by Stark, Lola
TATTERED LOVE
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LOLA STARK
Copyright © 2013 Lola Stark
Tattered Love is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this book either are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Cover it Designs. Formatting by Black Firefly
Editing by Hot Tree Editing.
Table Of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
First and foremost, I’d like to say a big thank you to my family for putting up with my crap, missing meals, having to do extra chores around the house and for loving me even when I was a nominee for World’s Crappy Mummy Awards. My husband thank you for letting me ignore you, and I might have been wrong that time I called you an asshole wrapped in tinfoil; you’re definitely my “Tony Stark knight in shining armor” type.
To my bitches—in no particular order, without you girls, I would still be a sobbing, shaking, thumb-sucking mess rocking in the corner. Bec, my bush pig, keep that voxer hand strong and keep that elephant toe alive baby! You are my go to girl, my sista from another mista. I heart you big and I would have been lost without you. Melody, my wifey, I love your face, woman. You kicked me in the ass and pushed me to keep going when I was ready to give up. You will forever be my fluff bunny. Sali, my best beta bitch! For all the brainstorms, the giggles and rewrites. You may have tried to kill me with plot holes, development and strange voxer messages, but I love you and your banana lounger ass all the same. Here’s to blue moons and one handed reading. Bella, you rock my world on a daily basis. When I grow up I wanna be just like you, bipolar and crazy as fuck. Love ya guts out snatchgrab ! Caitlin, for getting excited over my crap and letting me send you creepy messages. I’ll fan girl on you from now until the booze runs out. Becky, my editor, you rock hard core. I’ll forever be in your debt. You worked just as hard on my rotten editing as I did on this book. I’m thankful for not getting stabby photos from you. Love your guts out forever. Jenny, for keepin me laughing with your cute ass pm’s.
To all the people who had a hand in making this book what it is, you know who you are, I am forever grateful for your help. A special mention to Miss Renee and her missing nose—did you ever find that sneaky bastard? Thanks for your help, buttery! Bloggers, Readers, Triple M, Mel and My Kiss It street team, I might have written Tattered Love, but it’s your hard work, reviews and reading that will keep it strong. You are the pillar of the book community and deserve all the praise you get. Lisa for keeping me knee deep in swag. Rock Wat rocks!
Right so now, I’ve gone and got dust in my eyes and they’re watering and crap. Enough of this soppy squishy shit, turn the damn page and get to reading.
This book is dedicated to my son
We were blessed with almost three beautiful years with you before you were called home to God. Every day without you is a struggle. In the weeks, months and years after we lost you. I found myself in reading, being able to escape my personal hell and dive into the fantasy land of books. With the courage and strength I built after realizing my life wasn’t a nightmare, I was going to wake up from, I decided to write, and here it is. This is for you. You helped me to breathe again, baby boy.
To the world you were one, but to us you were the world.
Climbing out of my cherry-red 1967 Shelby Cobra GT500, I locked the doors and ran my hand down the hood as I headed toward another day of work. She was beautiful: all soft black leather interior, a deep rumble under the hood when you’d start her up, and a purr when she idled: pure panty-melting power all wrapped up in one muscle car. In case it wasn’t obvious, I was in love with my baby.
Throwing one last look over my shoulder, I stepped in through the back door of my store and relief settled through me. It was good to be here. It was my haven. My happy place. It was home. I owned a small tattoo parlor right in the middle of town. I’d received a small inheritance after my dad died just a year before I opened Needle’s Kiss.
After tying up all the loose ends and paying funeral costs, I was left with enough in the bank that I only needed a small loan to set up the shop just the way I dreamed. I always wanted to do something with my hands; great things could be created with just a set of hands. That was my life’s plan, to create masterpieces, maybe not the conventional type, but I most definitely did what I loved.
The smell of antiseptic wafted through the air as I walked through the shop flicking on the lights. Home. A large open space at the front of my shop acted as a waiting room, complete with two large black leather sofas separated with a chunky distressed wooden chest that acted as a coffee table. The walls were covered with an array of colorful posters, flip albums and photographs of previous work. Behind the front counter, there were four smaller three-wall cubby-type rooms, all stark white and clinically clean, but each slightly personalized for laying down ink and piercing. Every square inch was decked out with top of the line equipment. I was a firm believer in the old saying a man is only as good as the tools he works with, and we had the best of the best. There were also two more closed off rooms at the rear, one an office and the other a break room/chill out spot. All were evenly spaced, leaving a large walkway down the middle of the shop out the back door to our personal parking lot.
Now, Needle's Kiss wasn't even close to world famous, but it was mine. I worked hard to make it what it was. It gave me all those warm squishy feelings just looking around and knowing I belonged somewhere in the world.
The store was my life, my bread and butter, my father's legacy in a way. He too had a passion for body art and encouraged me every day to “step outside the box” and “do what makes you want to get out of bed every day. There’s no sense in doing something that makes your life mundane”. I knew he’d be proud of me.
The few years Needle’s Kiss had been open resulted in a long list of regular, loyal clients that raved about our friendly atmosphere and attention to detail. Not to toot my own horn, but toot motherfucking toot, I’d even won a few awards for my work and boasted the title of the only female artist in town.
I also had two fantastic arti
sts, Remy and Trip; both were great at what they did and we'd become close friends working together the last few years. Those guys were like the brothers I never had. I never had been one of those girly-girls, always preferring to hang out with the guys. I had only one female friend. I’d rather spend time working on my car, watching a game or downing a cold beer. I swore like a sailor and didn’t give a shred of a shit if people didn’t like it. It’s who I am. I wasn’t without my girl-like vices, but they were minimal.
What made all this even sweeter was the fact I was just twenty-six. There weren’t a lot of women who could claim to be successful business owners at that age. And that right there was half of my dream. Three years ago, when I was equally excited and nervous as bat shit opening Needle's Kiss, I spent countless hours making sure everything was perfect and perfectly me. By the time I opened those doors to my first paying customers, the nerves had died down, and I was just downright proud of myself, and of the blood, sweat and ink that had gone into it.
Oh, there was plenty of all three before opening day. But with the help of my best friend and a few paintbrushes, we did most of the work ourselves.
I worked hard to get my loan paid off in record time, and knowing I owned my very own piece of paradise made my heart swell with pride and accomplishment.
The other half of my dream, the part that would have made it all complete, given me that awe inspiring sense of contentment; well, that was the part I'd given up on, or at least put off indefinitely.
Finding ‘The One’.
It was simple really. I just wanted a man who looked at me like I was his world. But now, I was happy to find a guy who didn’t think the sun shined outta his ass, wasn’t cheating, an asshole or a weird freak who walked around in my underwear and heels while I was out because it made him feel sexy.
Yes, it happened, and it really wasn’t that funny at the time. That prick stole my favorite Jimmy Choo’s.
Apparently, I had a stamp on my forehead that said 'fuck with me, screw me over, or flog my shit'.
I had my own style that didn’t appeal to everybody, and I knew I hadn’t fallen from the ugly tree—my best friend since the young age of five, Teeny, told me all the time that I was a knock out, but she had to talk me up, it was in the BFF rule book. It could be found right between “I shall not screw your man” and “during a bitch smack down, one must take each other’s back, or distract the police long enough not to get caught.”
I'd even had my share of male attention, so I knew I wasn’t unpleasant to look at. I had just enough self-confidence not to make me conceited. I also knew how to make myself feel good. I have this unhealthy obsession with ludicrously expensive underwear, and equally expensive, but no less necessary, hot-as-all-hell shoes. A little saying I liked to live by: Keep your head, heels and standards high.
Not a thing in the world can make you feel as good as you do wearing fetish-inducing heels and lacy, silky flirtatious underwear—bank balance damaging, but worth every penny. Even if you were having a prick of a day, you'd still be walking around feeling sexy and confident. And those are essential!
I could, however, be a raging bitch. I told it like it was, and if people didn’t like how I told it, they could shut their pie hole and ride it out, or get the fuck gone.
I turned the computer on to check on my appointments for the day appreciating the fact it was going to be a fairly slow morning, which meant I had time to work on my sketching. I was drawing up a piece for my ribs: a curling dragon breathing fire downward to the front of my lower abdominal muscles, stopping just at my panty line. It would be intricate and sexy when it was done, making an exciting addition to my other ink.
I heard the sound of heavy boots coming from the back door of the shop just as Trip rounded the corner wearing his signature look of black jeans with a chain running from his belt loops to his back pocket. A chunky black belt with a large silver buckle teamed with a white wife beater tank under an open black short-sleeved button down shirt that showed off his art and ripped body completed his look.
“Hey Scar, how's it lookin’, babe?”
“Hey, Trip, slow goes it this morning. You've got Teeny comin’ in to get her nipple done at ten, and then you’re free till noon.”
“Why's Teeny comin’ to me? She’s your girl. Shouldn’t you be takin’ care of her?” he asked, looking slightly annoyed.
I couldn't help the urge to tease him first thing. “Says you've got magic hands, honey. It's either that, or she just wants a hot hunk of a man playin’ with her titties.”
Trip choked on the coffee he’d been about to swallow and glared at me. “Told ya once, tellin’ ya again, don't piss where ya sleep, babe.”
I stifled a laugh, loving the fact I could get a rise out of him. I replied softly “Sweetheart, she's just checkin’ you out; she's not going to throw herself on you while you’re shoving a needle in her boob.” I ruffled his feathers. “Besides, I've seen you checkin’ her ass out more than once, so don't be sittin’ there acting the choirboy you ain’t ever been.”
That was met with a smirk and him walking off with a cocky strut to set up his station for the day’s clients.
No one could ever accuse Trip of being unsure of himself.
He was a ladies’ man through and through. The same age as me, he was still sowing his wild oats with anything that had tits and a heartbeat. Women flocked to his flirty, bad boy ways and his good looks. His black hair was cut into a Mohawk which only made him look hotter. That and his eyebrow, lip and tongue piercings—these just the ones you could clearly see—plus his bright-blue eyes and slightly tanned olive skin, an array of colorful tattoos from waist to neck and down both arms, forming beautiful full sleeves made him a sexy specimen of a canvas. The women who crushed on him didn't care if they had him for an hour or a night, as long as they got a piece of his own personal brand of dirty.
It was known across the wider population of the female species that he was well equipped and never left his lovers with any complaints. Some would go so far as to say he'd reached legend status, but I’m not quite sure if he spread that rumor or not! He'd also never been seen with the same girl twice, but behind his man-whore ways, he was still a sweet funny guy, loyal to a fault and had a fierce love for his family and friends. Cross the man though, and you had more than a problem on your hands.
“She bringing donuts at least?” he asked with a grumble.
“When doesn't she?”
Trip always made a point of being clear not to sleep with someone close to him or his friends; however, I knew Teen had crushed on him for years. I just hoped he'd stay strong and steer clear. Those two together would only end with heartbreak, tantrums and tears, from which party I wasn't even sure.
“That two o’clock appointment won’t show,” he yelled out from somewhere behind me.
“When does he ever? I’m not taking bookings for him anymore. He’s a damn tire kicker.”
I hated liars and bullshit artists. You say you’re gonna do something, just do it; that was one of my few pet hates, right up there with people who thought they were better than everyone else. Worse again were people who judged a book by its cover. Cliché, yes, but so fucking true!
Unfortunately, not many people could see me through my jet-black hair, which every other week (only a slight exaggeration) had different colored streaks through it, bright green eyes and five foot six stature, with a decent serving of ink and piercings, and not pass judgment. Besides the fact that I was mostly tits and ass, and I dressed to play up my assets sometimes to the extreme. Hey, you got it, flaunt it, baby.
My personal favorite judgments came from the woman who had called herself my mother.
They went a little like this: “You could have been such a pretty girl if only you hadn't put all that stuff on yourself.” Oh and, “I would have grandchildren by now if you hadn't ruined yourself. Nobody wants’ a mother or wife looking so lower class, darling.”
Yeah, a stellar mother I had, and I used
that name very loosely. We didn't see eye-to-eye, and frankly, I never understood how my father had been married to her for ten years. They’d split up when I was thirteen, mostly because she had been cheating on him for years.
My dad had kept me, and my lying, cheating mother moved right on in with said “on the side boyfriend” who was some kind of CEO and had been well equipped to keep her in diamonds and designer gowns, a lifestyle she’d preferred over being a wife and mother.
I looked up at the sound of the bell jingling above the door.
“How’s my best ho?” This was Teeny’s usual greeting; there was never a lack of smartass love.
“Hey, Hooker, I missed your face. Trip’s in the back waitin’ on his donuts, babe. Just go on through and he'll get you all prepped up.”
Teeny walked over to give me a one-armed hug and a big fat ol’ kiss and hurried on back to Trip's station. “Can’t keep a sexy beast like that waiting.” She threw over her shoulder as she went. As usual, she was decked out looking like a million bucks, mostly for Trip’s benefit no doubt. She looked good—she always looked fantastic with her pretty blonde hair that's as straight as a board, blue-grey eyes, and smoky make-up that gave her a sultry look. She might appear meek and quiet with her five-foot-three frame, but that girl was a firecracker. You would never guess from the way we talk to each other just what she meant to me. Teeny had always been there—at my worst, at my best. She was always in the wings, silently watching my back. She knew I could take care of myself.
One of the many things I’d learned about Teeny growing up was she loved her sleep. Since the age of seven, when we had our first sleep over, it was obvious then. She was grumpy as all get out in the morning. This had only slightly improved over the years, significantly since she could drink a shit-ton of coffee. Another fact about Teeny that I discovered at age twelve, was you didn't mess with Teeny, her family or her friends. If you did, you'd get one hell of a serving; that girl had a temper worse than a rabid pit bull. At age seventeen, a house full of high school party goers and I watched her throw one hell of a right hook that knocked her cheating piece-of-crap boyfriend right on his ass. He was naked and caught red-handed, leaving him with a broken nose and two black eyes. Adding to his humiliation, he had to explain the rest of the school year how he was bested by tiny, little chick fists.