Dom (Love In Ink #4)

Chapter 1

I’m at my usual lunch spot, same table, same time. Creature of habit—guilty. It helps that Dragonfly sits next to Ink Me, so I can slide in and out between appointments.

Spencer, the owner, keeps a table for me in the back by the kitchen. Perfect view of the room, close enough to hear the swing of the door.

Two reasons I like it here: one, I can people-watch instead of doom-scrolling. I’ve been making a conscious effort to keep my phone face down and my head up. And two, it puts me within hearing range of Beckett.

Jaxon, my boss and best friend, asked me to keep an eye on the kid who’s like a nephew to him. I said yes. If I’d known he’d be a pain in my motherfucking ass, well, I still would’ve said yes. Probably.

He’s mouthy. Argumentative. And built in a way that makes concentrating on my sandwich a challenge. I dream about what it would be like to take his body apart with my tongue. I roll my eyes and mutter, “Whatever.” It’s always the feisty ones.

“Ummm,” Spencer says, looking around. “Are we having a fight with the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

I roll my eyes again, and he chuckles.

“Usual?”

I nod my head. Beckett is known for his BLTs… something with the bacon.

“I’ll put your order in and bring out your coffee with a side of honey,” he says, a disgusted shiver racing through him, and I laugh.

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“You’re supposed to use creamer, lots and lots of creamer.”

Spencer heads off to put in my order, and I let the restaurant noise settle me—the clink of forks, a burst of laughter, the kitchen door thumping on its hinge.

Silence and I don’t get along. Maybe it’s all the years with a tattoo gun buzzing in my ear, but when I get home, the TV goes on for company. I don’t actually watch it.

There are moments when I enjoy the silence. But even in the bedroom, I make a little game of it. Can I get my lover’s moans to echo throughout the room while I bring them to the edge and back? Although I’m in a bit of a dry spell, and I can’t tell if it’s self-imposed.

Relationships and dating are not my thing. I like my space. I enjoy being able to come and go as I please. And I sure as shit don’t need the people who are only in it to see if they can tame the Dom. Spoiler… I’m not really a Dom.

And yes, my name is not lost on me.

If anything, I guess I’m more of a soft Dom.

I’m not much for impact play. I like to be in control, especially when it comes to my partner’s release.

Previous lovers have always told me I’m too intense in the bedroom.

I’ve struggled with it. Why do I like to be in control? What kind of person does that make me?

This unsettling feeling of restlessness has lingered for months, and I’ve discovered that a certain trigger is heightened and has been fueling my anxiety.

The sound of crashing pots and pans draws my attention to the kitchen.

Speaking of the trigger.

Unraveling the mystery surrounding Beckett is proving to be a challenge.

A lot of us are worried about him. Jaxon asked me to keep an eye out, and Spencer told me he’s been yelling on the phone a lot, and it doesn’t even seem like he’s confiding in Finn about it either.

Finn and Beckett forged a friendship when they lived in California. Finn moved out here a couple of years ago to get away from his toxic family. Jaxon hired him to work at Ink Me with a recommendation from Beckett.

Finn is dating Spencer, the owner of Dragonfly Books and Café, and they’re starting the process of adopting an adorable daughter, Mazie. There’s a thing about this step. Apparently, it was all very swoony. Spencer’s words, not mine.

They’re a pair of lovesick puppies.

More clanging pulls my attention to the kitchen. Great. Another reminder of why this crush is a bad idea. I like control; he likes lighting matches.

I catch Spencer’s eye across the room, giving him a nod to let him know I’ve got it.

Beckett’s braced against the prep station in the center of the room. His hair’s a bit of a mess against the backdrop of his black apron and jeans. Always on brand.

“I know, I know… I’m pissed. I’ll call you back.” He pauses. “Lucas, tomorrow. I promise.” He ends it, squeezes the phone like it owes him money, then lets it slip from his hand with a clatter.

That’s a cracked screen and a scuffed corner. Also, who the hell is Lucas?

“Shit,” he mutters, scooping it up—then spots me. Eye roll. “Listen, Dom, we both know you’re hot as sin, but stalking is not a good color on you.”

“Relax,” I say. “I wasn’t stalking.”

“Oh, so just eavesdropping on my private meltdown? Cute.”

I swear to God, this kid. He’s about ten years younger than me and has the mouth of a teenager. He infuriates me.

“Nope. That was just a bonus. I came to see what was taking so long with my sandwich. Apparently, you just sit back here on your phone all day slacking off.”

“Oh, fuck off, Dom,” he mutters, the words laced with playful frustration, and I can’t help but smirk, knowing Beckett really is a hard worker. “Your damn sandwich will be out shortly.”

I know he expects me to leave after that, but I don’t. I just stand here, leaning against the wall, ankles crossed.

“What?” he yells.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck was that? My brows shoot up at his aggressive response to what is usually a little fun ribbing.

“Sorry, I’m just not in the mood for your shit today, Dom.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” Same response I get every time I ask.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I try again.

“Do you also eat, or do you just stand there and smolder for attention?”

“I can do both if you feed me.”

He huffs a laugh despite himself. “Fine. Two minutes.”

“Make it one, and I’ll tip like a sinner seeking redemption.”

He steps closer, chin tipped up. “And if I make it three?” There’s the little minx.

“Then I’ll keep you company so you don’t throw that phone again.”

He glances at the poor thing. “It started it.”

“I’m sure it did. Tell you what—trade me the phone.” I open my hand.

He hesitates, then drops it into my palm. “Babysit it. If it acts up, put it in time-out.”

I know it’s not the last time I’ll talk to him tonight. The gang is all heading out to the bar, so maybe after a few drinks, he’ll let something slip, and I’ll be right there waiting. He’s not going to be able to ignore me for long.

I head back to my table, taking a seat. It’s not long after that Beckett brings out my meal. He doesn’t look at me, just sets the plate down—rather harshly, I might add—and walks away.

My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t eat breakfast this morning. I’m not much of a morning eater. I’m more of a four cups of coffee and maybe some toast kinda person. Or better yet, a donut.

My mouth waters as I take my first bite. I’m just about to let out a moan when I realize something is off.

What the fuck? I pull apart the sandwich… No bacon. Oh, very cute, little mouse, very cute. You better hold your bacon close because I’m coming for you.