And that’s when the problems began.
Because Arrow ran a bad shop. It was unclean. Managed poorly. And, worst of all, he treated his customers like shit. It was immediately obvious, within the first few weeks of working there, that ‘Skull and Bones’ was a sinking ship.
So I’d done something that I now feared was monumentally stupid: I bought it from him. It hadn’t been worth much, but it still cost me a small business loan from the bank (and an interest-free loan from my parents). Arrow had been happy to have it off his hands, and now I understood why.
Beyond the utter awfulness of how he’d run his business, there was the cold, hard fact that our block was becoming exponentially trendier. We didn’t have succulents in our windows or serve cappuccinos to our waiting customers. We didn’t specialize in the hip, new tattoo styles, and we’d been so broke I hadn’t been able to afford to change anything inside with the exception of reinstating levels of cleanliness that should have been standard practice for our industry.
But none of that mattered because we couldn’t get any customers to come in. Customers were heading toward the newer, nicer shops. A small, rational part of my brain knew that owning a small business (with absolutely no expertise) would be an uphill battle. And I’d happily accepted the challenge.
I was Roxy Fucking Quinn. I ate uphill battles for breakfast. Stomped on problems with my combat boots while shaving my head for the hundredth time.
Except… that profit squiggle was declining. Sharply. Persistently.
And so I’d grimly enrolled in CUNY’s Executive MBA program—one year, ten hours of classes a week—thinking it would magically fix all of my problems.
It hadn’t.
I turned on an old Misfits album as I wiped down the black leather chairs and cleaned the tattoo guns. Confirmed a few appointments for tomorrow and straightened my desk. Swept the floors and double-checked our inventory of ink. Tried to quiet my anxious thoughts with repetitive motions and loud punk.
Because even with all its problems, I loved this little shop as shabby as it was. It wasn’t as brightly lit or cheerful as the newer places, but once I took over I’d filled the walls with black-and-white photos of my favorite musicians and old snapshots of New York City. I hung my art on the walls next to Mack’s and Scarlett’s, my other artists. It was a hodge-podge of vintage sailor designs (my specialty), surreal landscapes, and intricate black-and-white portraits. It wasn’t overly inviting… but we were friendly.
We just didn’t look it.
And now I was up to my eyeballs in school debt and business debt, and even worse, I’d convinced Mack and Scarlett to come over from other shops. We’d been friends for years, and they trusted me to keep them safe. They relied on me for their paychecks, their reputation, their livelihood.
And I was squandering that trust away.
Exhausted, I hauled my books and papers into my bag and flipped off the music. I was just turning off the lights when the bell rang over the door.
“We’re closed,” I called over my shoulder although technically we were open for another hour. But I just wanted to kick off my combat boots and crawl into bed.
“Please don’t be closed,” the customer said, and I turned at the sound of his refined English accent. I narrowed my eyes at his appearance: three-piece, striped suit. Tie only slightly askew. Hair immaculate. Shoes a gleaming crimson.
“We’re closed,” I repeated. “And I think you’ve got the wrong place.”
The man sighed. “I don’t think that I do, actually.”
I popped a hand on my hip, smirking. “Yeah, the bank is that way.”
I muttered corporate asshole under my breath as I gathered the rest of my things and pondered pepper-spraying the man in the bespoke suit and shiny shoes.
“Interestingly, I’m not looking for a bank. I’m looking for a willing tattoo artist to place permanent ink on my body that will help me forget the fact that I was just spectacularly dumped. In public. By my girlfriend of two years.”
I stopped in my tracks. Noticed that he was listing, just slightly, against the doorway. My eyes narrowed further, raking over his form. He was white, with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair. Tall and almost graceful, his broad shoulders also hinted at powerful muscle beneath those fancy threads.
I dropped my bag.
“Huh,” I said, sauntering towards him. I didn’t miss the way his eyes snagged on my hips. “Let me guess. You’re drunk?”
He blushed just slightly. “Let’s just say I’m not sober. Five strong drinks in. Drunk enough to make a decision I’ll regret the rest of my life. Not drunk enough to not want to do it. Does that make sense?”
His accent was doing things to me. Things I’d rather it not do.
“I don’t ink drunk dudes,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Even if you’re only not not drunk. This might look like a piece-of-shit establishment, but I take it seriously. This is my business.”
The man held his palms up. “Not looking for a fight, um, ma’am? I’m sorry, are you a ma’am? Or a… a miss?” He wasn’t joking, but he was adorable, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
He noticed.
I wondered what else he was noticing or judging: my heavily tattooed skin, bleached-white hair shaved on the sides, septum ring and nipple rings (not that he could see those). I looked like Trouble.
He looked like Wall Street.
A slightly flushed English Wall Street.
“Neither,” I said. “I’m Roxy.”
“Roxy?” His eyebrows arched.
“That’s my name,” I said. “Why, what’s yours? Something dignified like Dilbert?”
He snorted, eyes crinkling at the sides, and my belly tightened. “Good one. I expected something crasser, but Dilbert is good. And no, it’s Edward.”
Edward. He looked like an Edward. Gentle and polite. Certainly not the kind of man I was typically attracted to—dirty in all the ways that counted. Hard and muscled and silent—the kind of man that liked fucking me in front of my mirror.
Edward looked like the kind of man who would break for tea halfway through.
He plopped down on one of the leather tattoo chairs. “And you haven’t asked me about my very recent break-up. Recent as in three hours before I came in here.”
“And you haven’t told me what kind of tattoo you thought would obliterate the pain of heartbreak,” I said dryly since I’d seen it all before. Had tattooed hearts and names and then inked them over when things went south.
Edward shrugged, lips quirking up. He tried to catch my eye, but I turned away quickly. “I’ll tell you my story if you recommend a tattoo.”
“That I’m not giving you now, are we clear on that?” I asked.
“Yes… ma’am,” he finally said with a slight rasp to his voice that had the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“Okay, then,” I said, sitting primly in the chair next to him. I crossed my legs, and his eyes trailed up my torn fishnet stockings. “Hello?” I snapped, even though I kind of liked the feel of it—a polite perusal.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking genuinely apologetic. “What you should know is that while I am a corporate asshole, I’m quite a nice one.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
“I have excellent hearing, Roxy,” he said. My toes curled in my boots. I shifted in my chair, shaking the feeling away. “I come from a long line of corporate assholes. Actually, that’s not entirely true. My family comes from old money in England. We own The Cartwright Hotel chain.”
The air rushed out of my lungs.
“You’re familiar?” he asked.
“You know I am,” I drawled, trying to mentally guess how much he was worth. The Cartwright Hotel chain was famously lavish and exorbitantly priced, catering to the mega-wealthy all across the world.
“So, yes, we’re both corporate assholes and old money. The very worst combination,” he said, smiling now.
“Okay, I get it. Don
’t judge a book by its cover or whatever,” I said.
He chuckled in appreciation. “Unfortunately, I do not own The Cartwright Hotel in Manhattan. My parents do. I have managed it for them for the past decade. My younger siblings both own their own Cartwrights in various locations.”
“They own their own hotels, but you just manage yours?” I asked, catching his clarification.
“Yes,” he said, cheeks flushing slightly. “A vital aspect of this rubbish story. My parents, like most people in their extremely privileged position, are maniacally concerned with their legacy. Ownership of our own hotels is written into our private trust funds. And that ownership is contingent upon marriage to a suitable partner. Suitable meaning a partner they approve of. And of course, a partner with whom we will reproduce, thereby joyously continuing their legacy.”
I snorted—I couldn’t help it. “That sounds like a business arrangement, Dilbert. Not a family.”
Edward opened his palms face-up with a look of gratitude. “Ah, you understand. It is a business arrangement, and as I love The Cartwright Hotel, I’m more than ready to marry an approved partner and receive ownership. Was ready to marry, for example, the woman who just terminated our relationship at Le Bernardin.”
“That’s a fancy place to have your heart smashed in. And a very corporate vision of marriage,” I said.
“I am a Cavendish, after all,” he sighed. “But I don’t want it to seem like Emily and I, over these past two years, didn’t… didn’t care for each other. Even though, and I can admit this to myself now,” he said, sliding a hand through his hair and mussing it slightly, “she was likely a she-devil parading around on this earth as a human woman.”
“She-devil,” I smirked. “Explain.”
“Well, she bloody broke up with me at a restaurant and wouldn’t even let me get bloody angry as she ripped my heart out and stomped on it.” He let out a long exhale, and for the first time I saw pain, not levity, in his gaze. I turned around and fired up the coffee pot behind me, pulling out two mugs.
Edward’s brow lifted.
“Is this one of those new-fangled tattoo machines?”
“Har har,” I said. “It’s a coffee pot. Because at some point, after you’ve bored me with this story of corporate asshole-ry, you’re going to need to be sober enough to leave me alone.” I nodded towards him. “So, please continue. You were getting to the good part.”
He smirked again, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “You’ve got a real mouth on you, don’t you, love?”
“Don’t call me love,” I said swiftly. “Not the type. And continue.”
“Well,” Edward said, reaching up to loosen his tie. A small patch of his smooth skin revealed itself, right at the base of his throat. “As I was saying, in retrospect, and granted, it’s only been three hours, Emily and I were more like polite friends than a couple in love. And that’s the way she treated our break-up. A mutual parting of the ways, although I was shocked to pieces.”
“And the sex?” I asked.
His eyes met mine, steady. A cool blue. “Not… like it was. Not like I, I mean… there’s a way I think I prefer, to be honest.” That blush again.
“Oh… kay,” I said, rolling my eyes to cover up the incessant beating of my heart. What kind of sex did he prefer?
I handed him a mug of steaming coffee, and he gave me a brief look of appreciation. “If this sobers me up, can I have that tattoo?” he said.
“Nope,” I said. “And continue.”
Edward’s fingers continued to loosen his tie. I was salivating a little. Even though he wasn’t my type.
Not at all.
“She’s always been a bit… cold. Distant. But I guess it’s been getting worse, and I never really noticed. Although, I thought, well… I don’t know, I thought we might be something. Two years is a long time. Especially when the assumption is that you’re to be wed…” he trailed off, staring into his coffee.
My fingers itched with the desire to rip this girl’s throat out. “And then what?” I asked but softly.
“For the past six months, she’s hardly been around. We’ve attended the proper social functions, of course, and made sure to be featured in the society pages as expected, but we’ve been lacking a connection. And then, well,” he lifted his mug in cheers to me, “tonight, at this very swanky, very elegant restaurant, she told me she’d been shagging my mate for six months.”
I choked on my coffee, and he laughed sadly. “Oh, Roxy. I know we don’t know each other well—”
“—or at all,” I interjected. “And I mean that literally. It’s been, what, twenty minutes since you walked in here?”
He laughed again, but it didn’t sound as sad. “I like you, Roxy.”
“And I think you’re really fucking strange,” I said, but there was mirth in my voice. Mirth I didn’t realize I had for corporate assholes.
“As I was saying, my life feels like a cliché. My girlfriend sleeping with my friend. Who does that? And thus, I had drinks. And got the brilliant idea for a tattoo. Which now you won’t even give me.”
“Having integrity as a tattoo artist makes me a real monster,” I said dryly. “Plus, doesn’t this break-up fuck up your plan with your hotel?”
“Yes,” he said mournfully. “Yes, it does. I will continue to be my father’s puppet and never get to rightfully own the place I love the most.”
I tilted my head, thinking. I wanted to tell Edward that the kind of parent that would withhold anything from their child for their ‘legacy’ sounded like a real fuck-wit. But then Edward shrugged out of his suit jacket and unsnapped his cuff links to shove the material past his forearms.
His sexy forearms.
“I was cheated on,” I said and immediately wished I could shove the words back inside my mouth. It’d happened a long time ago, and I barely even thought about it anymore, and I wasn’t in the habit of sharing intimate stories with strangers.
“Someone cheated on you?” he asked.
“Why do you seem so surprised?” I lifted my chin. “Bad stuff happens to good people all the time.”
“Because you…” There was a strained silence as his eyes drifted back to my legs again. He swallowed roughly. “You look like the kind of woman who could cut a man’s heart out. Willingly. Maybe feed it to him in a creative twist.”
I hid my smile behind my coffee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, it could be the giant knives you have tattooed on your arms.”
I twisted the limbs in question, grinning at the multiple knives inked there.
“Huh,” I shrugged. “Well, all I’m saying is, it happens. And it sucks. But the flipside is now you know she was a she-devil and can move the fuck on.”
Edward reached his mug forward, clinking it against mine. “I feel utterly pathetic, Roxy.”
I almost said something cutting then decided against it. “We’ve all been there. Believe me.” Our eyes met. “I know what rock bottom looks like.”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely,” I said firmly. “Only way out is up.” I’d said something similar to my little sister, Fiona, after I’d found out Jimmy had been cheating on me: I’m so fucking pathetic.
Edward slid closer, but I didn’t want a closer look at his refined, handsome face. The aquiline nose. Steel-blue eyes. I wanted to caress his forehead, shift the hair away.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking and am filled with despair, but nothing looks up right now. Except permanently changing my body.” Edward looked at my skin. “You did it. Why can’t I?”
I shook my head. “You’ll wake up tomorrow, still sad, but with a tattoo you didn’t want. And they don’t come off. The despair, though, will go away.” I gave him a tiny smile. “Promise.”
“Plus, I was going to get it on my arse,” he said, and I spit my coffee out. All over his nice white shirt.
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I tried to stand, but he reached out
, grasping his fingers around my wrist. Holding me for the merest of seconds.
“Don’t,” he said.
And I sat back down.
“It’s fine, really. It’ll be my memory of this lovely night we’re having together.”
I bit my lip. Was this lovely night really happening?
“Were you really going to get one on your ass?” I asked.
Edward shrugged with a smirk. “You’ll never know, Roxy. And now you’ll never have the sincere pleasure of seeing it.”
“Didn’t want to see it anyway,” I said.
A silence stretched on, suddenly awkward. “I’m guessing I’m not the usual type that comes in here?” he said, finally.
“No, you’re not the usual type,” I said. “Or my type for that matter.”
And why in the fuck did I say that? But he was laughing fully now, and it was amazing.
“I understand, love,” he said. I didn’t want to admit that I was warming to the nickname. He reached forward, trapping a strand of my hair between his fingers. “I’ve never dated a woman with hair this color. Or shaved for that matter.”
“Sounds like you’ve dated some truly boring women,” I said.
“What’s this color called?” Less pain in his gaze now. Instead, interest. Captivation. And something warmer, like kindness.
“Rebel Yell,” I said, wholly aware of his finger, lightly stroking my hair. Nothing less, nothing more. And still, it was like a lightning bolt to my senses. I wanted to chalk it up to the fact that I hadn’t had sex in a few months, that I was stressed out with school and my failing business, and my body was only responding to the physical presence of a man.
Another stroke of his finger.
“Are you a rebel, Roxy?” he asked, and fuck that English lilt was getting to me.
“Prob-probably,” I stammered out, shifting backwards and out of his grasp. My senses immediately cleared. “Did you live together? You and this she-devil?” I asked.
He looked away. “No. In our social circle, it wouldn’t have been proper for us to live together before marriage, although she did have quite a few things at my place. And yet, even after two years we never even…” he paused, thinking. “Bloody hell, how many signs did I miss?” He gripped his coffee, knuckles whitening.
Not the Marrying Kind Page 34