My Bad Boy Boss (Alphas in Charge #6)

Chapter 1

CARMINE

—and I’m just wondering what your availability looks like, because I was thinking Thursday, but if Thursday doesn’t work, then Friday would probably be okay, and I also had a question about pricing because my friend got hers done somewhere else and she said—”

Sweet mercy, talking to this woman is wearing on my last nerve. I should not be the one talking to people who call in—especially college girls who go back and forth about what they want, before finally admitting they really want a tramp stamp or a butterfly.

“Thursday’s full,” I say from memory, grabbing the schedule book.

The computer is a recent development, supposedly to make things easier, but the damn thing takes so long to get going that we’ve kept using the appointment ledger we’ve used since Waylon opened King Ink.

“Friday, I think I’ve got a two o’clock open.

Liam does color work, if that’s the direction you’re going. ”

“Oh, it is, yes. I’m thinking something floral, like peonies maybe, or roses. I saw this piece online that was—”

“Okay. Just bring in a picture of what you want, and we’ll use that. To secure the appointment, we need an eighty-dollar deposit. You’re looking at two-hundred total.”

I wait as Stephanie gets her card and reads me the details. It’d be a lot easier to do this through the software on the computer… but the computer screen is still loading. Fuck if I know anything about computers, other than Waylon wants us to start using them.

I look back at Dale, the client I’m supposed to be working on right now. While the credit card is being processed, I cover the phone and call out, “Sorry, Dale. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dale nods, but he shakes his head in a way that suggests he’s aggravated. I can’t blame him, because I’m aggravated, too.

“Okay. We’ve got your deposit. We’ll see you on Friday at two o’clock. Call us a day in advance if you need to reschedule, otherwise you forfeit the deposit.” I write her name in the Friday slot—Stephanie, floral, color, $80 deposit paid—in handwriting that probably no one else can read.

I hang up and see the computer is finally up, but I ignore it and put the appointment book in the cubby below the counter.

I head back to my station. Ford is deep in a black-and-grey portrait on a middle-aged man’s calf—a woman’s face, the kind of piece he can spend a full day on. Nobody talks to Ford mid-portrait. This is a shop rule and, more importantly, self-preservation.

Clancy is breaking down his station with the methodical precision he brings to everything: surfaces wiped in the same order, inks capped and sorted, equipment laid out exactly where it always is. He glances at me as I pass.

Knight is at his station, headphones in, working on a Japanese-style sleeve on a regular.

You wouldn’t know he’s the artist behind the viral Purrfect Kittens art, because we were shocked as fuck to learn that.

His back is to the room. He has not weighed in on the front desk situation, and it’s not likely that he will.

His priorities are his wife, his art, tattoos, and then everything else is a very distant fourth.

I get back to Dale, pull on fresh gloves, find my place on the sleeve—dense American traditional, eagles and daggers and a banner we’ve been building over several sessions—and settle back into the hum. Everything else is a disaster, but working on a tattoo lets me exhale. This is what I love.

“Thanks for being patient, Dale.”

“Not much to do but wait. You gonna hire someone for the front desk?”

“Trying to,” I say, wiping excess ink before continuing. “We need to get some help in. I’m shit with computers and none of us like fielding calls all that much.”

“Sign’s been in the window a while now,” Clancy says from the chair next to mine, and the challenge in his voice makes me stop the tattoo gun and close my eyes.

The crew talks like I don’t know we need help. But what the fuck am I supposed to do if no one comes in?

“I know, Clancy,” I say, then turn to Dale. “I think we’ve got maybe one more session on this and you’ll be finished. What do you think?” I stand and stretch while he looks in the mirror and takes it all in. In my opinion, it looks damn good, but it’s Dale’s opinion that matters.

Dale nods and looks at me. “It’s worth the wait.”

I smile, satisfied, and grab the tattoo balm. “You know the drill,” I say, applying a thin layer of the balm and wrapping his arm in plastic wrap.

“Yeah. I’ve got ointment at home.”

We head to the desk and I run his card, knocking off ten percent as a discount because of the interruption.

“See you next Wednesday,” I call out, and Dale waves as he leaves.

A big man comes in once Dale is out. Full sleeves, throat work, the kind of accumulation that takes years and a serious commitment to ink.

“I need a new piece,” he says bluntly, staring me down like it’s a contest.

I hold his eye and grab the appointment book. “We’ve got Tuesday at two, or next Thursday.”

“I want it today.” The man scowls at me, his hands balling into fists in a way that makes me take half a step back. We can all defend ourselves, but this is not the place for violence.

The front door opens again. A woman who must surely be lost walks in mid-tension—stops just inside, one hand still on the door, and stares at us.

What the fuck? Why is everyone choosing now to walk into King Ink?

The tatted guy turns to leave, his fists opening and closing in tight flexes, and clips her shoulder enough that she rocks back half a step.

She glares up at him.

“Excuse you.” Her voice is polite and stern, but a blind man could see how serious she is as she stares at the man.

He stares down at her. She’s got her chin up, hands on her hips.

What the fuck am I watching? This woman is fucking impressive, though I wonder if she also has a death wish.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to smile or laugh as I watch this curvy young woman stare down a man twice her size and a foot taller than her, and far more dangerous than she could possibly realize.

Something shifts in his face. He grunts and nods. “Apologies.”

“Thank you,” she says, watching him as he turns back to me. Then she turns to me and smiles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She is clearly in the wrong building. Creamy skin without a mark on it.

A sundress that is loose but can’t hide her insanely sexy curves.

She looks like she belongs in the coffee shop two doors down, not a tattoo parlor where everyone is still silent.

I don’t need to look behind me to know that everyone in here is staring at her.

“Can I help you?” I ask, focusing my attention on her.

“I can help you,” she says, giving me a smile that goes straight to my groin and wakes up my cock. What the fuck? She’s not my type and everything about her screams off-limits. “But you should finish with this gentleman here.”

I turn back to the tatted guy. He’s watching her, but his hands are relaxed now. I sigh in relief that the potential violence level has returned to “probably not.”

“Tuesday at two,” I say. “It’s the first available slot.”

He turns back to me and grumbles something I don’t catch. “Fine. Tuesday. Name is Mackie.”

I write him in the appointment book as he turns and leaves. I don’t even care that he didn’t stay long enough to pay a deposit. We’ll collect when he gets here on Tuesday and call it good. Not how we usually do things, but sometimes bending the rules keeps it smoother for everyone.

Even with the music playing, the hush in the shop is eerie. I look back and everyone is watching us, even Knight.

Liam takes a step forward, his eyes going between me and the curvy woman. “Did she just—”

“Yeah, she did,” Clancy says.

“What can I do for you?” I turn to the woman, needing to get this handled so we can go back to business as usual.

She turns. “I saw your sign.” A glance toward the HELP WANTED sign in the window. She looks around the shop—the stations, the art, my guys. “I want a job. My name is Clarissa,” she says, extending her hand to me.

I open my mouth, automatically reaching for her soft hand. My cock throbs in my jeans as I hold her hand in mine.

“Carmine.”

Liam is already at the partition, leaning on it with his arms crossed. “Did you see what she just did? Hire her.”

Ford’s machine stops. “Do it.”

Clancy, from his station, without turning: “Hire her. I swear to God, if you don’t…”

Knight pulls one headphone off. Looks at her. Looks at me. Puts it back. His silence on this particular occasion counts as a vote.

She’s watching the five of us with an expression that is somehow both amused and patient.

“Okay, Clarissa,” I say, focusing on her. “You worked a front desk before?”

“Summers through college. Medical office.” She’s smiling at me, and I still can’t get over how someone who looks like sweetness and sunshine decided King Ink is where she wants to work.

“Can you learn booking software?”

“I can learn most things. Software is easy.”

“Some of our clients are rough around the edges. Like Mackie.” I hold her eye. “That’s not going to change.”

She doesn’t blink. “Not a problem. I know what rough around the edges looks like.”

Something in her tone says she isn’t talking about my clients. But she looks fresh and sweet, not a woman who understands what rough around the edges means. There is definitely more to her than meets the eye, especially after the way she coolly and calmly handled Mackie, and it piques my interest.

I don’t know how long this can last, and I know having a girl in the front who makes me hard just by smiling at me is going to be a problem, but the crew is going to mutiny if I say no.

“Fine. Come tomorrow morning at eight, and I’ll get you started.”