22. Tobias
Chapter 22
Tobias
I 'm stretched out in the tattoo chair, my shirt off, as Lola works her magic. The hum of her tattoo machine fills the room, a sound that feels as familiar to me now as my own heartbeat.
Lola leans over me, her gloved hand steady against my skin. It's not just art to her—it's the intention, each stroke carrying purpose. Today, she's adding a white rose to my chest, its petals soft and intricate, cutting through the ink that already covers my skin.
It's not just about filling the space—it's about balance, about making everything flow together. Most of my pieces mean something—memories, moments, things I couldn't put into words but wanted on my skin forever. But this one? It's different. It's sitting over my heart in a space that felt empty until now.
The rose itself is different from my other ink. It stands out because of its simplicity while blending into the shadows like it was always meant to be there.
Lola pulls back, wiping down the fresh ink, and the machine's hum fades. "It's looking good, Lo."
"Of course it is. You've got the master doing it," she shoots back with a smirk, her hand steady as she shades the delicate petals. Her confidence isn't arrogance—it's earned. And she knows it. "When you're back from Pennsylvania, I need you to do mine."
"You're already covered. Where the hell do you want it?"
"My ass."
I choke on my laugh. "You're fucking with me."
"I want a pinup girl who looks like me on my ass cheek."
"Jesus Christ, Lo." I drag my hand down my face, caught somewhere between amused and outright shock. "You drawing that up, or do you want me to?"
"I've already done it," she says, leaning back and tucking a bright strand of pink hair behind her ear. "And she's perfect."
"You got it here?"
"Yeah, you wanna see?"
"Hell yeah, show me this perfect woman." I lean back in the chair, my curiosity thoroughly piqued.
Lola switches off the needle and sets it down before walking over to her drawer. She pulls out a sketchbook, flipping through the pages before turning it around and holding it up for me to see.
"What do you think?"
"She's hot," I say, tilting my head and letting a slow grin spread across my face. "And she's pretty much naked."
"I'm always naked at home," Lola says with a shrug, completely unfazed. She sits back down, picking up the needle, and the buzz fills the room again. "It felt right."
"She's got great tits."
"They're my tits," she fires back, her focus already back on shading the rose on my chest.
"Then you also have great tits," I respond, grinning as my gaze lingers over the drawing of "Lola." She has perfectly styled pink curls that spiral around her face, and her barely covered breasts are unapologetically front and center. She's all attitude and full of fucking sass, just like my boss.
The only thing pinup Lola is wearing is a pair of denim shorts so tiny they're practically illegal, paired with sky-high black heels that look like they could kill a man. Her body is stretched out in a pose meant to grab attention—arms raised, back arched, legs that go on forever.
"This is gonna look fucking awesome when we're done," I say, glancing at her as she works.
"I know, right?"
I adore Lola. She's not just my boss—she's the kind of person you'd actually want to grab a drink with after a long day, the type of person who makes work feel less like work. This is what I imagine a sister relationship should feel like. Supportive, honest, and full of teasing, but without the drama, judgment, or—thankfully—the urge to bend them over in their ballet studio and watch every single inch of yourself sliding into them from behind.
Lola trusts me not just to do a good job but to hold my own and be capable. And that trust? It does something to me. It's not just validation—it's fuel.
She knows my dream is to one day have my own studio. And while she's always nudging me, she also gets that I'm in no rush. Considering I've only been doing this full-time for a few months, it'd be stupid to jump into something like that too soon.
Besides, I love it here. Lola's built something special here, and being part of it feels like the right kind of pressure—not overwhelming but motivating—and makes me want to show up every day and be better than I was yesterday.
Then there's my dad. The looming shadow. Or as I like to call him, the sperm donor who contributed minimally and somehow still expects maximum loyalty.
I'm pretty sure he's convinced I'll eventually come crawling back to take over his precious family business. Legacy, and all that bullshit.
The fact that I've chosen something completely different for myself? That I've carved out a life he doesn't understand? It's like a crack in the perfect image of how he thinks my life should go. Maybe that's why he never even bothers asking about what I'm doing—it doesn't fit the script in his head. And the fact I'll never step into his shoes? That's likely to send him into an early grave.
When Lola finally finishes, she steps back, taking in the rose she added to my chest. Her eyes flick over the piece, studying it the way she always does before she's satisfied. Then she nods before wrapping me in the protective film.
"There you go. Keep it clean, and don't fuck it up," she says, smirking as she steps back and discards her gloves before sending me on my way.
I know Amelia's working tonight. I figured she'd be holed up in her studio, getting some dance practice before she left.That's what I told myself as I headed home, not sure if I was ready to run into her or not.
But the universe, as always, is an asshole.
When I step through the door, there she is, standing by the entryway like some perfectly timed punch to the gut. She's just standing there, looking way too fucking pretty, like she's trying to ruin me without even knowing it. Her hair's tied back, loose and messy, with stray strands framing her face, and those wide eyes catch mine like they've got no right pulling me in the way they do.
I haven't seen her since before I stood outside her door and listened to her last night. Something I'm not exactly proud of, but regret? No. Hell no. The memory of her breathy voice moaning my name is still in my head, and I shouldn't want to hear it again, but I do. Over and over, on a loop, until it's burned into me as permanently as the ink on my skin.
She tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, uncertain smile that causes my chest to tighten. She has no idea. No clue how hard it is to look at her and not let every thought I had outside her door come rushing back—her voice, her gasps, the way she sounded so wrecked, like she was made to fall apart for me.
"Hey," she says softly, her voice pulling me out of the spiral.
She's just as confused as I am, but she hides it like a fucking pro.
The way she maintains her composure is infuriating, especially when I'm constantly on the verge of losing it.
However, I know the truth.
Because when I get close—so close there's no room left for her to keep her shit together—I see it. The little cracks in her armor, the way her breathing shifts just slightly, and the faint trembling she thinks I don't notice. Up close, she can't hide what's tearing her apart, no more than I can hide what I feel every time we're in the same room.
But then there's the distance between us—a gap that didn't exist before.
And it's killing me.
"Where are you going?" I ask, trying and failing to not let my eyes notice the way her dress hugs her curves. I focus on her face instead, determined to make her outfit the last thing on my mind.
"I've got work."
"Already?" I press, settling against the doorframe like I'm not deliberately keeping her here a few moments longer.
"I'm going in early. I might grab something to eat at the bar first," she replies, sweeping a stray strand of hair from her face.
"Are we out of food?"
"No, I just really want one of their burgers. There's leftovers from what I made last night if you're hungry."
"What is it?"
"Lasagna," she says with a slight shrug. "Made way too much of it, so knock yourself out." I nod, pausing just long enough to pretend like I'm not watching her move toward the door. "Did you have a good night last night?"
"Yeah, Tessa said you'll have to come next time."
"I'd like that."
"Do you want me to pick you up from work? I'm not doing anything tonight."
"I'm okay, thanks," she says, her voice soft but firm as she fidgets with her keys. "I don't know how late I'll be." For the first time ever, I've got nothing to say to her. "I'll see you later," she adds, tapping me on the chest as she moves past me toward the door.
The contact sends a sharp sting through me, and I wince, sucking in a hiss of air. "You okay?" she asks, already halfway out the door but pausing when she hears me.
"Yeah," I manage, choking back a laugh that comes out more like a growl. "You just hit my tattoo."
"Oh shit, sorry," she says, turning back toward me. "You got a new one?"
I watch as she takes a few steps closer, her maroon-colored dress skimming her thighs with every step. "Lola did it for me today."
"What is it?"
"You wanna see?" I ask, already reaching for the hem of my shirt. She nods, and I strip it off slowly, my eyes locked on her face because right now, her reaction is everything. She doesn't shy away, doesn't break the moment, and when the tattoo comes into view, her gaze softens.
"Wow," she breathes out, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's beautiful."
She lifts her hand as if she's about to touch it but hesitates, pulling back at the last second.
"Nice, right?" She nods, but her gaze falters, shifting away from me, like looking at me is suddenly too much. "Mills…"
"Yeah," she whispers as I take a step closer to her, looking at her the way I shouldn't, the way I can't help but look at her now.
"I'm sorry."
Her brows knit together as confusion crosses her face. "What for?"
"Whatever it is that makes you want to run from me."
Amelia visibly swallows, and for a split second, I think she might actually give me something real.
But then it happens—the fake-ass smile I've grown to hate with everything in me. It's a mask, a wall she puts up, and it's pissing me off.
"You were a dick after the bar, but I don't hold anything against you. I know you were drunk."
"As were you."
"Yeah, but I didn't yell at you."
"I know," I say, closing more distance. "And I shouldn't have. But don't stand there acting like you don't know exactly why I did."
"I know why you did." Her voice is calm but edged with steel, like she's bracing herself for a fight I didn't realize I was picking. "I know that whatever you were holding in got aimed at the wrong person, and it confused you—maybe more than you want to admit." What the fuck? My brows pull together, my eyes narrowing. "Logan messaged me," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. "Tate's been blowing up his phone asking for my number, so I told him he could have it. Hopefully, I'll be out of your hair a little more."
"Tate?"
"Yeah."
"The biker prick?" I snap before I can stop myself.
"You say that like it's bad, but all I can think about are those biker reels I keep seeing," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, brushing past me toward the door like she's done with this conversation. Meanwhile, my blood's turning to fire, and I have no idea what to do with it.
"Mills, wait," I call out, yanking my shirt back on.
"What?"
Why did I stop her? What the hell am I going to say? Don't go out with him because my jealousy is eating me alive, and the thought of his hands on you makes me want to punch a wall.
"Nothing," I say, my voice flat, the words tasting like regret as soon as they leave my mouth. "Just… be careful with him."
She stares at me, her eyes narrowing like she's waiting for the rest of it. "Is that all? Because this is your window."
I pause, my version of "fuck it" dying a quiet death, caught between wanting to drag her back and needing to keep her away. I step back instead, holding the door like the coward I am.
"Yeah," I finally say, my jaw locking as I step back. "That's all."