Spring Break Fling

Chapter 10

10

NIKKO

M arcus stood behind the counter with his arms crossed. He didn’t look happy. I didn’t blame him. I felt like a dick. His expression was a mix of resignation and concern as I slid the envelope of cash across to him.

“It’s all there,” I said. “Every penny.”

He didn’t immediately take it. Instead, he just stared at me like a disappointed dad. “You know this isn’t about the money, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I get it. Life lessons and shit. Just take the cash, Marcus. I was never going to steal from you. You know me better than that. I had to give him what he wanted in the moment. ATMs don’t give out that much cash.”

He sighed and finally picked up the envelope, tucking it into the safe. “Nikko, at some point, you’re going to have to tell him no.”

“He’s my dad,” I said, defensive even though I shouldn’t be. Marcus had my best interests at heart.

“Your dad is going to get you into some serious trouble,” Marcus said.

“Look, this stuff with my old man? It’s my problem. Not yours. Not the shop’s. If I need advice, I’ll ask for it. ”

Marcus raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. “Fine. Just don’t let it become a habit, all right?”

I nodded, mostly to shut him up. The last thing I needed was another lecture. I knew he meant well but I didn’t want to hear it. My dad was a pain in my ass. I knew it was wrong to take the money from the register, but Marcus knew the situation. And he knew I was good for the money. I was a lot of things, but a thief was not one of them. “I’ll stay out of the register.”

Marcus let out another sigh. “Alright, just look after yourself, okay?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck with a grimace. “I’m doing my best, you know.”

He nodded. “That’s all we can do.”

I grabbed my sketchbook and sat down in the back to work on a design for one of my regular clients. The guy was running out of skin to ink, but we were both getting creative. Time flew by while I worked, and eventually, Marcus called my name from out front.

“Show time,” I muttered.

Would it be a rose? Infinity symbol? Maybe an exciting butterfly. When I walked up front, I saw a guy, probably early thirties and not the typical client.

“What’s up?”

“Divorce,” Marcus said.

And that was all I needed to hear.

“Let’s see,” I said.

The man lifted his shirt sleeve. He had an elaborate and slightly faded tattoo of a heart with a name scrawled intricately through its center: “Marie.” He looked at me with eyes that held regret.

“I want it gone, man. I don’t care if you cover it or remove it. I just can’t stand seeing her name anymore. My girlfriend wants to rip my arm off. It’s been a few years. I need your help.”

I nodded, understanding the assignment. “Got a few ideas that could work. We could turn it into something completely different, or if you prefer, we could do a blackout tattoo to cover it up. ”

He thought for a moment, then sighed. “I’m all ears. What do you recommend?”

“Let’s think about something that symbolizes a new beginning,” I suggested. “Come with me.” He followed me to my station. I started flipping through my sketchbook to show him some options. “Maybe a phoenix rising from the ashes?”

The man stared at the sketch. “Yeah, I like that. It feels right. That woman sure as hell burned me.”

I prepped my station. “We’ll work it so the phoenix rises right where Marie’s name used to be. It’ll be like your own rebirth, free as a bird.”

“Hell yeah, brother.” The man looked appreciatively at my designs. “Shit, these are awesome. You did all these?”

“Yep.”

“Man, I wish I would have come to you before I got some of this other shit on me.”

I laughed. “Bad ink gives us all a bad name. I’ll see if I can make up for some of my colleagues’ less than perfect work. Have a seat.”

I pushed up his sleeve and moved my light to get a better look at the problematic tattoo. I couldn’t count the number of people that walked in here regretting a drunken night with a bad tat or something like this. A permanent symbol of something that ended up temporary.

My clients reaffirmed my belief that love was not for me.

As I cleaned his arm and began the outline for the phoenix, I couldn’t help but think of Hannah. Guilt ate at me for my impulsive addition to her tattoo. Putting my initials on her arm had been a crazy breach of trust, but it was a tiny detail. She wouldn’t even notice unless she looked at it obsessively. And it was an easy fix if she ever did see it.

I started on the coverup. It was more than just covering an old mistake—it was about giving him a piece of art he could be proud of, something that told a new story. I wanted him to lift his sleeve and show off the awesome artwork .

“So, what happened?” I asked, breaking the silence, curious about the story behind the tattoo he so desperately wanted to cover.

He exhaled deeply, the regret evident. “Marie was great at first, you know? Thought she was ‘the one.’ But things changed, people change. She started fucking around on me. I was too stupid to see it. My buddy caught her and told me, and I was still dumb enough to believe her over him.”

“Harsh.” I nodded as I worked, focusing on getting the lines of the phoenix just right. “Tough break, man. But at least you’re taking a step to move on.”

“Yeah,” he said, watching the needle as it traced the new design over the old regrets. “My new girl is going to be happy.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“Sure.”

“Take it from a guy that has done hundreds of cover-ups, don’t get a name,” I said. “I think it’s some kind of curse. Stick to symbols, if you really must. Like choose something that means a lot to both of you but isn’t directly personal like a name.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, now you tell me. How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I was sixteen,” I said.

“Cool.”

As I worked, I found myself getting into the zone. Cover-ups were tricky, but they were also my thing. I loved the challenge of taking something people hated and turning it into something they could be proud of. It wasn’t just about the art; it was about giving them a fresh start, a clean slate.

By the time I was done, the guy was practically giddy, admiring the intricate phoenix I’d woven into the remnants of the old ink.

“This is incredible,” he said, grinning at the mirror like he’d just won the lottery.

“Told you I’d take care of it.”

He paid, thanked me about ten times, and left looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders .

I was feeling pretty good about myself—until the door to the shop swung open, and in walked trouble.

She wasn’t wearing the slinky dress from the nightclub or the casual tourist look from the tattoo session. No, this time Hannah was all business. Heels. Slacks. A blazer. A tight blue blouse that made me wonder if she was trying to kill me. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, which only made me want to take it down and run my hands through it.

She didn’t look sexy. She looked dangerous .

And pissed.

She marched right up to me, no hesitation, and shoved her forearm in my face.

“Fix. My. Tattoo.” Each word was punctuated with anger.

The guy who’d been paying at the counter suddenly decided he didn’t need a receipt and bolted out the door.

I smirked, leaning back just enough to give her a onceover. “Well, hello to you too.”

“Don’t say hello. You know what you did. You branded me!”

“Are you saying I made a mistake?” I asked innocently.

“This was no mistake. You did this on purpose. You made me sign that stupid form so I couldn’t sue your ass and then you went and tagged me like you own me.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic. It’s just a few lines. It’s an easy fix.”

“I came here for a simple tattoo, not a lifetime reminder of a mistake.”

I shrugged. “You signed off on the design. You watched me do it. If you were having second thoughts, that was the time to say something.”

Her eyes narrowed, anger simmering just below the surface. “You know that’s not how this went down. You distracted me with your charm and your stories. I trusted you.”

“You know you like it,” I said, my voice husky.

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start. Just fix it. ”

I crossed my arms, letting my smirk widen. She could pretend she was unaffected by my charm, but I could see otherwise.

She wanted me.

“I’m booked out for the next three weeks.”

Her face twisted with rage, and I thought she might actually throw something at me.

“But,” I added, drawing the word out for maximum effect, “I could fit you in earlier. If… you agree to go on a few dates with me.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought I’d pushed too far. She looked like she was seriously considering walking out the door—and maybe punching me on the way.

“But I’m only here for two weeks.”

I grinned, pure victory coursing through me. “I can make that work.”

Before she could argue, I turned and walked into the back of the shop, leaving her standing there. I heard her growl. The sound went straight to my dick, making it jump to attention. I heard the door open, felt the rush of air and turned just in time to see her walking out.

I was buzzing with the thrill of the game and the prospect of seeing her again under less hostile circumstances. I strapped my gloves back on and started cleaning up, but my mind was on Hannah. That fire, that intensity—she was a storm dressed in a business suit, and I was all too ready to chase the hurricane.

The initials might have been a mistake but they had brought her back to me. Now, I would get to spend some time with the sexy, curvy one-night stand for a week or so. And I was going to get the chance to give her more ink.

“What was that about?” Marcus asked.

“I messed up her tattoo.”

“Bullshit,” he said.

I flashed him a grin.

“You fucked up a tattoo on purpose?”

“I wouldn’t say it was fucked up,” I said. “It was just a little more than she asked for. ”

“Did I hear her say you branded her?”

“Again, a little dramatic.”

Marcus looked at me like I had sprouted a second head.

“But you know her?” he pressed.

“I knew her, one night. It was enough to know I wanted more,” I replied with a shrug.

Marcus shook his head, a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “Only you would turn a tattoo into a pickup line.”

“It’s not just a pickup line,” I said as I organized my inks. “It’s an opportunity. She’ll come around. They always do.”

“Or she’ll trash your reputation and slap a lawsuit on you for every penny you’re worth,” Marcus retorted. “There’s a thin line between confident and reckless, and you’re dancing on it.”

Ignoring his warning, I continued prepping my station for the next client. The heat of her fury and the challenge in her eyes sparked something primal within me. It wasn’t just about getting her back in the chair—it was about getting her in my bed once again. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was unfinished business between us.