5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Corbin
After Avery storms out, I ignore the accusatory glare Jessie shoots my way and disappear into my office. I take a few deep breaths trying to calm my irritation. I wasn’t in the wrong just now. That woman had walked in here pretending to be interested in a new tattoo when she’d really been angling for a job. Who does that? How did she think that was going to go down? She had to know it wouldn’t go well once I discovered she was blatantly lying to me. Most employers want honesty from the people who work for them. I think back over the entire interaction as I sit at my desk. No wonder she’d been so nervous at first. It’s because she knew I’d be angry when I found out why she was here. But her nerves quickly vanished when I lashed out at her.
For some reason, I can’t get the image of those angry hazel eyes flashing at me in defiance out of my head. Not to mention those full lips that had turned down in an angry sneer as she’d told me to go fuck myself. I nearly laugh at the memory. She couldn’t have been more than an inch or two over five feet tall. But she’d faced me down as if I didn’t have nearly a foot of height and a hundred pounds of muscle on her. My dick stirs again, somehow turned on by the memory of her fearlessness. That brings my annoyance back in full force and the humor of the situation vanishes. What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s just been a while, that’s all. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. She’s a stranger, and a liar on top of that. Not to mention, she looks young. She’s probably at least a decade younger than me. There’s nothing wrong with a few years’ age difference. I’ve just never been interested in women that much younger than me. Not that I haven’t gone there a few times in the past. It’s just that, now that I’m closing in on 35 years old, the idea of hooking up with random 22-year-olds doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. I stop that line of thinking in its tracks. What the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about hooking up with someone I just met, and that I’ll probably never see again? Shaking my head to clear it, I take several deep, cleansing breaths and push all thoughts of petite, hazel-eyed temptresses out of my mind. I need to focus.
I have a client coming soon for another session on his sleeve and I like to have a clear head when I work. Adding permanent art to someone’s body is a big responsibility, and I take it seriously. Being in the wrong headspace when I’m working can lead to mistakes. While I’ve never made a mistake I can’t correct, I know I’m not infallible. So, I try to keep my mind clear when I’m tattooing. The day I make a tattoo mistake I can’t fix is the day I know it’s time to retire. I’m hoping I never see that day.
When Jessie knocks on my office door a few minutes later, I’m feeling more like myself.
“Come in,” I say.
She opens the door wide enough to stick her head in.
“You okay, boss?”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”
I can’t see her shoulders, but the shrug is obvious. “Seemed like that chick upset you.”
I wave a dismissive hand and roll my eyes. “I’m good. Just forget her. She’s history.” I ignore the slight pang I feel as I say it, telling myself again that it’s a good thing she stormed out of here.
Jessie looks at me for a long moment before sighing. “Fine. But she left this.”
When she pushes open the door further, I can she holds up a black, leatherbound book. Shit. She left her fucking portfolio. She’s going to want that back. Which means she’s going to come back for it. Which means I haven’t seen the last of her. I struggle to keep the annoyed expression on my face, even as my cock twitches in my pants at the thought of seeing her again.
Sighing, I hold out my hand. “I’ll take it. I’m sure she’ll be back for it.”
“I can keep it at the desk, boss,” Jessie says, making no move to hand me the book.
“Nah,” I say. “I don’t want a customer to think it’s flash art.”
She scoffs. “We don’t do flash art, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. But you never know.”
She shrugs again as she hands me the leather book. “Not like anyone would see these and think they’re flash. That girl is good. Like, really fucking good. Tell me again why you sent her packing?”
I feel my typical annoyance with Jessie rising again. “She’s a liar, for one. For another, I don’t take on apprentices. I never have. I’m not a fucking babysitter. She can find someone else to teach her if she’s so set on tattooing.”
I take the portfolio from Jessie and drop it into my desk drawer, slamming it shut. When I look back up to see her still standing there, I raise my brows.
“Was there something else?”
She shakes her head and sighs. “It wouldn’t kill you to loosen up a little.”
“It might,” I say, making her lips twitch into an almost-smile .
She just rolls her eyes. “I’m ordering cheesesteaks for lunch. You want one?”
I give her a knowing look. “Is that a question?”
“Wanna share fries?”
“You know I don’t turn down fries,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “But I’m buying.”
I hand her my card. She hesitates for only a moment before taking it.
“Fine. But I’m paying you back.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “Text Noah and see if he wants anything before you order.”
She eyes me for a long moment before speaking. “You know, if I told anyone you were actually a nice guy under that grumpy scowl and manly beard, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d say I was delusional. You should show that side of you to more people than just me and Noah.”
I grin at her, wiggling my eyebrows. “You think my beard is manly?”
She sighs. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hey,” I say, defensive. “I’m nice to Henley, too.”
“She’s your sister. You don’t have a choice.”
“Sure, I do. Lots of people have shitty families who aren’t nice to them. So, there’s a choice.”
“Not for you,” she says. “You’re not that kind of guy.”
Something about the way she says it makes me pause. For two people who don’t share a lot, she seems to know more about me than I thought. It makes me wonder what else she knows about me from her quiet observations. But I don’t ask. Maybe I’m better off not knowing. I have no idea what can of worms I’d be opening by asking Jessie to tell me what she thinks of me. For all her shyness and skittishness around most men, she doesn’t hold back when it comes to me. So, in the end I just smile sheepishly.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“They wouldn’t believe me,” she says in a sing-song voice as she turns to leave.
I can’t stop the laugh that pops out of my mouth. After Jessie leaves, I think back over our conversation. She said I need to loosen up. I’ve never considered myself uptight. I just have a set of guidelines I use to run my business. And some of those guidelines trickle over into my personal life. There’s nothing wrong with that. Do people think I’m uptight? Maybe. Do I care what they think? No. I don’t. So, why are Jessie’s words getting under my skin?
My eyes stray to the desk drawer where I’d dropped the portfolio. Jessie was right about one thing. The few sketches I’d seen before I found out why Avery was here had been really good. I may not want her—or anyone—as my apprentice, but I can admit she’s got talent. I’ve seen great art. My own work isn’t too shabby, though I wouldn’t call it spectacular. Avery is in a different league. Maybe that’s what happens when you go to a fancy art school and have people fostering your natural talent all your life. Not everyone gets that sort of opportunity. I certainly hadn’t. But I don’t think it’s hindered my business. I’ve done well for myself without a fancy education .
I glance toward the open door to make sure Jessie isn’t hovering before opening the desk drawer and pulling out the sketchbook. I don’t know why I’m looking at it. No matter how good the girl is, I’m not taking her on as an apprentice. I don’t want any apprentice, let alone a spoiled, rich girl with a ritzy art degree. Besides, if she knew how much of an asshole I can truly be, she’d be thanking me for sending her packing. I’m doing her a favor.
Despite that, I spend a few minutes flipping through the sketches in her portfolio, admiring the clean lines and the realistic depiction of her subjects. Some of these pieces would translate beautifully as tattoos. I flip to a drawing of a stylized mermaid lazing on a rock. The drawing is done in black ink, but the details somehow give the illusion of sunlight glistening on the scales in the mermaid’s tail. It’s incredibly well-done. I may not have an art degree, but I have an eye for good art. And this piece is good. I flip through the rest of the book, taking in the fine details of Avery’s work. It’s clear she’s got talent.
Annoyed, I close the book with a shake of my head. It doesn’t matter if she’s good at drawing some pretty pictures on paper. That doesn’t translate to being a good tattoo artist. Everything changes when the needles come out. What if she’s squeamish? Not everyone does well with the sight of blood. Some people also balk as soon as the needles get close to the client’s skin. They suddenly remember that they’re about to cause pain to another human being and they can’t go through with it. I’ve seen it happen a few times throughout my career.
Avery certainly hadn’t seemed squeamish when she’d been yelling at me. Her eyes had flashed with anger, and her face had been slightly flushed. She’d looked fucking hot as she stood her ground, practically daring me to force her out of the shop. Not that I would have lain a hand on her. But she didn’t know that. For all she knew, I could have been a real bastard who wouldn’t hesitate to drag her from my shop and toss her on her ass. Still, she’d stood her ground.
Something about that defiance has my dick growing hard in my jeans and I reach down to discreetly adjust myself. My imagination takes on a life of its own and I picture an obstinate, slightly angry Avery on her knees before me. What would it take to make someone like her submit? It wouldn’t be easy. She would remain stubborn, I can tell. But when she finally gave in? Fuck, that would be worth the challenge. I allow myself the tiniest moment to fantasize about how she’d look submitting to me. Those expressive eyes looking up at me in challenge as she willingly took me into her mouth. My hand presses hard against the bulge in my pants, wishing for relief. That little movement snaps me out of the moment, and I clench my hands into fists with a sigh.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Annoyed at my wayward thoughts and my body’s reaction to this woman, I toss the book back into the drawer and get to my feet. I can’t sit here fantasizing about this woman. I don’t even know her. Aside from the fact that she’s a good artist and a liar—and hot as hell—I don’t know shit about her. She could be a sociopath, for all I know. I need to push all thoughts of her from my head if I’m going to get anything done today. I don’t have time to get caught up in thoughts of full, pouty lips and angry hazel eyes. I’ve got a business to run.