I pull into the employee parking lot and kill the engine to my car, tired as hell. By the time I got to my apartment and showered off the filth of the night, I only had an hour to sleep before I had to be up again to get ready. Now that I’m here, Kross has split opening and closing shifts between Cassie and me, and the one that opens is responsible for making coffee for the rest of staff here at open with appointments.
In my state of panic as I jumped out of bed, realizing I hit snooze too many times, all I had time for was Starbucks drive thru, arriving promptly two minutes before the doors are supposed to be open with the sign on. I still have to have the computer booted up and ready to go, and unless I’m going to go up and down stairs I have to walk around the building.
I get out and reach in to get the drink holder full of cups off my passenger floorboard. I walk as quickly as I can to the front door and unlock it, turning on the open sign as I walk inside.
Luckily, it only looks like Wesson is here so far. Thank you, God. Maybe I don’t have to deal with the wrath of Kross running on minimal sleep, because I was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. To be so hot he’s scary as fuck. All of the artists are uptight when he’s here. You’d think it was a totally different staff compared to when he’s gone.
As I round the desk and hit the button to start up the computer, the door leading to the studio opens, Wesson stepping off the bottom step. “Someone’s late,” he says with a smile smeared across his face.
I hand him the tall medium roast—what he always orders. “Shut up. Please don’t tell Kross. I had to work late at my other job.”
“That depends. Are you going to finally let me tattoo you? You know I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you since you started,” he says in his normal flirty demeanor. “I’m a great teacher too. I can show you more than how to empty the garbage or clean the bathrooms.”
I’ve clicked with Wesson more than I have anyone else here so far. He’s the most laidback one out of all the artists, though he’s a little quiet in a group. He’s become a friend, and one I’d hang out with after work for drinks, but that may change if he doesn’t stop asking me out every time we’re alone. He’s cute enough, his brown hair longer and messy, stopping just over his ears, and I love that his body is almost covered in ink, but if something is supposed to happen it just does, and with him, there is nothing there but platonic coworker love. No sparks. No sizzle. No burn. No electricity or humming in the air. Just lighthearted, easy conversation.
He takes a sip of his coffee. “I don’t know. I’m too busy right now working two jobs. Maybe soon.”
“You shouldn’t be working two jobs, Delta. It’s unhealthy.”
“Well, bills have to get paid somehow. People do it all the time.”
“If he’s not paying you enough, you should ask for a raise or quit. I see all of the shit he has you doing and it has nothing to do with learning to tattoo. Cassie doesn’t even clean the studio. It’s the responsibility of the artist to keep his own shit clean.”
“Do you have a problem with the way I run my shop, Wesson?”
Tingles runs down my spine at the sound of that voice. I glance at the entry to the stairs, behind where Wesson is standing. There’s a back stairway at the employee door that everyone uses to get to the studio, aside from whoever opens the front.
His eyes are already on me. He’s standing on the second step, leaned forward with his hands on the frame above him, his tattoo-covered arm muscles more noticeable due to the slight flexing as he grips onto the wood. His black Hurley shirt is fitted, emphasizing the hard body I know resides underneath, and he’s wearing a black cap. Everything on his body is black, aside from his faded jeans, including his earrings. I can smell his cologne from here.
I would fuck his brains out.
I shake my head, trying to rid it of those completely inappropriate thoughts. He’s my boss. It’s unfortunate the one man that has me completely beside myself in years has to be the one I work for. That’s my luck, though. “Good morning. Sleep well?”
Because you look like you slept well . . .
Fuck, shut up.
“Is that my coffee?” I guess he’s going to completely disregard me like he usually does when I’m trying to be friendly in the morning. And here I thought I wasn’t the morning person. He makes me look like a chirpy bird.
“Yes,” I respond, handing him a cup as he steps down onto the main floor.
He grabs the cup out of my hand. “Since the two of you are having a meeting about my company why don’t we finish it now that I’m here. What was it you were saying, Wesson?”
“Nothing, Kross. My intention wasn’t to disrespect you. I just think she’s ready to start learning more about being an actual artist and leave the maid shit for us all to split like we always have. It’s been four months. If you aren’t going to let her tattoo, then why did you hire her?”
“And you think she’s ready to permanently mark a client’s body?”
“She can sit with me and watch. I’ll talk her through it, with the client’s consent, of course.”
He looks at me as Kross stares him down. Shut up, I mouth.
He briefly squints at me. “I’ll save the hands-on practice for between clients. She can tattoo me.”
Kross looks at me, anger showing on his face. “What do you think, Delta? Do you have complaints about your employment here, pay or otherwise?”
He’s obviously heard way more of this conversation than I wish he had, and I didn’t even start it. “No. Things are fine the way they are. I like my job.”
Wesson narrows his eyes at me. I can see him from my peripheral vision, but my eyes remain on Kross. Call me a pussy for not taking a stand, but I will keep my job one way or another. He takes a sip of his coffee and walks toward me. “Wesson, go prep for your client,” he commands.
Footsteps sound as Wesson runs up the stairs, leaving us alone. He hands me the coffee cup back. “Do I look like I want dessert with my coffee?”
I notice the label on the side of his cup. “Shit, that’s mine. I’m sorry.” I switch out the cups in his hand. “Yours is dark roast: black.”
He steps closer, making me nervous. “I tried to call you last night to give you some practice. Where were you?”
“At work.”
“At 3AM?”
“Yes.”
“It went straight to voicemail. I’ve never had a problem getting ahold of you at the bar. Why was your phone off?”
Guilt consumes me as the events of last night and what I allowed Chuck to do to me on that desk resurface, though I don’t know why. I feel like I cheated on my boyfriend and am lying after getting questioned, which is stupid. I’m not currently promised to anyone. Still, the truth remains that I shut my phone off after we had sex. I felt like trash. I’ve held out for two years just to give it away negligently.
If my body were capable of producing tears I would have cried, but my heart hardened when I was just a kid, my tear ducts turning to stone. Crying never gets you anywhere. But last night I felt like a whore, lying there and spreading my legs to ensure an income, and because of it, I let myself act like one for the rest of the night, dancing and stripping for money like I used to do. Only this time it didn’t give me the rush like it did back then. Every hand that placed money in my underwear felt like coming in contact with disease. I’m not proud of myself right now, and that’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long time.
“My phone died,” I lie. “I didn’t have time to charge it between here and there.”
He stares at me in a way he never has, as if he knows I’m lying. I’m not sure why I am, honestly. I don’t want to give him any reason to think I don’t deserve to be here. I’m just going through a hard time financially right now and I don’t want any special treatment. I want to be treated like everyone else here.
He leans in. I’m fighting hard not to touch him. God, I want those full lips on me so bad. A man like him should not have lips that sexy. They’re bite worthy. Four months around him is like enduring four months locked in a padded room with no food or water. I feel like I’m going insane and starving at the same time.
“When Cassie gets here, come upstairs.” His hand grabs ahold of the front of my neck, firm but not tight enough to hurt me, his thumb resting on my jugular. I never look away. “No one,” he barks, his cologne wafting into my nose, his eyes boring into mine, “is going to train you or tattoo your body but me. If you think I’m joking, test me. Deal with your boy toy. If I have to it’ll be a lot less civil. Consider this the only warning.”
I swallow. My skin is burning beneath his touch. “And if I want a tattoo?”
“Then you lay your ass in my chair and I’ll give you one. The day you accepted this job you became my property.” His eyes scan down my body in a way that scares me but spikes my adrenaline. My breathing becomes heavy, my muscles lithe. “My property is not for public use. From this point forward, another set of hands better not touch your body, much less anything else. I’ve dealt with men for less.”
“What do you want from me?” My fucking mouth . . .
“When I’m ready for you to know, you will. Since the two of you took the liberty to discuss your employment, you’re going to sit with me today.” His thumb presses harder against my vein, my pulse pushing against the pressure he’s exerting. “Oh, and don’t lie to me again. Next time I can’t get you I’m coming to find out why.”
And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the stairwell, and for the first time since he came down here I can breathe evenly and with ease. Slowly, my bottom lowers to the seat of the chair, my eyes staring out the window at the parking lot.
My hand rubs where his just was. My skin is still hot. Something tells me there’s more to him than meets the eye. He’s dangerous, but in what ways I don’t know. Still, as I sit here, I want his hands back on me . . . in any way I can have them.
