The First Spark (Sparkwood #1)

1. The Thorn in My Side

Chapter 1

The Thorn in My Side

Ash

“A

sh, you know the rules. You need the approval of the other tenant. According to the lease, it’s a shared space.”

I scrub my face with my hands, releasing a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, primarily because that is not the answer I want to hear. “Give me anything else—a hike through the Mojave at high noon, a quick swim in a vat of sea snakes, Russian roulette with bullets in every chamber—just don’t tell me I have to work a deal with her. ”

“Contrary to what you think, Oriana is a lovely woman.”

Glancing up, I catch Kiki’s smirk. Glad she’s enjoying my predicament.

“Like hell she is. She’s a snob who thinks she’s better than us inked hoodlums.”

I’m not kidding. For the past six months, Oriana Thorne has been a literal thorn in my side, ever since the day she moved next door to my tattoo parlor, Black Lotus.

At first, the woman intrigued me. After renting the rundown space beside me, a renovation crew gutted the entire thing, turning the dank hovel into a bookstore, complete with a gourmet coffee bar and a stage for open-mic nights.

It was a night and day difference.

Anyone who owns a small business knows that vacant shops adjacent to yours are not a good calling card. No matter how successful your business may be, a half-empty strip mall screams of unstable financial futures. So, it thrilled me to have a new neighbor.

Plus, it didn’t hurt that Oriana was damn easy on the eyes. She was adorable—a tiny wisp of a woman with long dark hair and enormous eyes hidden behind glasses. She was an offbeat mix of rockabilly and geeky chic, with a killer body to boot.

Things were looking up.

Until they weren’t.

I planned to stroll into her store and welcome her to the neighborhood. Maybe even offer to buy her a drink at the local watering hole.

That’s how it is in small towns, and I’m a lifer here in Sparkwood. I know every inch of this sleepy mountain hamlet, so named because it has views which would make Ansel Adams weep.

The beauty of the area comes with a high sticker price, so locals hang on to their property with every ounce of strength they possess. They’re also wary of newcomers, but that comes with the territory.

My brother Braden and I took over our parents’ micro farm when they tired of New York winters and headed for the sunny shores of Florida .

Since we had no desire to deal with humidity or alligators, we stayed put and kept the farm open and running.

But farming, despite being my birthright, wasn’t my passion. Ever since I was a kid, I had been obsessed with the art of tattooing and spent years honing my skills. My parents shook their head at my career choice, but they never stopped me from pursuing my dream.

They’re awesome like that. Hell, they even footed the bill for me to attend college in Manhattan and obtain a fine arts degree. I dedicated the days to the masters, but at night, I studied a different type of artistic genius—apprenticing at some of the hottest tattoo parlors in the city.

After four years, I was ready to return to Sparkwood. It just so happened that’s when my folks decided to move, so I set up camp at the family homestead and opened Black Lotus.

Some artists I knew from my Manhattan days flocked to the parlor, eager for an opportunity to work as visiting artists. After six months, two of them stayed on permanently.

It didn’t take long for the word to get out that there was a new name in tattooing—mine. I insisted upon the utmost in quality and professionalism from the artists in my employ, and my strict standards paid off.

Black Lotus has an impeccable reputation. My parlor isn’t some backdoor chop shop. It’s art on skin.

It’s been a mainstay in Sparkwood for over a decade now, drawing tattoo aficionados from across the globe, all clamoring for ink.

But that’s not the crux of the matter.

I’m not only a successful business owner, but I’m also a likable guy—the type who helps ladies with their groceries or plays ball with the neighborhood kids.

In all my years here, I’ve never heard a negative word spoken against me, my artists, or my tattoo parlor—until Oriana arrived. Apparently, all she saw was a bunch of burly men covered in ink and piercings, and that was enough to sway her opinion.

Our introduction was the antithesis of a meet cute. It was a meet-hate instigated by Ms. Tight Ass herself when she marched into my shop, complaining about the noise.

I hadn’t even had a chance to say hello, but that didn’t stop Oriana from reading me the riot act. All I could do was stare at this tiny woman, her hands waving wildly, as she insinuated we were showing her patrons a total lack of respect by playing our music at an undesirable level.

Look, I admit that before she moved in, we blasted the radio after hours. Our clients didn’t mind and there were no neighbors to complain.

But the day Oriana’s store opened, I informed my employees to cut the volume to a respectable level.

See? I’m a nice guy. I strive for everyone to work together.

Seems that wasn’t enough for our new resident pain in the ass.

Not by a long shot.

Oriana wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise during her onslaught, but when she threatened me with the town’s noise ordinance, I had to laugh.

The chief of police is not only one of my best clients, but he’s also a lifelong friend. When I gently mentioned this fact, Oriana’s eyes widened, but she refused to back down an inch .

Turns out, she didn’t care if my lifelong buddy was the King of England.

Instead, she segued to her next complaint, and this one garnered my full attention.

She wagged her finger under my nose—quite a feat, considering the height difference—and spat out that despite my reputation for being a nice person in Sparkwood, it was all bullshit. She knew what I’d said about her. It wasn’t appreciated, and it would most definitely be remembered. If I wanted to play hardball, she was ready.

Then she turned and left the parlor, her petulant pout intact.

That was my introduction to Oriana Thorne. Let me tell you, after that, she was my new nemesis.

I don’t take kindly to threats or insinuations that me and my guys are delinquents. She didn’t say it was because our skin was inked and pierced, but come on, it’s not an enormous leap.

There will always be people who judge you based on their misconceptions. I just never thought it would be my new work neighbor. Hell, she knew what type of establishment Black Lotus was when she rented the adjacent shop. Did she think we sat around sipping tea and eating crumpets?

Normally, I keep my temper shelved. At well over six feet, I’m a big guy. I’m intimidating without ever opening my mouth. But Oriana started this war, and I was damn certain to finish it.

She expected a menace to society. I’d show her one.

Five minutes later, I stormed into her bookstore, my black boots echoing on the wood floor, my hands clenched into fists .

No, I wasn’t going to hit her. I’m not that kind of guy, and any man who is needs to be shot. But she had riled my temper, and I was determined to return the favor.

And I did, right in front of several of her patrons.

Did I feel vindicated berating a tiny woman who’s half my size?

Damn right I did. She started it with her baseless accusations about me and my staff.

Fine, I also felt terrible, because, despite Oriana’s belief otherwise, I care what people think of me. I’ve never experienced such a level of loathing from a total stranger.

Not once in all of my thirty-eight years.

Safe to say, after our blowout, there was no chance we’d be going for a welcome to the neighborhood cocktail.

In fact, I haven’t heard a peep from ‘Little Miss Stick Up Her Ass’ in six months.

Not one word since that day.

We practice avoidance, and after all this time, we’re damn good at it, too. On the off chance we’re ever in the same space, there is no cordial nod or wave hello.

I toss a glare in her direction, and she returns my greeting with one of her own. That’s the extent of our relationship, and even those moments are few and far between.

Trust me, I do my damnedest to ensure I’m never in the same space with Oriana, but now, our shared real estate space is my biggest headache.

My plan, long before Oriana arrived in Sparkwood, was to open a speakeasy establishment beneath the tattoo parlor. It was perfect, considering it was a speakeasy during Prohibition. Hell, the original oak bar still stands along one wall, and there are piles of memorabilia from back in the day sitting in boxes on dust-laden shelves .

I want to recapture the glitz of the Roaring '20s, complete with a historically accurate food and drink menu. There will be music, dancing, the works. Although I may not look it, I’m a huge fan of the Gatsby era.

Bonus: it’s prime real estate, right on Main Street. That alone carries clout for any new venture, and I have the funds at the ready for the renovations. Top of the line everything.

Do it right or don’t do it at all.

My only issue?

The pint-sized priss standing between me and my dream. You see, the space that both her bookstore, One More Page, and my tattoo parlor occupy used to be one unit. The owners divided the space decades ago, but only on the street-level. The basement area was to remain a shared space between the tenants.

Until now, it’s never been an issue. Black Lotus stores extra supplies and equipment down there, and from what I can tell, so does Oriana.

But I need her consent before I can commence with the renovation of the space. Without her signature, I’m going nowhere fast.

Now you see why I’d rather hike the Mojave at high noon.

I huff out another groan as I crack my knuckles in frustration, my booted feet drumming against the floor. “Fuck my life. Come on, Kiki—there must be a way around this.”

As owner of the strip mall, Kiki also owns the power to change the rules. Hell, just bend them a bit—in my favor, of course.

Kiki shakes her head as she closes her briefcase. “Ash, you knew the stipulation when you signed the lease. I even asked if you thought it would be an issue, and if you recall, you said it would not be a problem.”

“That was when the space next door was empty.”

Kiki fixes her dark gray gaze on me. “You’re going to have to do better than that lame excuse.”

“Can’t you make an exception for me?” I shoot her my most charming smile, the one which makes the women of Sparkwood melt.

Hey, when you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?

I’ve lost count of how many women fuss over my looks. According to them, I’m the perfect combination—a muscled bad boy with the face of an angel. Throw in a plethora of ink, a neatly trimmed beard, and my Harley Road King, and you’ve got the perfect storm.

I didn’t coin the expression, but I’ve heard it murmured plenty of times where I’m concerned. Let’s just say I don’t pine for female affection.

Not any night of the week.

Am I an arrogant bastard? Sometimes, but if the ladies are looking for the ride of their life—both on and off my hog—you’d better believe that’s what they get.

Under promise and over deliver. My personal credo.

Kiki, the woman currently sitting across the desk from me, used to be one of those women. We had a fun fling about a million years ago, before she shacked up with our chief of police, Drake Briggs.

“Please, Kiki. I’ll make it up to you. Any way you prefer.” Leaning back in the chair, I toss my booted legs on the desk, pinning her with my golden-green stare.

I’d never move in on my buddy’s old lady. She knows it and I know it, but judging by the flush climbing Kiki’s cheeks, I can still press her hot buttons. For this scenario, believe me, I’m pushing all of them.

“Don’t give me that look, Ash. It only worked when we were sleeping together,” Kiki scoffs, shooting me a crooked smirk. “If I bend the rules for you, I have to do it for everyone. Although, I have an idea that might work.”

My ears perk up. Maybe Kiki will offer to speak to the Frost Witch on my behalf. After all, she claims Oriana is lovely.

To me, that’s like calling a piranha friendly, but if she’s willing to take one for the team, I’m sure as hell going to allow it.

“I’m listening.”

Kiki’s grin widens. “Now, I know this may be difficult for you, but what if you try being your normal, charming self? Take another stab at being neighborly. Who knows? Oriana Thorne might surprise even you.”

“That’s your big idea? Some help you are.”

“Just try it. Don’t go in there with a chip on your shoulder from some perceived grievance?—”

“I didn’t start this,” I argue, letting my feet slide to the ground with a thud.

“Maybe not, but if you want to start the speakeasy project, you need to finish this first. Bottom line, I can’t help you here. But I know you when you want something, Asher Hammond. You’re unstoppable.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to tangle with Oriana’s dark side.”

Kiki pulls her keys from her purse and walks toward the door. “Never thought I’d see the day when a tiny woman could scare a man like you. ”

She’s fucking with me, but she also knows that poking at my masculine ego is the best way to coax me into gear.

“Aren’t you funny?” Another loud groan escapes my chest as I push myself from the chair. “Nothing can melt that ice queen, but I want the speakeasy opened, and she’s my only obstacle.”

Everything hinges on my snarky neighbor’s seal of approval.

Kiki seems certain it won’t be difficult to get Oriana on board with my plans, but I know better.

I stand a better chance of convincing an orca that a seal isn’t a delicacy.

“I guess it wasn’t good news,” Braden observes, glancing up from his latest client design when I trudge into his studio space.

“That’s an understatement. Kiki says I’m screwed if I don’t get Oriana’s signature. No way around it.”

“You knew that already, though.”

“Still thought I might convince her to change her mind.”

Braden shakes his head and snorts at my words. “I’m sure her husband would love to hear how you plan on doing that.”

“Probably not worth the jail time.”

“Definitely not.”

Despite his ribbing, Braden, like Kiki, knows I don’t eat off another man’s plate. I did that once, albeit unknowingly, and it haunts me to this day.

Some lines you don’t cross.

Now, if Kiki had requested I bury Oriana Thorne under a newly poured foundation, I might have considered that proposition.

I’m kidding, of course, although it seems easy compared with my current mission.

My gaze tracks along the walls of Braden’s studio, searching for an answer amongst the artwork and awards littering the walls.

Sadly, there is none to be found.

It’s then I spy the violet coffee cup sitting on the workspace next to my younger brother. I’d recognize the branding anywhere—it’s from One More Page.

Aka, Oriana Thorne’s bookstore.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I snatch up the cup, sending my brother a withering glare. “Fraternizing with the enemy now?”

Braden sighs, tapping his stylus against his tablet. “Man, I know you don’t like her, but the woman brews some seriously good coffee.”

“She doesn’t make it. The coffee pot does all the work. All her petulant ass does is pour some beans into a filter. What a talent.”

Am I being petty? Damn right, but every mention of her riles me up. Now I have to listen to Braden sing her praises?

“What’s wrong with our coffee?” I demand, my boot tapping out an erratic rhythm against the wood floor.

See? Totally riled up. Who needs caffeine when you’ve got pure, unadulterated loathing at your fingertips ?

Braden yanks the cup from my grasp, downing a sip. “Where do I start? How about the fact that it’s sludge? Besides, she has the Jamaican blend I like, and I can’t get it anywhere else in Sparkwood.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I order you several kilos of your preferred coffee bean and you stay away from that woman.”

My brother’s face splits into a grin at my offer. “Ash, that woman has got you all hot and bothered.”

“Not even close.”

His brows raise, and I catch his smirk as he returns his attention to his drawing. “Never seen a woman elicit such a reaction from you.”

“That’s because I like most women.”

“You want me to speak to Oriana? I might have better luck, considering how much you detest her.”

“I’m perfectly capable of holding a conversation with the woman.”

“Sure about that?” He holds up his hands in a sign of surrender, but I note how the bastard is still biting back a grin. “I’m just saying, if you want her to agree, best not to go over there with guns blazing. I can manage that feat. Can you ?”

Running a hand along my jaw, I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the far wall of the parlor. Braden is right—the woman has gotten under my skin. I’m a bundle of nerves every time I hear her name or see her pass by.

I can either defer to my brother and let him handle the situation, or I can take care of said situation myself.

Since I’m not one to run from my problems, that leaves me one option.

Oriana and I will have a come to Jesus meeting. By the end, we’ll both either be dead or in agreement. To be honest, it’s anyone’s guess which way this battle will go.

“Well?” Braden presses, his hazel eyes locked on me.

“I appreciate your offer, but I need to do this. Tomorrow night, once Black Lotus closes, I’ll have a little chat with her.”

“That way no one can hear your screams?” He’s joking. At least, I hope it doesn’t come to that, or Ms. Tight Ass and I will both be paying a noise ordinance fine.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge before shooting Braden another scowl. “Look at you—a comedian.”

“Hardly, although I think Oriana will surprise you.”

“Doubtful. Kiki claims all I need to do is toss a little charm Oriana’s way and it will all work out in the end.”

“Sounds simple.”

If only that were the case, but I’m smart enough to realize nothing could be further from the truth.

“Not with that woman, it isn’t.”