P.S. I Loathe You

One

Wes

“No way, not him,” the guy in my shop growls at the girl whom I can only assume is his girlfriend as he points in my direction.

The guy looks up at me, distrust clear in his expression. “Don’t you have any female artists on staff?”

I arch a brow at him. “Just Leela. But just so you know, she’ll be much more interested in your girlfriend’s tits than I am.”

The guy crosses his thick arms over his even thicker chest. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, and has a Jason Mamoa look about him, with a dark man-bun and full beard.

If he weren’t such a twat, I’d probably find him attractive.

Sod it, who am I kidding? He’s attractive.

I really need to do something about this whole being-attracted-to-wankers thing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snarls. “Are you saying she has ugly tits?”

I shift my glance to the girl. She’s probably about ten years younger than the guy and is, objectively speaking, quite attractive.

But honestly the most intriguing thing I find about her appearance is the ink.

She has a full sleeve on one arm and a band wrapping her other wrist. She’s in here today because she wants to extend her sleeve over her chest. And Mr. Controlling Arsehole Boyfriend doesn’t want a guy tattooing her breasts.

“I’m sure her tits are very nice,” I say levelly. “But they hold no interest for me. You on the other hand…” I scan my eyes up and down his body, making sure to linger over certain areas in a way I know will make him uncomfortable.

“You a shirt-lifter?” He sounds confused, as though I’ve somehow wrong-footed him simply by not looking stereotypically “gay.”

“ Duncan,” the girl hisses in an obvious reprimand.

I hold up my hand to ward her off. This is hardly the first time I’ve dealt with shit like this, and frankly I don’t have the patience to care. “Yes, I’m gay. Now will you let me tattoo your girlfriend’s breasts. I have other clients, you know.”

He nods, and I send the client—Amelia—into one of the tattooing rooms. I follow behind and Duncan makes to come after me, but I hold up a hand and point to the waiting area at the front of my shop. “Clients only.”

“But—”

I arch an eyebrow in challenge. “You don’t want me getting all distracted by your fit body and fucking up her ink, do you?”

He scowls and stomps off to wait at the front of the shop.

Then I enter the room and gesture for Amelia to make herself comfortable on the chair. “Your boyfriend’s a twat.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” she says fondly. “Just gets a bit jealous sometimes.”

I shake my head. That’s what they all say. It’s none of my business, though, so I just bring up the design I made for Amelia on my tablet and check with her that she’s still happy with it. Then I print out a stencil of the design and get to work.

“Do I really have to go to this thing tonight?” I whine to my best friend the second she answers my call.

I’ve just finished up an incredibly tiring day—after completing my first session with Amelia, I had two other clients to see, plus an hour spent chasing up a supplier who messed up one of our piercing orders—and now all I want to do is fall back on my couch with a beer in hand and watch the football, but unfortunately life’s just not that fair. .

“Your sister’s birthday?” Natasha asks, and I can hear the amusement in her voice. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.”

I let out an annoyed huff and swipe my Oyster card before dashing to the escalator. “Maybe I can beg off if they think I’m sick?” I suggest hopefully. “Some kind of flesh-eating disease or something.”

“No, you faked sick to get out of that invitation stuffing day,” she reminds me.

I groan at the memory of the near miss. I’m sure my family twigged that I wasn’t actually sick, but it was worth some extra disapproval to avoid what would have no doubt been a hellish day.

“Okay, so maybe you can be sick, and I have to be there at your bedside,” I suggest. “What can you be dying of?”

“ Wes.” I can picture Natasha shaking her head in exasperation. “Come on, it’s Emma’s birthday. You can’t bail on this one.”

I sigh in resignation. “I know. I just wish he wasn’t going to be there. My parents, I can handle, but that guy—I swear, Tash. One day I’m going to snap and end up choking him with one of his overpriced ties and there won’t be a jury in the country that could convict me!”

Natasha sputters a laugh before saying wryly, “Okay, just on the off-chance Devon turns up murdered you should probably avoid saying that so loudly.”

I snort. “Please, I’m in a tube station in peak hour. No one’s listening to a word I’m saying.”

“What’s the line on the watch?” Tash asks, steering the subject away from murder.

I let out a huff of laughter. “Same as always.”

“Alright. I’m going for the Rolex,” she proclaims with distinct confidence.

My brows shoot up in surprise. “You seem quite sure about that one. You don’t have an inside line, do you?”

“Of course not!” she cries. “How could you accuse me of such a thing, Wesley?”

I chuckle. “Okay, okay. No need to get all screechy. Which Rolex?”

“Vintage,” she says in her attempt to clarify.

I roll my eyes. “Which vintage Rolex?”

She groans. “Oh, I don’t know what it’s called. Come on, Wes, you know which one I’m talking about—the James Bond one.”

“Submariner,” I provide.

“Yes! That one.”

“Okay, then. I’m going the square faced Cartier with…” I screw my face up to think for a moment. “Leather band.”

“Ooh, gamble,” Tash says excitedly.

I let out a soft chuckle. “Same stakes?”

“Of course. I’d better go finish this piece. See you after!”

The restaurant my sister—or more accurately, her incredibly uptight and equally well-off fiancé—picked for her birthday is a fancy French place in Mayfair with about a million Michelin Stars. Definitely not my kind of place at all—give me good pub grub anytime.

Fortunately, at least, it’s just the five of us tonight: Emma, Devon, me, and my parents.

My parents can be a lot to take, but at least they’re used to me by now and usually shrug off my antics with a “oh, well, that’s Wesley,” kind of attitude.

Other people—Devon’s family, for example—aren’t quite so forgiving.

When I finally reach our table, I’m not surprised to be on the end of exasperated looks from both of my parents.

When I get to Devon and Emma, though, the thunderous glare Devon sends my way seems slightly uncalled for.

Sure, I’m a half hour late. And, yes, I’m in jeans and a leather jacket—not the dressy attire everyone else at the table has donned for the evening.

But, come on, it’s not like I just forced him to watch while I tortured his cat to death or something.

“Sorry,” I say to the table at large, flashing a contrite smile. “Got a bit held up at work.”

“And I see you forgot the part about this being a nice place,” Devon says through clenched teeth.

I arch a challenging brow at him and slip my jacket off before draping it over the back of my chair and sitting down.

Yeah, okay, I probably could have made more of an effort with my outfit tonight, but I was running late already by the time I finished work; I just barely had time to shower and change as it was.

Besides, it’s not like this is the kind of restaurant that requires a jacket and tie.

There are other people here wearing jeans, and I can even see a few leather jackets draped on chairs around the restaurant.

Probably more expensive ones than mine, but whatever.

Emma lets out a tinkling laugh, as though Devon’s just said something absolutely hilarious. “Oh, Dev. Don’t you know by now? This is Wes dressed up. Clean t-shirt, no rips in his jeans.” She flashes me a bright smile. “I appreciate the effort, brother.”

I smirk back at her. “Well, at least someone appreciates me.”

Devon just shakes his head and reaches for his wine glass.

He is, of course, dressed impeccably as usual in a navy-blue dress shirt that’s just a shade darker than his eyes.

The sleeves are rolled up to reveal toned forearms, a luxury Cartier watch gleaming against the pale skin of his left wrist. I somehow manage to hold in my groan of frustration as I see it’s the square faced Cartier… with a platinum band. Bugger.

My only consolation is that Tash didn’t win either. I tug my phone from my back pocket so I can take a discrete picture and send it to her.

Me: [Photo]

Me: So close!

Natasha Wilcox: But no cigar!

“Didn’t you have enough ink already?” Devon mutters, glaring at the new addition to the sleeve on my right arm—a pattern of ivy vines that wrap around my arm and twine in with the previously existing ink.

My brows quirk up at the comment because, frankly, I’m surprised he even noticed.

I get new ink all the time, so it generally goes unremarked upon by my family.

Mastering my surprise, I offer him a lazy smile.

“You can never have too much ink. Maybe you should get one yourself?” I suggest. “Come by the shop. I’ll even give you a discount. ”

Devon narrows his eyes at me. “If you think I’m letting you anywhere near me with a tattoo needle you’re even more insane than I thought.”

I lean back in my chair, my grin spreading wider as I recall a fundamental fact about my sister’s fiancé. “Ahh, that’s right. You’re terrified of needles. Totally slipped my mind.”

“I’m not terrified,” Devon grates out. “I just don’t like them.”

Next to him, Emma starts sputtering with wry laughter. “Is that why you almost broke my hand when you had to get that tetanus shot?”

Devon just glowers, and I get the distinct impression he sorely regrets initiating the conversation about my ink.