The Opposite Effect (Brax & Clara #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

F eet scuffling on a tiled floor steal my focus from my half-eaten cheesesteak sandwich. Even with me requesting they hold the relish, my hands are covered in the ghastly orange liquid that makes me gag just thinking about eating it.

When I lift my gaze from my partially dissected dinner, I spot Diesel standing in the lunchroom’s doorway. His shoulder is propped against the doorjamb, his extensively tattooed arms are crossed in front of his broad chest, and a look of terror is stretched across his face.

After pushing back from the lunch table hidden out back, I dump my unsalvageable sandwich into the trash, then head to the sink to get cleaned up. Diesel is a cutthroat take-no-shit-from-anyone type of guy, so I’m surprised his cocky personality is a little off.

“What’s up, man?” While washing my sticky hands in the kitchen sink, I mutter a string of profanities under my breath.

How the fuck can you mess up a cheesesteak sandwich?

Diesel waits for me to snag a dishcloth off the drying rack before announcing, “Got a client out front requesting to speak to the manager.” My lips quirk when he air quotes ‘manager.’ Although I’ve held the title for the past two years, it’s rarely used by my crew.

Once I hang the damp towel onto a hook above the microwave, I gesture for Diesel to lead the way. Buzzing tattoo guns and the groans of idiot kids who walk through our doors the day they turn eighteen sounds through my ears when we stride through Inked Tattoo Shop.

When I spot Charity tattooing a Pokémon figure onto a kid who looks barely old enough to drive, let alone permanently mark his skin with the latest fad, I rake my fingers through my shoulder-length hair.

It will take a tattoo four times its size to cover up Pikachu or whatever the fuck Pokémon character that is. By the look on his face and the tears staining his cheeks, I’m confident having it covered won’t be a walk in the park for neither him nor the tattoo artist assigned to the job.

When we reach the foyer out front, I scan the area, seeking the bozo who interrupted the ‘manager’ during his measly half-an-hour lunch break.

Upon failing to locate the irate face I regularly see when a client realizes their home-botched tattoo will cost over a grand to fix, I shift my eyes to Diesel. “Where is he?”

Diesel smiles a grin I only see when he’s wrapping his arm around a bar bunny at the end of a Saturday night shift. “It isn’t a he. It’s a she.”

Still grinning, he points to the far corner of the room. When I tilt my head, only just clearing Johnny’s wide shoulders, I catch the quickest flurry of an enticing body. My heart rate kicks up a gear— as does the pulse in my cock —when I drink in the slender blonde sparring with Johnny like backyard brawls are a regular event on her schedule.

Her platinum locks roll past her shoulders like a satin waterfall, and her expensive threads showcase every curve of her fit body. Her face is fresh with only a slight sprinkling of makeup, and every strand on her faultless head has been meticulously placed.

Although I can’t hear a word she’s speaking, I know she’s giving Johnny as good as she’s getting. If the crossed arms under her ample breasts and stiffened stance aren’t enough indication, her resting bitch face is a sure-fire sign.

This woman is two seconds from exploding.

Since I don’t want a bomb detonated in my shop on a busy Saturday night, I pat Diesel on the back before heading for the attractive blonde. A rich floral scent with a hint of spice filters into my nose when I stand next to Johnny. I’m fairly sure the flowery scent is coming from the blonde, but I can’t one hundred percent testify to that. Johnny is generous with the discount he offers female clientele. If the loss comes from his takings, I have no concerns about him accepting payments for services rendered in the form of extra-curricular activities.

“I’m pretty sure you’re sitting at around two seconds,” I interrupt when I overhear the blonde telling Johnny she’s five seconds away from having his “moronic ass fired.”

“Great.” Her eyes snap to mine. They’re as dazzling as the diamond bracelet circling her delicate wrist. “Another beast added to the mix. What is this, a poorly scripted rendition of Beauty and the Beast ?”

Three females standing behind her break into an ear-piercing drunken cackle, but surprisingly, the blonde maintains eye contact. I’ll give it to her. I’m impressed at her ability to keep her eyes on my face. Most women absorb my face before dropping to sample the rest of the package. It doesn’t matter if they’re screaming nothing but wealth like the princess standing before me, or they don’t have a nickel to their name, the routine never alters. So yeah, I’ll admit it, she gets credit where credit is due.

After propping my elbows onto the counter, I lean over it, which brings my six-foot-two height down to her at-a-guess five-foot-seven stature. “What can I do you for, Princess? Unlike you, some of us have to work for a living.”

She rolls her eyes before saying in a snooty twang, “Not according to…” She gestures her hand to Johnny, sending a multi-hued shimmer of light across the cabinet from her diamond bracelet. “Him?—”

“Johnny,” I interrupt.

She rolls her eyes again. “Whatever you call him. No one cares. I came here to get a tattoo.” She points to the tube light hanging from the shop’s awning. “This is a tattoo parlor. But…” she snaps her eyes back to Johnny, “… he is refusing to serve me. I don’t know about you, but in any other industry, that would call for instant dismissal.”

I smirk, not shocked by her attitude but most definitely stunned by my positive response to it. Normally, I would toss out a berating client before giving them the chance to explain. Instead, I slot into the ‘manager’ role I’ll never completely fill. “Lucky for Johnny, we aren’t just any other industry.” My voice has an edge of annoyance to it even with me being most entertained by the change-up in clientele. “If Johnny is refusing to tattoo you, it will be for a reason. So, what is it?”

With a huff, she digs her hand into the front pocket of her designer jeans that look like they cost more than my entire wardrobe. “Other than Johnny being a moron, I have no clue why he’s refusing my request.”

“It’s beca?— ”

I slice my hand through the air, cutting Johnny off. His wife packed her bags and headed to Reno nine months ago, leaving him the sole guardian of their two children. He wouldn’t refuse the chance to make a quick dollar without a legitimate reason. Just the blonde’s overpriced shoes, designer handbag, and perfectly swept hair leave no doubt he could have charged her triple the regular hourly rate, and she’d have been none the wiser.

He’d never turn down an opportunity like this without a solid reason.

I lock my eyes with Johnny. “Why don’t you head out back and work on those sketches you started last week? I’ll man the counter. Next client who enters is yours.”

Johnny nods before sauntering to the manager’s office stationed next to his cubicle. Once he passes through the battered wooden door, I return my focus to the blonde. Victory is etched on her face, and the bitch pose she’s already perfected escalates.

I stand from my slouched position, then shoot my eyes to a sign attached to the side wall of the foyer. “We have the right to refuse patrons under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or peer pressure.” I tap my fingers on the big black letters scrawled across the sign. Even someone with their eyes as thinly slit as hers can still read it.

After speedreading the sign three times, she scoffs. “I’m not drunk,” she denies while crossing her arms under her chest, hoisting her impressive rack higher.

It takes everything I have to drag my eyes away from her fantastic tits to peer at her intoxicated friends behind her, but I manage—somewhat. The blonde’s snarky beast comment was delivered over five minutes ago, but her friends are still cackling like a bunch of overly botoxed biddies holding an annual meeting at a members-only country club.

My curved brow arches higher when I notice the only brunette in the trio is clasping an open bottle of champagne .

While running a hand over my jaw, which is marked with a few days of stubble, I shift my eyes back to the blonde. When I twist my lips, a deep rustle escapes her nose before she cranks her neck to her friends.

Even smacking them with a furious stink eye doesn’t dampen their laughter.

If anything, her actions increases it.

Realizing her friends won’t help me believe she isn’t under the influence, she gestures to them that it’s time to leave. Just before she emerges onto the sidewalk, she peers back at me and narrows her eyes. I smile and wink at her, more than happy to add a sprinkling of salt to her freshly opened wounds.

When a black town car slides up to the curb at the front of the shop, I swing my eyes to Diesel. “What was so hard about that?” My tone is dripping with cockiness. “You need to stop entertaining bar bunnies on your days off and wrestle a few rich chicks. They give a bit of lip, but since it’s from the same mouth that will be screaming your name later that night, you put up with it.”

After lifting my arms to protect my face, I throw a handful of rapid-fire jabs into Diesel’s T-shirt-covered torso. A grin tugs on his fat lips before he spars up, priming for an impromptu spar in the foyer.

Usually, we box in an old gym at the back of the shopping complex in Ravenshoe. It’s rundown, but the guy behind the rusty equipment is a brilliant trainer.

In just a few short weeks, Hank has switched Diesel from a backyard brawler to a low-ranking fighter.

Fighting isn’t something I’m interested in, but I turn up every session to show my support to Diesel. Although I will admit, the energy boost after going a few rounds in the ring with Diesel has aided in my bedroom antics. I have stamina by the miles and more than a dozen bar bunnies willing to exhaust me of resources .

When Diesel uses my distraction of the shop’s bells to his advantage, my neck snaps to the side, and my jaw pops under the force of his knuckles. After working my jaw side to side, I lock my furious eyes with Diesel’s.

With a grin that announces he isn’t sorry, he holds his hands in the air in a non-defensive manner. “Sorry.” The shortness of his apology can’t hide his laughter.

While rubbing my hand along my now throbbing jaw, I drift my eyes from Diesel to the door. “Welcome to Inked…” My greeting falls short when I’m confronted with the same pair of icy-blue eyes that stormed out of here mere minutes ago.

The bitch is back.

When the blonde completes her surveillance of the rest of my package, I wait for her eyes to return to my face before giving her a cocky wink. “Back for round two?”

My jeans tighten when she laughs. It’s a dainty giggle full of poise and perfection— just like its owner.

“Unlikely.” Her words are as cool as the color of her eyes. “I don’t wrestle with Neanderthals.”

Ouch. If my ego wasn’t stroked by a pretty blonde out back thirty minutes ago—the same blonde who brought me my sandwich—this blonde’s taunt may have bruised my ego.

Lucky for me, I have a gigantic shield protecting my even bigger ego from spoiled princesses with vindictive tongues.

“Unless your daddy found a cure for drunkenness, your desires will not be granted in this fine establishment this evening.”

Her eyes narrow at the mention of her father, exposing her first flaw of the night.

“I’m not drunk.” The crispness of her words adds strength to her statement.

Holding my gaze, she saunters closer, allowing me to see the frankness in her eyes. Her hardhearted eyes aren’t truth-exposing. It’s the fact there isn’t a single speck of life in her eyes, let alone the drunk shimmer most inebriated people get, exposing her sobriety. Her eyes replicate staring into an empty pit. They’re void of any type of soul.

“I adhered to your rules by requesting my tipsy friends to leave. Now your fine establishment has no reason not to serve me.” She tries to make her voice sound sincere. Her attempts are fruitless. I don’t think she has a sincere bone in her body.

I grit my teeth, loathing that I’m about to overrule one of my guys, but just her take-no-shit stance exposes she won’t leave until she gets what she came here for, so I may as well give it to her. “Do you have a design in mind, or are we going into this agreement freestyle?”

My dick knocks at the zipper in my jeans when she grins a traffic-stopping smile.

Yeah, not happening, buddy .

When she pulls out the sheet of paper she was clutching for dear life earlier, I only just hold in a swear word. She wants a man’s name inked on her skin.

Don’t ask me why, but the thought of any man’s name on her skin that isn’t mine pisses me off, and considering we’ve only just met and have spent most of our confrontation defusing her callousness, simply having a thought like that irritates me even more.

After running my eyes over the guy’s name in thick black ink smack bang in the middle of the intricate design, I drop them to the blonde’s left hand. Upon noticing it is void of a ring—engagement or wedding—I lock my eyes back on hers. “Is this your father’s name?” I nudge my head to the tattoo design in my hand.

Lines indent her forehead before she shakes her head.

“Your grandfather? Brother? Deceased uncle? Any type of male relation?” When she shakes her head again, I say, “Sorry, Princess, I can’t do your tattoo. ”

Her eyes slit more with every syllable I speak. “You just agreed to do it.”

“Yeah, so?” I shrug like backtracking is on my resume. “That was before you showed me the design.”

“What’s wrong with the design?” She crosses her arms before arching a perfectly manicured brow. “Not tacky enough for you?”

“There’s only one tacky person in this tattoo parlor, Princess .” I draw out the word usually used as a term of endearment as if it is a derogative word instead. “It ain’t me.”

She huffs, her irritation growing by the second. She isn’t the only one annoyed. My cock’s thickness hasn’t lessened from her feistiness. It stiffens with every snarl she hits me with.

“Look. I want to get this tattoo done. You’re a tattoo artist. Do whatever you need to do to make this happen.”

I nudge my head to the piece of paper. “Are you giving me permission to make alterations to this design as I see fit?”

“Yes!” She throws her arms into the air. “Can we just get this done, then I can get back to?—”

“Prince Charming waiting for you in a crystal palace?” I turn my eyes to the clock on the wall displaying it is a little after eleven. “It’s okay, Princess, you still have a good fifty minutes before you’ll get turned back into poor, defenseless Cinderella.”

She glares at me with shock all over her face.

Of course, a real-life princess wouldn’t understand a fairy tale .

When I head to the drawing board to transfer her design onto tracing paper before adding the change I require to feel comfortable tattooing a lifetime commitment onto her no-doubt virgin skin, she stands to the side, glaring at me while swiveling her diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist.

Once I’m happy with the design, I amble back her way. “I’ve altered the design?—”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” she interrupts, her tone obnoxious .

With a tight jaw, I place the tattoo contract and a copy of the newly designed trace onto the glass cabinet in front of her. “If you’re happy with the design, sign here, here, and here.” I point to each section of the contract she’s required to sign.

Snatching the pen out of my grasp, she signs each section in a frenzied hurry. After storing the contract in the locked drawer under the cash register, I gesture for her to follow me. As we walk through Inked, her eyes bounce in all directions, strengthening my assumption that this is her first tattoo.

The width of her pupils increases when we enter a private cubicle at the back of the shop. When she spots my tattoo gun sitting on a sterilized stainless-steel table, her face pales.

After closing the door behind me, I ask, “Where do you want your tattoo?”

Heat creeps across her cheeks before she points to her lower right hipbone.

“Then you’re gonna need to remove your jeans,” I advise before moving to the station to set up my instruments.

When her eyes snap to mine, wordlessly demanding clarification of my request, I nod.

I might be a fucking great tattoo artist, but I’m not a miracle worker.

She hesitates for a moment before doing as instructed. I’m not at all surprised to discover she’s wearing a pair of panties I’ve only seen in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs Charity peruses during her lunch break.

After ensuring my gear is in order, I nudge my head to my tattooing chair, silently demanding she sit. As she saunters across the room, I try to keep my eyes planted on her face. I miserably fail. Even with her bitchometer rocketing to the next galaxy, she has a tight, fit body that would only look better if she removed the massive chip off her shoulder.

After sitting in my swivel chair, I roll in close to her side. She stiffens when I lower the band of her panties to prep the area she wants inked. When our eyes briefly lock, her stern mask falters for the slightest second, exposing a side of her I’m confident she hasn’t seen in years.

“First time being tattooed?” I query while placing the used alcohol prep pads into a bin at my side.

When she fails to answer my question, I lift my eyes from the stencil I’ve placed on the creamy skin covering her hip to her face.

Four simple words and her stern mask has slid firmly back into place.

“Do we have to do the small talk?”

“I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t. You’re not my friend. You will never be my friend. So, I’d prefer if you stayed quiet and did the job I’m paying you to do.”

My back molars smash together before I grind out through clenched teeth, “Then let’s do this, Princess.” Before you give me a motherfucking headache.

It takes all my strength not to dig my tattoo gun into her delicate skin deeper than necessary. The only thing stopping me is my professional obligation. As much as my client is a malicious cow, my name will forever be associated with this piece of artwork on her body, which ensures I’ll tattoo nothing but the best, even if I want to send her out in the world with a stick figure of me flipping her the bird.

B ecause of the intricate design she selected, the tattoo takes a little over two hours to complete. Princess Stuck-Up didn’t speak a word the entire time. I won’t lie. I loved the way her knuckles went white from her death grip hold on the armrest when I tattooed the skin near her hip bone.

“While it heals, it’ll itch like a bitch, but if you keep applying the ointment as per these instructions, you shouldn’t face too many issues.” I hand her a pamphlet on taking care of freshly inked skin.

When she snatches it out of my hand, I drop my eyes to my newly created masterpiece. My lips purse. It is a sleek design, feminine with the inclusion of a tiger lily, but not overly girly. If it didn’t have a name smack bang in the middle of it, it would have been a nice tattoo.

After wiping the excess ink off her hip, I wrap her tattoo with a protective covering and then assist the unnamed blonde from the chair.

A grin curls on my lips when a grimace crosses her face as she bends down to collect her handbag off the floor. “Run that while I get dressed.”

Heavy grooves indent my forehead when she hands me an American Express Centurion card. I’ve heard rumors that this card costs a quarter of a million a year just to have it. I shouldn’t expect anything less from a woman who looks like she uses Benjamin Franklins as toilet paper.

“It’s a credit card. You’ve seen one before, haven’t you?” she snarls, her tone condescending.

“Yes, madame,” I reply while fighting the urge not to salute her pompous attitude with my middle finger. I jerk my head to the bathroom attached to my cubicle. “There’s a full-length mirror in there if you want to check out your new tattoo.” When she smirks a condescending grin, I mutter under my breath before slipping out the door, “I hope you like your new tattoo, Princess.”

I ’ve only just run her credit card through the terminal and placed the credit of her sale into Johnny’s account when the blonde storms out of my cubicle. She barely notices a group of fraternity brothers getting matching tats wolf-whistling and catcalling at her as she charges across the room in nothing but a pair of cream panties and a long-sleeve shirt. Her face is red with anger, matching her vibrant lipstick, and her pupils are massive.

“You son of a bitch!” she yells while raising her hand in the air.

A chuckle topples from my lips when her wildly flung slap fails to connect with any part of my face or body since I took a step back, moving out of the firing zone.

When she preps for a second swing, I point to a sign hanging next to the one I read earlier. “We also have the right to remove any clientele deemed to be abusive to our staff or clients.” My tone is as mocking as my expression. “If you try to strike me again, I’ll have no other option than to place you on the curb.” I lower my eyes to her scarcely covered body. “Panties and all.”

The anger lining her face increases. “Where is the sign that says you can tattoo whatever the hell you see fit onto a person’s body without first seeking their permission?”

The grin tugging on my lips breaks free. “In the top drawer.” I point to the drawer I stored her contract in. “It’s on the same contract you signed stating the design of your tattoo was left at the discretion of your tattoo artist. AKA… me.”

I can see her scream work its way from her stomach to her lips. For every second that ticks by, the fury blackening her eyes grows significantly, but she detonates with only the slightest bit of carnage.

After releasing a window-shattering scream, she storms back to my cubicle, rambling incessantly under her breath about how she’s going to sue me for every penny I have .

If I were a good man, I’d tell her I don’t have many pennies.

Pity I’m not.

After redressing in her skin-tight designer jeans and four-inch stiletto boots, she saunters out of my cubicle, slamming the door behind her. Her nostrils flare when she snatches her credit card and receipt out of my hand, but she doesn’t murmur a peep as she scrambles for the door.

“Have a wonderful day.”

She slams the front glass door so harshly, the gust of its closure knocks the two signs I’d referenced earlier off the wall.

Upon hearing the commotion her abrupt exit caused, Ryder the owner of Inked, exits his office. “Everything all right?” His eyes bounce between the blonde standing at the curb shrieking into a cell phone and me.

I lift my chin. “It’s all good.”

Although I’m telling him everything is fine, I really need to start considering the consequences of my actions. If I knew I was going against a woman who has more money than sense, I may have considered taking a different route.

Oh, who am I kidding? Nothing would have changed.

Ryder nudges his head to the door. “So what’s the deal? She didn’t like the terms of your agreement?”

I laugh at the insinuation in his voice. “You know as well as I do, Elvis, nothing but money is exchanged for my services.”

Ryder’s heavy brow slants at my use of his infamous nickname. His son, Slater, let it slip a few months ago when he was here adding more ink to his already vast collection. I’ve been keeping it up my sleeve, waiting for a prime opportunity to use it. Tonight seems like the ideal time.

When the blonde curls into a black town car pulled to the curb in front of her, I shift my eyes to Ryder. “I may or may not have changed her boyfriend’s name to Princess. ”

A lewd grin curves onto his lips before he shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you get her to sign the contract?”

“Do you think I got this handsome by lining up for brains? I cut that queue and went straight back to the looks department. Who needs smarts when you look like this?” I run my hand down the front of me while smiling a shit-eating grin.

Any humor in Ryder’s face vanishes, replaced with nothing but pure anger.

“I’m joking, Ryder. Of course, I got her to sign the contract. I even stenciled her tattoo with the name adjustment included,” I inform him while rocking on my heels. “She signed that too.”

A chuckle escapes Ryder’s no-longer stern lips. “Then we’re all good.”

“Yes, we are,” I reply, grinning.

Although I have an inkling this won’t be the last I’ll hear from Ms. Clara McGregor.