Chapter 6
After a restful night’ssleep in my four-poster bed, a hot cup of my favorite cinnamon-flavored coffee, and three outfit changes later—I opted for a ruffled white skirt and a pastel pink off-the-shoulder sweater with a sweetheart neckline—I’m on my way to see my shop for the first time. I’m so excited, I barely notice the famous New Orleans stench as I round the corner from dirty Dumaine onto Royal Street. As if the name itself demands a certain level of decency, the brisk two-and-a-half-block walk is far more enjoyable and scenic than the view from my cottage. There are fewer cracks in the sidewalks and potholes in the street. Beautiful historic buildings with intricate iron balconies line the street on both sides. On them, I find the first blooms of the new year and hoards of Mardi Gras beads. Oh, I forgot that was a thing down here. Hmm.
I pass several restaurants and historic inns, a cute bookstore I make a mental note to check out, and a beautiful garden located behind something that looks like a castle. Oh, right! The cathedral at Jackson Square. As Brinkley assumes his squat position, I yank him up. “Those are church grounds, Brink. Where are your manners?” Although, I will have to find someplace for him soon. Even behind my cottage, there’s nothing but concrete, and while that’s fine for number one, it’s not as suitable for number two. Though the rank air lets me know not everyone abides by those standards.
I hold Brinkley close as I finish the trek, finding the building sandwiched between a market and a cutesy restaurant named the Court of Two Sisters. Not too shabby. I’ll be able to grab groceries after work as I need them and being located next to one of the most famous and historic restaurants in town can only be good for business. Although, being next to a tattoo parlor, not so much. I pull out my phone to double-check the address Aidan gave me.
“Well, Brink, this looks like the right place,” I say despite my confusion. It seems this building is already occupied, but perhaps there’s more than one unit. There’s only one way to find out.
Brinkley in tow, I cross the street to the building made of weathered red bricks. A single sign hangs from the floor of the second-story balcony with the words Only Black Ink written in plain font. The first floor is framed by white molding encasing two windows and the stoop entry. Medium green shutters on each side of the windows offer a nice touch to the otherwise black, white, and brick building. Although, the intricate iron work of the second-story balcony is also quite nice.
I make my way onto the stoop and wipe my nude-colored boots on the black-and-gray-checkered tiles. Swiftly, I push the white-painted door open only to be met by the most god-awful, blood-curdling, mind-numbing metal music. “Oh my God!” I instantly pull Brinkley closer to me, covering his ear while pressing the other against my chest. I lift my free hand to try to save my own hearing, but it’s no use. This sorry excuse for music is impossible to escape.
I move past the wooden stairwell farther into the main space of the building even though all I want to do is run outside. I’d take the New Orleans stench over this any day. Though, despite the atrocious music, I find the space empty save for the sketches covering the black-painted brick walls, the few tattoo booths lining the far wall of the rather narrow space, and a grouping of furniture just to my right. Wincing, I move my hand from my ear to my purse and pull out my phone to check the time. I’m five minutes late. Whoever I’m set to meet should be here.
“Uh,” I moan. “Is anyone here?” I call out, though I can barely hear my own voice. I scan the room for the stereo control system, finding nothing. All the while, my skin becomes damp with sweat and my ears begin to ring. Soon enough, my eye will start twitching. This is insane. This can’t be the right place. And, even if it is, this is not going to work. There is no way?—
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
A tall tattooed tower of a man has appeared and come to stand before me. I’m taken aback by his presence. My eyes widen and my grasp on Brinkley loosens as I take him in. He is dressed in all black, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows revealing muscular arms completely covered in meticulous designs, stretching from his fingertips upward. But they don’t stop beneath his shirt, which, paired with his sharp jawline and broody glare, is perhaps why I find him so intimidating. I’ve never seen someone with as many tattoos as him. They poke out from under the collar of his shirt, covering his neck, tracing up his jaw onto the sides and back of his head where his hair has been shaved, leaving only a mop of brown curls on top. The pain he must’ve endured for all of that and why? Fittingly, all his tattoos, at least the ones I can see, are in only black ink. How very fitting. Additionally, unlike the men I’m used to being around, he wears jewelry, lots of it. Small stud earrings, chunky rings and bracelets, and several tiny chains around his neck. Hmm, I do appreciate a good accessory, and it is nice to come across a man with a sense of style.
My lips part as my eyes finally find his. They’re the most unique gray blue, weirdly similar to the shutters on my house. It’s then that I realize I’ve been staring for far too long, so intently the music once the bane of my existence is now nothing but a low murmur in the background. Quickly, I readjust Brinkley’s positioning in my arms and begin to apologize for my poor manners when he returns my rude behavior by tracing his eyes up and down my body. The hairs on my arms rise in response, and I can feel my cheeks flush. I find myself pressing my knees together and wondering what to make of my body’s response to him. Am I afraid? Uncomfortable? Or something else entirely?
As his light eyes finally find mine again, I snap out of my temporary daze and am met with the same god-awful soundtrack as before and a headache to match. I wince and bring my hand to my temple.
“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I ask, remembering he had said something before.
“I asked if I could help you with anything?” He takes a step toward me then, drawing my attention from my temple back to him. My body goes rigid as he moves closer to me, and it’s all I can do not to take a step back. Only a foot away from me, I get a whiff of his cologne—a warm, spicy fragrance. Mmm, I detect notes of pepper, rum, and tobacco leaf. Maybe even a touch of cinnamon. I love cinnamon. His welcoming scent helps to ease some of the tension his presence creates.
“Oh, um, yes. I think I’m supposed to meet someone here. The landlord,” I say.
“Hmm?” He leans forward, still unable to hear me.
“The landlord!” I yell. Even with him leaning down and me wearing three-inch-heeled boots, I have to stand on my tiptoes for him to hear me. As I do, I find my lips so close to his tattooed neck, I can feel the warmth pulsing off him. Quickly, I lower myself. I’m not used to being so close to a man, especially one not in my detail, especially one that looks like him, and especially while alone.
“Oh, yes, for the unit upstairs,” he says. “He’s not in yet, but you can wait on the couch over there. He shouldn’t be long.” He points toward the leather sofa to my right positioned just beneath the windows.
“Not in? But it’s ten after,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall toward the back of the room. “That’s not very professional,” I mumble to myself as I move toward the sofa. Although, at least I know I’m in the right place. And the upstairs will have access to the beautiful balcony, which will be nice. “Oh, and can we do something about this music?” I call out as the tattooed man makes his way to the back of the shop. He spins around, his dark brows raised as if to ask me to repeat myself. “The music,” I say once more, waving my hand around as if it’s a tangible object floating in the space between us. It certainly feels like it.
“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head.
“Really? That’s it? Just, no.” I find it impossible to keep my composure as he denies my request.
“Yeah, the boss is the only one who can adjust the music,” he says. Without a second glance, he continues toward the back of the building, disappearing into some office. Hmm. Well, who the Hell is he then? There’s no one else here—no workers, no customers. The manager maybe? Whatever.
I plop down on the couch, already exhausted. My arm aches from holding Brinkley so tightly, nevertheless, I keep him in my arms to keep his ears covered since dogs have even greater hearing than humans. If this is painful for me, it’s excruciating for him. My poor baby.
I give the space another once-over to distract myself. I’ve never been in a tattoo parlor before, but this one seems cleaner than I guess I would’ve expected. Though, the thought of seeing needles in use every time I walk through the front door gives me anxiety. Not to mention, the clientele. If that guy is any indication of the people who frequent this place, this might not be the best location for my boutique. What was Aidan thinking? He had to have known about this place.
I do my best to calm my anxiety, reminding myself that I had similar thoughts about my cottage yesterday and everything turned out fine. This will be okay too. I’ll buy some earplugs and make it work. “Won’t we, Brinkley?” I say, although I know he can’t hear me. I take a deep breath and spend the next ten minutes softly stroking Brinkley’s fur, both to calm him down and myself. Just as I’m about to give up hope, the same man from earlier appears from the office in the back. This time he wears glasses and holds a slip of paper. What the?
As he approaches me, I can’t keep the confusion from distorting my features. I feel my brows furrow and my lips part. Surely, he’s not… As he reaches me, he extends his hand. “Damon Dupont, tattooist and owner of Only Black Ink and of this building. It’s nice to meet you, Anastasia.” You’ve got to be kidding me.
As rage bubbles inside me, I push myself up, ignoring his hand, and lay into him with as much ferocity as I would my brother. “Are you kidding me? You are not Clark Kent and I’m not Lois Lane. I know it’s you, you asshole! How dare you leave me here, not only waiting but writhing in agony over this trash music. And you could’ve turned it down. You, you…” I find myself running out of words and energy as the music still blares around us. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak to my landlord this way. I mean, I’ve never had one before so I’m not exactly sure how to speak to him, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. Still, he does nothing but retract his hand, take off his glasses, and smile. It’s weird. The way it lifts his eyes, his smile makes him look more devious and dangerous than before. I shrug my shoulders and brush my long curls away from my face. I’m hot, frustrated, and just ready to get upstairs where it’s, hopefully, quieter. “Can we just get on with it?” I ask. Not waiting for a response, I move past him toward the stairwell.