Rex (2 page)

“Listen,” he grins, “you’ve seen Tabitha’s wrath. You’re more than welcome to bear the brunt when I tell her you forced me to stay,” he eyes the front desk area, “and tattoo some ridiculously hot chick with a great rack.”

My ears, among other things, perk up at his words. He knows my resistance is next to nothing when it comes to women. Plus, tits are my weakness. “All right. Get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Zack Reeker, better known as Zeek, manages this shop. He’s the one who hired me six months ago when I moved from Boston back to New York City, in desperate need of a gig. I’d been staying with my brother, Hunter, at first. That lasted all of about a month. While he wasn’t pushing me out, we were starting to grate on each others’ nerves. The irony is that I actually moved back to the city to be closer to him. He’s pretty much all I have. My father died of a heart attack when I was twelve and my mother is still alive. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s dead to me.

For at least a month, I pounded the pavement, portfolio in hand, showing examples of my work to anyone who was willing. I was like a fucking puppy dog with my tail wagging, waiting for someone to throw me a bone, give me a chance. Zeek took an instant liking to my work, and I took an instant liking to him. He doesn’t mess around. He’s honest, no-nonsense, and talented as hell.

“Thanks, man. Enjoy.” He winks, his cackling an echo in my ears as he heads out.

“I’ll be right with you,” I yell, and huff out a breath, the only thought on my brain is collapsing onto my bed and zoning for a good eight hours.

I scrape a hand through my hair, bypassing a couple of stations before making it to the front. The first thing I see is a curtain of blonde streaks hanging down over her face as she checks out one of the tattoo books.

“Hey. What can I do for you?”

Her head lifts slowly, hair falling away to reveal a face comprised of porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes framed by thick, lush lashes. I’m trying to catch wind of the color from here—pale blue, maybe grey.

“Hi.” She stands up, her lips pencil straight like she’s nervous or scared, maybe even uptight. That’s when I get a good look at the rest of her. My eyes roam lower from the full, round tits amplified by her tank top, to her skirt, baring legs that seem to go on for miles.

What I could do with those legs.

“I want to get a tattoo.” Her voice is bland, shoulders completely rigid.

“Okay. Do you already have something in mind?” I turn my head, nodding in the direction of my station. “I can bring you back and you can look through some of my designs, get some ideas.”

“I already know what I want,” she retorts, and there’s a sudden chill in the air. I can’t say that tattooing her is going to be all that much fun. She seems like a fucking iceberg, and I’m internally cursing Zeek for handing this one off.

“Sure. Let’s sit down, you can fill me in and then I can sketch it out for you.”

I take a seat next to her and lean back in the chair, angling my body in her direction. She turns to me, and that’s when I get a good look at her eyes. They’re a blue-gray, really pretty. But they’re cold and sad. For a second, I wonder what that’s about.

“I’m looking for something simple.” She points her index finger to her upper arm. “I just want it to say,
love sucks
.”

I repeat it as if I didn’t hear her correctly. “You want it to say, ‘love sucks’?”

“Yeah.”

As a tattoo artist, it’s not my job to argue what art someone wants on their body, but for some reason this doesn’t sit right with me. “You do realize this is permanent, right?”

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes at me. “Yes, of course. I’m well-versed in what a tattoo is, thank you.”

And Jesus, she’s feisty.

“Okay, but….” I shake my head from side to side. “What happens when love doesn’t suck anymore? What happens when it’s pretty fucking amazing?” Where that came from, I don’t have a fucking clue. That’s one four letter word I know nothing about. “I mean, if you were seventy, sure, but you’re young, gorgeous….”

Her lips twitch at the corners, but fall flat again. “Listen, are you going to do the tattoo for me or not?” she hisses. This one’s got a serious bite on her. Somebody fucked her up bad.

“Well—”

“You know what?” She jumps up, heading for the door. “Just forget it. I’ll find someone who’ll do it without interrogating me.” She storms out the door as quickly as she blew in, kicking up a trail of dust in her wake.

What the fuck was that?

All I wanted was a tattoo—two simple words—yet he refused to do it for me. Isn’t that against the law of tattooing or something? That they can question you? They’re getting paid to do whatever you want. Now I have to find another shop, but it’s late and I’m tired.

I lift a finger to wipe away the wetness on my cheek. I hate to admit it, but his words got to me. What if someday love doesn’t suck for me like it sucks for my divorced parents?

I watched them day after day, week after week, year after year, keeping up a facade. Never once did I see the soft brush of a cheek, that simple touch of the lips that says so much more than words. There was no hand holding, nor were there stolen kisses and glances when they thought no one was watching. Tender hugs were nonexistent. Instead, my ears rang from the relentless arguing, doors slamming when they thought I was asleep. The flannel blanket and pillow that were often on the sofa when I came downstairs for breakfast, followed by lame excuses of not being able to sleep. Even then I knew better.

I duck under a store awning, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to force back things I don’t want to remember. But they come anyway.

I got under my blue sheets and pulled the blankets over my head… again. The brown eyes of my teddy bear stared back at me. Even he knew what was happening. And while I was probably too old to hug a stuffed animal, he was all I ever had, so I pulled him close and scrunched my face up tight when I heard the first noise that hurt my ears.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mom shouted, and I wanted to laugh at the fact that I was always told in school never to say those words, yet somehow it was okay for them. I didn’t understand why they were always saying such mean things to one another.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be an asshole if you weren’t such a bitch.”

I kept shaking my head, talking to my teddy bear under my breath, but more bad words came.

“I saw the way you were fucking staring at those men tonight,” Dad said. “I think you forget that you’re my wife and that we’re married. You’re supposed to love me.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Mom laughed, but she didn’t sound happy at all, and her voice got even louder. “Because that is absurd. This, as fucked up as it is, is a partnership of sorts. You and I both know that. It serves a purpose, plain and simple. Just like Vanessa did, didn’t she, Alex?” she snarled, and I pushed off the blanket and sat up straighter in my bed when she said my name, wondering what that meant, listening for anything else that would give me a clue. But the only thing I heard was more cursing from my father before doors slammed and hinges rattled, sending me the same message over and over.

Love was cruel and I didn’t ever want any part of it.

“Excuse me, miss,” a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a cane apologizes after she bumps into me, jarring me from a place I didn’t want to be anyway, reminding me where I am. Reminding me
who
I am. Am I a seventy-year-old woman? No, far from it. I’m only twenty-seven. But do I have hope for love? No. I do, however, have hope for sex. Because that’s what feels good.

Sometimes in the heat of the moment, I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like if I loved that person, and they loved me. Maybe my heart would beat a little faster or a flutter would make my stomach tingle. But I’ll never know—because I’m empty. I don’t have love to give. I don’t even think I know what the word means.

I walk up a few blocks, spotting a bar on the corner. It just happens to be the one my friend, Ryder Callahan, owns. Being in the event planning business gives me an opportunity to meet a lot of great people. Ryder is one of them. He and I met at an event I organized about six years ago. We got to know each other and even dated on and off, but then he moved to Colorado for three years and we parted as friends. I’m glad he came back, though. Aside from my best friend Olivia Redmond, he’s the only other person I feel close to.

The bar is packed when I walk in, but Ryder waves me over the moment he sees me. “Hey, Vanessa, what’s up, darlin’? Hey, Jim.” He waves his hand in a sideways motion. “Move over so my friend here can sit down.”

Jim’s bald head does a quick shake before he takes his beer and slides over, his eyes going back to a baseball game on the television overhead.

Ryder pushes the peanuts at me, then leans his elbows on the counter of the bar. “So, what brings you in so late tonight?”

“It’s a long story,” I reply, popping some nuts in my mouth.

“I’m listening.
After
you finish chewing. I really don’t feel like seeing your food.” He chuckles and I flick his arm.

“Well, I decided I wanted to get a tattoo, and I went down to Intricate Ink to—”

He cuts me off. “Yeah, I know those guys. They’re cool and they do great work.”

“Well, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” I smile, “I wanted to get a tattoo but the asshole in there wouldn’t do it. He was questioning me like what I wanted was stupid.”

“The asshole didn’t say it was stupid,” a voice calls out from behind me, and I whip my head around. “He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t regret it.”

My cheeks burnish a deep red before I stiffen my spine. “And now you’ve added eavesdropping onto your list of offenses.”

“Listen, Blondie,” he says, making my eyes thin, “I came in here to get a beer. Ryder, can I have a beer, please?”

“Sure, Rex, coming right up.” Ryder moves down to the far end of the bar while I continue to give this guy Rex the evil eye. He’s pretty tall, maybe six feet, so I have to lift my chin to reach his gaze.

“Hey.” He holds his hands up in defeat. “I’m not here for you. I just came in to get a beer on my way home.”

“Here you go.” Ryder flicks the cap off and hands him the bottle.

“Thanks, man.” He tips the neck of the bottle to his full lips that I’m trying not to notice, before plodding over to a table, giving me a chance to check out his ass. But that’s not what draws my attention. What pulls my eyes in is the hint of a tattoo on the back of his neck. I can’t quite make out what it is, but I’m a sucker for ink. It’s very hot, and so is he. Well, that is, until he opens his mouth.

“You know,” Ryder says when I turn back around, “I don’t know what happened at the shop, but Rex is a good guy, and if he didn’t tattoo you, I’m sure he had good reason. In other words,” he edges forward, whispering, “don’t be a bitch.”

My lips kick up into a grin, because he’s right. I have the bitch gene. I inherited it from my mom. Maybe that’s why my father often slept on the couch. Maybe that’s why they just got divorced. Maybe that’s why there’s no hope for me. I huff out a sigh, then pick my bitchy ass up from the chair, crossing the bar to Rex’s table. He’s watching the ball game and I clear my throat to get his attention.

He doesn’t even give me a chance to speak because he instantly chimes in, “If you think I’m going to tattoo you, you’re out of your gorgeous mind. So I hope that’s not why you came over here.” He cracks a smile, circling the rim of the bottle with his thumb.

That’s the second time he’s called me gorgeous, but the first time I’m noticing the dimple in his right cheek and the beautiful, rich brown of his eyes. He’s still a jerk, though. They all are.

He kicks the chair out, motioning with his chin for me to sit. “You want to join me? I promise I’m harmless. Well,” he chuckles, “kind of.” My lips purse, but curve into a smile as I drop my bag on the table and sit down.

“So, you do know how to smile,” he jokes, leaning back in his chair. “You should do it more often. It suits you a lot better than that scowl you were sporting in the shop.”

“Well,” I challenge, swinging my hair over my shoulder, “maybe you should try to be more accommodating.”

His eyebrows jump, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I can be
very
accommodating. What did you have in mind?”

I shake my head at his off-color remark. Of course it’s about sex. It always is.

My eyes do a quick roll before I remember why I came over here in the first place. “I actually just wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.”

“Okay, that’s cool. So, do you come here often?” He smiles, knocking back more of his beer before setting it down on the table.

I shift a hand to my hip, cocking my head to the side. “You did not seriously just ask me if I come here often? That is the lamest pick-up line in the book.”

“Whoa, there. Who said anything about trying to pick you up? Someone’s got an awfully big head. I was only asking if you frequent Ryder’s place a lot, that’s all.”