“You’re trippin’. Trust me. It’s like that.” He smirks. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t give a shit that I’m over here flirting with you.”
“But you’re not flirting.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
I laugh, and that earns another grumble from Dare. Matty leaves, and the rest of the night is mostly silent, save for the music coming through the speakers and the quiet whirring of tattoo guns. Eventually, Dare finishes, washing the excess ink off his client’s back. He stands, instructing his client to stand in front of the full-length mirror before giving him a handheld one to check out his work.
“Just a few more sessions, I think,” Dare muses, one arm across his chest and the other gloved hand under his chin, assessing. “Think you can handle a longer session next time?” This one must have lasted at least four hours. They took a couple of short breaks, but I can’t imagine a longer session.
“I’m game if you are. Looks awesome, man. Thanks again.” Dare covers his client’s tattoo in cellophane and goes over aftercare instructions. I check him out at the front desk, putting him on the books for two weeks from now, and then he’s gone.
I help Dare clean up, both of us wordlessly moving around the shop. Earlier in the day, I felt a little lost, but once I figured out where everything was and what was expected of me, I fell into my role pretty effortlessly. Alec and Cordell are still working in their stations, so I ask if their clients need anything. They decline, so I move toward the front of the shop to hold down the front desk.
“Hey, Logan, come here a minute,” Dare says from somewhere in the back. I bite my lip, looking over my shoulder, hoping he’s not in the drawing room. I don’t see him when I get to the waiting area, which means he is in the drawing room.
Awesome.
The door is cracked, and I push it open to find him sitting at a desk. He flips his sketchbook shut when he sees me.
“What’s up?” I ask, lingering near the doorway. Dare smirks, as if he knows that I’m uncomfortable and exactly why I am.
“I told you I don’t bite.”
“Unless I want you to,” I say, walking toward his desk, repeating what he said to me the night we hooked up. His eyes heat for a minute, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip.
“Right.”
I come to a stop next to him and lean my hip against the side of his desk, crossing my arms, aiming for casual and trying not to remember how his head looked between my thighs while I sat on this same desk.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
“About…?”
“Your job,” he deadpans. “How was your first day?”
“I like it. A lot, actually.”
“I do, too,” he says, which makes me laugh.
“I hope so. It’s your business.”
“I like having you here,” he clarifies, and I’m shocked into silence by his admission. There it is again. That tension. That feeling. It’s impossible to put into words, but it’s palpable. He has to feel it, too. I swallow hard, looking into those icy eyes. He clears his throat.
“I mean, you were a big help. I’ve been needing to hire someone for a long time now, but I never pulled the trigger,” he says, confirming my thoughts from earlier.
“Oh.” Whether I misread his initial comment or he’s backpedaling, it stings nonetheless. “Well…good.” I avert my eyes, focusing on the shelf stocked full of supplies. “I should get back up there in case someone comes in,” I say, turning around, but Dare surprises me by sticking his finger through the belt loop of my black skinny jeans, stopping me in my tracks. The back of his hand grazes the inch of exposed skin between my pants and shirt when I turn back toward him, and he jerks it back, like he’s surprised by his own actions. That makes two of us.
“Can you come in tomorrow? I want to show you how to open.” He seems uncomfortable.
“I don’t work at all tomorrow, so I can do that.”
Dare nods.
“Ten a.m., then.”
“Okay.”
The air is charged with a different emotion now. I’m not used to feeling insecure. It’s not that I think I’m a beauty queen, but I realized long ago that I have what men want, and I’ve used that power to my advantage. But with Dare, it’s different. Sometimes I think this attraction is mutual, but other times, like right now, it feels one-sided.
“I’m going to close up once these last two clients are gone. Go home and get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
I am feeling pretty beat and I should get home to check in with Jess, so I don’t argue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dare looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, so I don’t wait around for a response.
I notice the mailbox hanging open, the tin flap rattling in the wind, when I pull into the driveway. I grab the mail out and tuck it under my arm as I walk inside. Jess is sprawled out on the couch in his sweatpants and a dingy wife beater tank reading The Outsiders.
“Hey,” he says, not looking up from his book.
“How was school?” I toss the mail down onto the kitchen table before taking off my jacket.
He lifts a brow before meeting my eyes. “How was school? What is this, Leave it to Beaver?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just making sure you’re staying out of trouble. Did you go to detention?”
“I am, and I did,” he says, going back to his book. “Don’t trip.”
Something on the table catches my eye, and I snatch it up, seeing the words Santa Rita County Jail on the front. I flip it over, confirming my fear.
“Jess?” I ask, holding it up between my thumb and index finger. “Why?”
Jesse looks equal parts guilty and defensive. We agreed not to tell Mom where we were going, and we agreed on no contact, at least for now. She needs to know it’s different this time. Plus, I didn’t want to give her the chance to manipulate us into believing her bullshit or feeling sorry for her. Again.
“She has no one,” he says, and my heart fucking cracks wide open because his is still so pure and naïve, even after everything we’ve been through.
“Jess, we agreed…” I try to keep the anger out of my voice. I can’t fault a kid for wanting to talk to his mom.
“I know. I know.” He sits up, running both hands through his disheveled hair. “She seemed…almost normal. And we’re family. I didn’t want to turn my back on her when she’s finally making progress.”
“I get that, but this is what she does. It won’t last. It never does.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But I didn’t see any harm in sending her a postcard.”
“Have you been talking to her this whole time?”
“No. She tries to call my phone collect every single day. I ignored it for the first week. Tried to accept it by the second week, just to tell her to fuck off, but it wouldn’t let me. Something about our carrier not allowing it. Fuck if I know. When she was supposed to say her name, the last call said, ‘Please, Jesse. I’m going crazy in here.’”
I shake my head, furious that Crystal would do this to him, but not the least bit surprised. I’m also pissed that she knows where we are. She’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who we’re staying with in River’s Edge.
I flip the postcard back over, reading her chicken scratch handwriting. She explains how she spent the first week in the infirmary—so she could withdrawal safely, no doubt. She asks him to put money on her books for cigarettes, then goes on to ask him to write a character witness letter for the judge. What she doesn’t ask is how he’s doing. Her underage high school child, whom she knows is staying with his estranged father. Un-fucking-believable. Except it’s really not, because this is how Crystal rolls. Selfish and manipulative and always, always the victim.
I hand it to Jess, and he shakes his head as he reads it. He leans forward, reaching for his lighter. With a flick of his thumb, he lights the corner of the postcard on fire and watches it burn, turning
it this way and that as the flames swallow it whole. Ash litters the table, and when it finally burns out, he drops the remaining piece into the ashtray.
“I’ll never tell you what to do,” I say, and Jess shoots me a look. “Okay, unless it involves school or your safety or your general wellbeing.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles.
“And I’ll never try to turn you against Mom, or even Henry for that matter. You make your own decisions. You can feel however you want to feel. I just want you to be careful. I hate seeing you hurt.”
“I’m not hurt.” He scoffs. “I learned not to count on her a long time ago.”
“It’s still hard. She’s still our mom,” I say, plopping down on the couch next to him. I kick my feet up onto the coffee table and lie back. “I’ve dealt with her shit for twenty-one years, and she still manages to let me down sometimes.”
“She’s trying to get into rehab instead of doing time.”
I shrug. “I hope she serves a few months at least, but either way, she’ll be sober.”
“Is she any better when she’s sober? She’s never been clean long enough for me to notice.”
“Not really. I think she was always fucked up. The drugs just made it worse.” I know my mom had a rough childhood. I also know she has a whole slew of mental health issues, but I don’t know which came first. Is she a product of her upbringing? Did the drugs cause her issues, or did her issues cause her to turn to drugs?
I don’t even want to think about all the shit I saw as a kid and how it might have affected me. Am I broken? Is that why I can’t trust? Is that why I always go for the wrong men? Why I gravitate toward older men in positions of power? Teachers. Coaches. Bosses. Will I ever have a normal, healthy relationship? Am I destined to repeat the cycle? One of my biggest fears is ending up like my mother—addicted to drugs and love and dysfunction. My biggest fear of all, though, is that Jess will suffer because of her. I’ve tried so hard to fill that role for him, but the truth is, I’m not his mom. I was just a kid myself.
“I won’t talk to her anymore,” Jess says.
“That’s up to you.”
“I know. And I choose not to be in contact with her.”
“Probably for the best, considering I stopped paying rent…and all the other bills. You don’t want to be around when she figures that out.”
Jess laughs and plucks a roach from the ashtray and lights it. He inhales and leans back against the couch.
“Does Henry care if you smoke weed in his house?”
“He smokes cigarettes in here,” he says, holding out the inch-long blunt in invitation. I shake my head. “That’s worse, if you ask me.”
“True.”
“Plus, he’s not home tonight.”
He’s not around much, though I can’t fault him for that since he told us as much in the beginning. I know he sleeps in the room above his shop, but I’ve wondered if maybe he’s got a lady friend he’s staying with, too. It would explain why he doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to find a new place.
“Any idea where we’re going to stay once our time here is up?” Jess asks before he mutters a curse and flicks the roach back into the ashtray. He shakes his hand and then inspects his singed fingertips.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Somehow.
* * *
“ARE YOU HIGH?” CORDELL ASKS once his last client is out the door. I’m drinking a beer on the couch in the drawing room, waiting to close up shop.
“High on life.” I don’t know what he’s referring to, but I’d bet my left nut it has something to do with Lo.
“You don’t hire chicks. Especially ones that look like her.” He points a finger toward the front desk, where Lo worked all day.
It’s not a secret that she’s fucking gorgeous, but the irrational part of me wants to throttle Cord for even noticing. I don’t know why or how she pulls this reaction from me, but I need to get this shit in check, so I don’t respond. He’ll drop it if I pretend not to care.
“Especially one that you’re into.”
It’s an accusation—one that I can’t ignore. It’s not that it’s against my rules to hire women. I just haven’t in a long time—for two reasons. It’s not anything against them. On the contrary. Men are territorial sons of bitches for one, and when more than one is interested in a colleague, shit gets ugly fast. I’ve seen it happen firsthand. The second reason is that there is a shortage of female artists in the area. All the good ones work in the bigger cities.
“Who said I’m into her?” I keep my tone bored, unaffected.
“Uh, anyone with eyes? You didn’t take yours off her the entire time she was here. I’m surprised your client didn’t end up with her fucking portrait on his back.”
“Is there a point to this little chat?” Patience is not something I have a lot of as it is, so it’s pretty much nonexistent right now.
“Just making sure you know what you’re doing, man.”
“I’m not doing anything. We needed help, so I hired help. Isn’t that what you’ve been bitching at me to do for the last six months?”
“Whatever you say. By the way, this came for you earlier. I had to sign for it.” He tosses an envelope onto the cushion next to me.
“Thanks.”
I tear open the envelope, wondering what’s so important that it required a signature. In the upper left corner, it lists a name and address of a business that I don’t recognize.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing this letter to declare my interest in buying your property in River’s Edge, California. I’ve attached my business plan along with an offer. I’m willing to work with your attorney or handle this personally, whichever you’re more comfortable with. Please contact me with any questions you may have.
I crumple the papers up and toss them into the trash can next to my desk without even looking at his offer. It’s not the first time someone has tried to buy Bad Intentions. We’re in a prime location, right smack in the middle of what I like to refer to as the tourist trap of River’s Edge. It’s the first thing everyone sees coming into town, right next to the bars and casinos. Too bad I have exactly zero interest in selling. This place means more to me than anything or anyone ever has. You can’t put a price tag on that.
“What was that about?”
“Someone wants to buy the shop.”
Cordell snorts out a laugh, knowing I’d sooner chop off my own dick than sell. “I’m going to clean up my station, then grab a beer with Cam. You in?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I stand, making my way to my desk to bury myself in a sketch, mostly so I don’t have to see the disappointed look I know will be on his face. Cam’s usually too busy to go out between his snowboarding career and his new role as a family man, so I should stop being an asshole and just go, but I’m not in the mood.
“All right, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Alec isn’t too far behind Cord, and soon I have the shop to myself. I’m almost back to the drawing room when I hear it. A muffled ringtone coming from the front of the shop.
Someone must’ve forgotten their phone.
The ringing stops, only to start right back up again. I figure whoever is calling is looking for their phone, so reluctantly I make my way back up front, following the sound. I find it in one of the drawers of the front desk, so it must be Logan’s.
“Hello?”
“Who the fuck is this?” It’s a man’s voice. A very angry man’s voice. Does she have a boyfriend? Seems like that should’ve come up…ideally, before we hooked up.
“Who’s this?” I throw the question back at him.
“Where’s Logan?”
“Busy.” Some instinct tells me not to tell this guy a damn thing. He’s quiet for a minute before responding.
“Be sure to let her know she’s only making things worse by avoiding me.”
He hangs up, and I’m left wondering who this douche is to Logan. She doesn’t seem like the type of
person to put up with any shit, so what the fuck is he doing in her life?
“Rise and shine, princess.”
I hear her voice, and at first, I think it’s a dream. But the kink I feel in my neck tells me I passed out on the couch in the drawing room. Again. Without locking up, apparently. I lift my head off the arm of the couch and rub the back of my neck before peeling my eyes open. I squint up at Logan, who is standing in front of me, amused expression plastered to her pretty face.
“What time is it?” I ask, stretching my neck from side to side. Tattooing people today is going to fucking suck after sleeping in that position all night. I’ve been known to crash here occasionally, especially since Adrian seems to have taken up permanent residence in my house, but I usually have enough sense to fall asleep in a slightly more comfortable position.
“I don’t know. I think I left my phone here last night, but I’m guessing it’s right after ten.”
I stand, moving past her to my desk, grabbing her phone. “You did.”
She looks nervous, worrying that plump bottom lip between her teeth. She snatches the phone out of my hand and stuffs it into her back pocket.
“What?” she asks defensively when she realizes I’m staring.
“You got a call.”
Blush crawls up her neck, and her nostrils flare. “You answered my phone?” Her voice is incredulous.
“Calm down, Sally. I didn’t know whose phone it was, and it wouldn’t shut up. Thought maybe someone was looking for it.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Stop calling me that. Who called?” she asks, scrolling through her phone.
“He didn’t say, but he wasn’t happy that I answered.”
“Goddammit.”
“Who was it?” Her reaction tells me I’m right to be wary of this guy. Not that it’s my business, but somehow, it feels like it is.
“No one.”
“So, you always have random guys calling you, threatening you, at all hours of the night?
“Drop it,” she says, her voice firm. “You’re opening soon. Show me what to do.”
Bad Intentions (Bad Love) Page 9