9. Shane
9
Shane
I t’s easy to breathe through the pain of the needles and ink penetrating my skin. The torment is nearly cathartic. I lie back on the table, the echoes of Montana’s soft moans this morning puncturing deeper than any needle. I heard the snap of the condom, listened to the cheap bed springs creak as he entered her, and imagined how her face changed as Wes attempted to fill any part of her.
I wanted to strangle those moans from her throat as I gripped my leaking cock from the other side of the door. Shove a fucking sock into her mouth and make her gag on her own pleasure as I almost came into my palm at the idea of her slutty ass being fucked right next to me, denied of an orgasm because he came before her. I hate that she opened her thighs like a whore for him. She doesn’t deserve pleasure. She deserves so much fucking pain. A woman like Montana could learn a lot from withheld orgasms.
The only thing that gave me intense gratification was knowing my presence was there in that fucking room, to both of their ignorance.
I grip the edge of the table, flexing my forearms while Lana finishes the new piece on my thigh.
“Sensitive much?” she remarks, intentionally going over the same spot.
“I feel nothing,” I retort.
She scoffs. “Liar.”
When she’s done, Lana cleans up her station while I admire her work in front of the standing mirror in the shop.
“What does it mean?” she asks, coming up behind me and wrapping her arms around my waist.
I shove her hands off of me, lifting my shorts and rotating my thigh to read it. Fuck, it looks incredible.
“You wouldn’t get it,” I reply.
“Forever a dick, aren't you,” she says, tossing the wrap at me, hitting me in the back. “And yet you keep coming back. Fuck all the way off, Croix.”
Her and her stupid attitude.
I pick the roll up off the floor and chuck it at her station, sending her bottles of ink onto the floor. She shrieks, grabbing for them.
“Fuck off or fuck you?” I sneer. “You know I'm only here for the free services, right?”
I toss my hoodie over my head, heading toward the front desk to grab my smokes.
Lana rushes me, placing herself on the desk before me, all eager and willing.
She melts beneath my glare, practically already humping my leg at the mere suggestion. This is what we’ve always done. She marks me up, and then I mark her up. Tit for tat. Or tat for fuck. But her neediness disgusts me, especially when she knows exactly where I stand with her.
She’s becoming too easy. And I fucking hate easy. Plus, she’s a serial cheater, fucking multiple clients when I was stupid and sad enough to agree to date her. Lucky for me, she’s never had all of me. No one has, because parts of my heart are crushed sand, slipping through the hands of anyone who attempts to hold on to me.
Lifting herself onto the table, she spreads her thighs, pulling me into the space between.
“Fuck me, Croix. C’mon, let’s make a mess of this place like we used to,” she purrs, gripping my shirt in her hand. “Make me scream. Make me cry.”
Her tongue meets my neck, trailing up and over my jaw while her palm cups my cock. She licks my bottom lip, her tongue dragging across my piercings. It’s tempting, no doubt. But it’s not happening. Lana was always a placeholder for something better. I’d be a dick to admit I’ve used her for nothing more than a warm hole to fill on numerous occasions, but she knows who I am and what I offer. And she still hangs around. If she wants to keep hurting herself, that’s her choice. I don’t give a fuck.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, causing her eyes to snap to mine. I pull back, staring back at her with a smirk.
“Duty calls.”
Her blue eyes dance with aggression, and a frustrated groan falls from her purple-painted lips. She shoves against my chest, distancing us further, so I turn toward the door to leave.
“Who was she, Croix?” she calls out behind me.
My right hand curls into itself, the left gripping the door handle harder than it should.
“I just want to know who was big enough to break you.”
My nostrils flare at the thought of Montana, but I steady my emotions before turning to face her. “All that matters is it wasn’t you.”
Her expression falls at the statement, the hurt evident.
“Cora was right about you,” she spits back.
I don’t know why she wastes her breath, attempting to hurt me with her words when none of them touch me. They fall to the earth useless and wasted.
“They always are,” I reply, pulling my phone from my back pocket and seeing exactly what I needed to see.