch, and to someone who’d just done something seemingly very sweet for her, but it’d be best for everyone involved if she just distanced herself from Jed right now.

  If Abigail had learned one thing from her disastrous upbringing, it was if something looked too good to be true, it always was. Jed Weston with his chiseled, rugged features, deliciously dangerous piercings and cowboy charm looked way too good to be true.

  Jed bristled at the reminder that Abigail wasn’t simply another woman to pursue, but also his boss. And the way she said it made it sound as if he was buttering her up for a raise instead of smoothing the way for a date. He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes on the tight line of her glossy lips.

  He’d never seen her wear lipstick but knew she always carried an old-school tube of cherry Chapstick in her pocket and reapplied it about fifty times a day. He’d been tempted to buy some when it’d caught his eye in the checkout line at the market, just to see what her lips would taste like. His gaze moved back to her deep brown eyes and what he saw there completely contradicted her snippy words and combative body language.

  Instead of haughtiness, he saw a flicker of hope swamped by fear.

  Abigail had probably never had anyone buy her flowers just because. Admittedly, he did have an ulterior motive, but it wasn’t nefarious and it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt her. He’d driven the extra thirty minutes into Mason to go to the big flower shop because he wanted to see a smile light her face like he’d seen the day they planted the hydrangeas outside the shop. He wanted her to see him as more than a playboy and coworker and he wanted her to agree to a damn date. This wasn’t going at all the way he’d expected.

  Rather than arguing with her, he strode across the hall to his office, plucked the life-size, hollow ceramic western boot he’d been using as a doorstop from the floor and carried it into the restroom to rinse it out. When he returned to Abbey’s studio with the ceramic boot filled with water, she still stood in the center of the room, her back against the convertible tattooing chair and the flowers clutched to her breasts.

  He set the makeshift vase on the floor, gently pried the bouquet away from her and pulled off the crinkly cellophane wrapping before tossing it in the garbage can. He set the tiny packet of water conditioner that came standard with a flower purchase on the counter by the door and pulled his utility knife from his pocket. Holding the flowers over the garbage can by their stems with one hand, he pressed the sharp edge of the blade against the end of the stalks with the other.

  A startled-sounding gasp drew his attention to Abigail. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the knife.

  “What are you do
ing? You’ll cut yourself! Let me go grab some scissors.”

  Silly woman.

  In his best cajoling voice, he told her, “Now, sweetheart, don’t you worry. I’ve got this under control.” He gave her a wink and proceeded to saw through the bundle of stems as tough as saplings, using his thumb as leverage against the knife.

  “But I don’t think—”

  “Shush.”

  Jed had been working a farm since he’d been old enough to walk and had carried this exact knife—a gift from his grandfather—with him for nearly as long. A good country boy learned early how to use a knife for anything and everything from trimming a fingernail to slicing through baling twine, even butchering a squirrel or two. No way would a prissy handful of flowers—

  He hissed in a breath and stared, appalled, at the thin line of red across the entire length of his thumb growing larger by the second. Could he do nothing right? Fuck!

  “Jesus, Jed. Are you okay? You’re bleeding.” Abigail inched closer, her face gone pale though he didn’t know why—she’d never been squeamish about blood before.

  “Just a little nick, it’s nothing,” he lied. At least he’d sawed the dried ends off the flower stems before he’d attempted to amputate his fucking thumb. “Here.” He shoved the flowers at her. “Stick these in the boot, would you?”

  Spotting a roll of sterile gauze on the tray she’d prepared for a client, he snatched it up and turned his back to her to try to stop the bleeding. Too late, he realized. Fat, ruby drops already decorated his shirt, the front of his jeans, the toe of his boot and the white tile floor.

  Wow, this one’s a gusher. And now it was starting to hurt.

  Abigail shoved the flowers into the ceramic boot and rushed around in front of him, snatching the roll of gauze clutched in his unharmed hand. “Here, let me do it.”

  “No, you don’t have to—”

  “Oh, shut up!” she snapped. “Now is not the time for macho bullshit. You need stitches, you adorable idiot.” She shook her head and began tightly wrapping his wound.