Chapter 14
OLI
Revenge Tattoo was packed. If someone had told me Ren was planning to turn this place into a nightclub, I would believe them.
I wasn’t sure how this had happened. Sometimes, Ren was just pure chaos and crazy shit congealed around him.
Loud rock music blared from the speakers in the corners of the room, and earlier, Wylie and Flint had strung orange-and-black lights around the front window and crisscrossed them along the ceiling until they resembled a spider’s web.
Every last person packed in here was in a horror club, and they were all getting jack-o’-lantern tattoos.
To keep things spicy, each member had customized their pumpkin.
I loved the idea.
In theory.
However, I wasn’t a fan of having this many people jammed into the room—especially since half of them were crowded around the tattoo chairs. One stumble, one slip, and someone was going to have a “happy accident” as a tattoo.
The only person panicking about the impromptu party seemed to be me, though.
Ren’s delighted laughter rose above the noise. He was smiling from ear to ear and clearly in his element, his horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose as he was bent over tattooing yet another person.
Someone was passing around a bottle of rum, which I guess we were ignoring.
Wylie and Flint were also happy, bullshitting with people as they worked. My cheeks flushed and I felt a little lightheaded as I glanced at my sketchbook and charcoal pencils on a shelf under the counter. I was in the seat KC held down when he was visiting or helping out.
Thank fuck, I got to use the counter as a barricade.
I didn’t hate people, but this was too much. When the room had started to fill up, I couldn’t even concentrate enough to work on paper, let alone skin like the guys were doing.
The Monday before Halloween was turning out to be weird, and Ren had told me that the week building up to the big day was always insane. They were planning to stay open on Halloween until midnight, too, to catch walk-ins.
Life in general had been strange. Almost two weeks had passed since KC had his first session with his psychologist, but nothing had really changed with him yet. He was being rigid about what he ate, which shouldn’t be a huge deal, but it was making it hard for us to have meals together.
I hadn’t noticed how often people who lived together ate together. Turned out, it was a ton. Several times a day. Every day. And when one person had a problem with food, it tended to become everyone’s issue.
I was trying not to be irritated about it. How would that help?
And, oh yeah, we’d all been living together.
KC hadn’t gone home—he was probably avoiding Quain. I hadn’t been home. And Ren lived in his apartment, so he didn’t have anywhere else to be.
I wanted to hang out with my guys anyway, no matter what, but avoiding my house and parents guaranteed that was happening twenty-four seven. Unfortunately, living together wasn’t exactly the full-time nightly orgy I’d been imagining when we’d first gotten together and everything was frantic.
Which was fine.
Really.
Yesterday, Ren had practice, so at the end of the day, we just went to sleep because he was completely exhausted. KC had a long practice late this afternoon. The team had lost their most recent game, so the coach had promised to run each and every one of them into the ground.
Guaranteed, it would be another early night.
No sex.
I squirmed as anxiety twisted through my gut.
I had two amazing jock boyfriends, and somehow, I was the one who would lie awake with a hard-on while they sawed logs.
This was adding to the other frustrations in my life, as silly as that might sound.
Getting wrecked by my guys went a long way toward relaxing me.
If they managed to push me to the point where I cracked, I would be up and down for a few days, but I ultimately felt better after my mood evened out again.
Plus, now that I was having sex, I wanted it all the time.
That was about what I’d expected on that front. No surprise there.
A round of clapping and shouting went up around the room, startling me out of the muddy thoughts in my brain.
Everyone who had been in the tattoo chairs were getting clear bandages secured over their brand-new tattoos.
Ren stood up with a grin and rolled his shoulders.
He looked edible in a black tank top and low-riding black jeans that showed off a strip of his abs.
“I have to thank you all for choosing Revenge Tattoo,” Ren called above the celebration.
He pointed over at the bloody red letters that spelled out the name on the matte black brick wall, then nodded at me.
I shot over to his side, dodging people, to help him out by using the disinfectant spray on his chair.
A guy about my height with brilliant white-blond curls and vivid blue eyes—so blue I was half convinced they were contacts—came over to Ren with a big smile.
He was wearing an orange T-shirt with New Gothenburg Horror Appreciation Society curved over a pumpkin patch, and he handed off matching shirts to Ren, Flint, and Wylie.
“As president of our horror society, I would like to make you honorary members.” His smile grew so wide dimples popped on his cheeks. I didn’t enjoy the way Ren grinned back, but maybe that was the blue balls talking.
There was more cheering from the group.
“Halloween night we’re screening horror movies in the ballroom of that creepy lakeside mansion on Harwood Street.”
“You talked whoever owns it into letting you do that?” Wylie asked, sounding impressed. “We drove past it one day. It’s crazy big.”
“Yes, I talked myself into it.” The blond man snickered.
Members of his club had started filing outside, letting cold air blast into the parlor.
“I’m Chance Grinspoon.” He shook hands with each of us, then passed over an envelope to each of the guys.
“We paid individually online and tipped there, too, but we wanted to make sure you were well compensated for accommodating all of us. We had a wonderful time.”
Ren saluted with the thick envelope. “Much appreciated. You’re welcome back whenever you want.”
Chance clasped his hands and gave a stage bow, then was on his way out to join the rest of his group. Ren followed him and locked the front door, since it was close to 11:00 p.m., then flipped the sign to Closed.
“That was nuts.” I started around the room spraying the other chairs, then wiping them down. “I don’t know if I could handle that much pressure. Everyone staring at you.”
Ren shrugged and counted the money in the envelope, then folded it in two and stuffed it into his back pocket.
“Well, this should just about cover the fucking scratch I noticed on Shakira’s driver-side door today.
I took her for a wash because I thought maybe that would help, but it didn’t.
” He scowled around the room with his arms crossed.
Wylie was already sweeping the floor and stopped to gape. “No.”
“Fucking yes!”
The autoclave began to hum in the back room, a comforting sound that reminded me of working at A Barber for Kings.
“The driver’s side?” I called, stashing the disinfectant in the back room, then dropping the rag in the hamper there. I popped back out and mirrored Ren’s pissed-off body language, trying to get a laugh out of him, but it didn’t work, not even when I made a big production of crossing my arms.
“Yeah. Who knows what happened?” He shook his head bitterly.
Flint stopped the cleaning he was doing to frown at Ren. “Someone hit it with their car door? I hate that shit.”
“No, it’s not a chip, it’s a bunch of wiggly little shallow scratches.” He bared his teeth. “Someone had to have done that on purpose, and when I find out who, I’m going to rip their asshole out past their tonsils.”
“On the driver’s side,” I deadpanned, rolling my eyes. I was putting two and two together to make twenty. “Don’t you make a habit of checking Shakira every day? Take her out into the sunshine and see it gleam on the paint?”
Ren grunted and walked over to the register. I noted his fuck this face as he locked the drawer rather than running the end of the day reports. “I’ve been a little busy.” He winked at me.
My irritation spiked. Him and his fucking winking. “So, can you think of anything that might’ve happened on that side of the car? Anything at all that could’ve scratched it?”
Ren snorted. “I would never allow anything to happen to my baby.”
“Never?”
Flint and Wylie were smirking. I didn’t know if they knew exactly what had happened—they seemed to exist somewhere between friends and employees on Ren’s radar. Would he have told them about our sexcapades?
“Did something happen in Shakira, Boss? Or on Shakira?” Wylie took his balls in hand and poked the bull.
Ren glanced up from the register. “No, what could’ve possibly—”
We made eye contact.
I grinned.
His mouth snapped shut, and I got the supreme pleasure of watching his cheeks flare a brilliant pink that traveled to the tips of his ears.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Flint came over and smacked my shoulder lightly with his fist. “What did he do?”
“Everyone go home,” Ren growled, but he came over to kiss me, and I hummed against his lips as he picked me up to shake me around at the same time. “Bad, Kitten.”
“Don’t blame me for your mind starting to go, old man.”
He set me on my feet and grabbed my asscheeks roughly. “I banged Oli against Shakira. Probably what, the button on your jeans? You think that’s what did it? So, it was your fault.”
My cheeks flushed hotter than the sun and I gasped, pummeling his chest with my palms. “Oh my God! It wasn’t my fault! Don’t listen to him! That never happened!”
“That’s close enough to the truth. Or do you want them to know the whole sordid story?” he murmured quietly, voice full of gravel that made electricity arc across my skin and my cock plump up so fast my head spun.