Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“ D o you want me to head out or stay and see what card she’s going to play?”
I shift my gaze from the blonde princess I tattooed three months ago, pacing the cracked sidewalk at the front of Inked to Diesel standing at my side. “Nah, man, you head out. I’ve got this,” I assure him, my tone as unconvincing as my facial expression. “I’m locking up and heading out myself in a few, anyway.”
Diesel snags his jacket from the counter and slings it over his shoulders. “She signed a contract, Brax. There’s no coming back from that. No matter what her fancy lawyer told her,” he reminds me after reading my concerned expression.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply with a chin jerk. “But I’m still curious as to why she’s been pacing out front for the past two hours.”
Diesel bows his brow. “Maybe she’s hoping to get you alone?” He waggles his brows. “Your tattoo might have convinced her she needs to sample your other gun. The more magic one.”
I pick up a cash register roll at the side of the register and peg it at his head. A grin curves on my mouth when my fluke shot has perfect aim, hitting Diesel just above his left brow.
With a cheeky grin and while rubbing his brow, Diesel lifts his chin in farewell before striding to the door. Clara jumps in fright when the deep rumble of his Harley kicking over booms through her ears. Her eyes track Diesel as he executes a U-turn and rides past her.
Once he’s no longer in eyesight, she runs her hand down the front of her jeans then saunters toward the entrance door of Inked. After dropping my eyes to her stilettos, I rake them up her body. Although she still screams of wealth and superiority, her outfit and jewelry selection aren’t as elaborate as they were three months ago. Her fitted jeans cuddle the slender curves of her swinging hips, and her body-hugging jacket doesn’t have a chance in hell of hiding assets most men would happily ignore her poor attitude to sample.
As the bells above the door ring into the front entrance, I stand from my slouched position and cross my arms over my chest, prepping for round three in our vicious battle. Clara’s brisk pace falters when her eyes stop scanning the premises and connect with mine. A grin curls on my lips when she mumbles “Shit” under her breath before she continues her journey, acting like she isn’t shocked to see me standing behind the counter.
When I tattooed her three months ago, I had long wavy brown hair that sat an inch below my shoulders, but after Ryan’s little jab about my pretty-boy status, I had my hair clipped two weeks ago.
If I’m being totally forthright, it wasn’t just Ryan’s taunt that had me visiting the barber. It’s the fact I’ve had the same haircut since I was a senior in high school. I was also hoping an update might inspire the same thing to happen between my bedsheets.
I’ll do anything if it will fix my broken cock.
Did my plan work? No, not really. Unless you count Clara’s sudden arrival? She’s only standing before me because the glare on the shop windows hides my new haircut. When she saw Diesel leave, I have no doubt she thought she was clear from running into anyone who’d remember her long-winded tirade the last time she visited the shop.
How fucking wrong was she?
“Did your lawyer stand you up?” I ask, believing that is the only reason she’s been pacing out front for the past two hours this late at night.
She freezes like a statue before cranking her neck back. Upon failing to locate anyone behind her, she returns her eyes front and center. “Lawyer?”
I nod. “Yeah, to sue me for your tat. If I recall correctly, you were planning to take every penny I had,” I say, quoting part of the rant she evoked the last time she was on these premises. “You signed an agreement, Princess. It is a binding contract?—”
“I’m not here about my tattoo,” she interrupts, her voice surprisingly strong. “I’m here about that.” She points to a display in the shop window.
“You need to be a little more specific,” I say when the direction of her finger points to numerous tattoo displays. “There are hundreds of tattoo designs in that window.” Suddenly, I freeze, and my brows scrunch. “If you want another tattoo, I suggest you find another tattoo artist.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want another tattoo.” Locking her icy-blue eyes with mine, she mutters, “The one I have is more than enough.”
I smirk, loving her edge of feistiness.
I’ve always appreciated a woman who calls it as she sees it.
After expelling a deep breath, Clara paces to the shop window. “I’m here about this.” She pulls down the ‘Help Wanted’ sign that’s been displayed in the window for the past six months. It is so old, the thick black ink has faded to a murky gray color. While spinning the sign around to face me, she says, “I’m here to apply for the position you have advertised.”
I throw back my head and laugh. I’m not talking a slight chuckle. I’m talking a full belly-clenching, I-won’t-need-to-do-a-sit-up-for-a-month laugh. Tears spring into my eyes, and my body slicks with sweat.
The only thing that dampens the intensity of my laughter is catching sight of Clara’s furious glare. Her gaze is scorching, and her strong stance is even hotter than that.
I stop laughing and take a step backward.
She can’t be fucking serious. Surely.
Confident I’m being pranked, I shoot my eyes around the deserted shop, fully anticipating one of the guys from my crew to be lying in wait because there’s no way this shit is real.
When I fail to detect another body in our presence, I shift my eyes back to Clara. “You’re serious?” Disbelief taints my words.
She strengthens her take-no-shit stance before nodding. “I need a job. You have a position advertised.” She places her hand on her cocked hip. “Hire me, and it will be a win-win for us both.”
I bite on the inside of my cheek, hoping it will hold back a second bout of laughter that’s dying to break free.
It’s a pointless effort.
The instant my lips tug higher, the grim expression on Clara’s face firms. “Is this how you treat all your applicants?” she grumbles, clearly unimpressed.
Smirking, I shake my head. “But I’ve never had an applicant who looks like you.”
Most women would take my reply as a compliment. Clara doesn’t. The angry spark in her eyes brightens as the groove between her brows deepens.
Feeling playful, and since I have five minutes until I can officially close up the shop, I play along with her little game. “Can you tattoo?” I use the same tone I used when handling an inquiry from a junkie for the same position earlier today.
Clara’s throat works hard to swallow before she shakes her head.
“Do you know how to sterilize tattoo equipment?”
“No,” she replies, her tone as abrupt as her pose.
“Do you even know how to clean?”
I am no longer able to hold in my smile when she once again shakes her head. I’d never tell her this, but her honesty does rate her application one point higher than her earlier competitor. That guy couldn’t lie straight in bed . Even with her outscoring previous applicants, not only does she not hold the skills necessary to fulfill the position, but I’m also not buying her story about why she’s suddenly arrived at Inked.
Playing my part of manager, I connect my eyes with Clara. “As part of the management team at Inked Tattoo, I thank you for your interest in working with us, but unfortunately, you have been unsuccessful in acquiring the position advertised.” I try to keep my tone neutral. My attempts are borderline.
Clara takes a step closer to the counter, engulfing my senses with her rich floral scent. “I may not know how to clean or tattoo, but I have no concerns maintaining a vigorous schedule, and I most certainly know how to handle money.”
A ghost of a smile cracks my lips. “I’m sure you do, Princess, but we are not seeking a bookkeeper. We’re after an all-rounder.”
After snagging my keys from the glass display cabinet, I make my way around the counter. Clara balks when I curl my arm around her shoulders to guide her to the door.
I flip the sign to closed, open the front door of Inked, then gesture for Clara to leave. I’m not at all surprised to spot a steel gray Audi parked a few spots up from Inked .
Only a princess would apply for a minimum-wage job with a chariot idling at the curb.
“There’s a tattoo shop two streets over called Gunned. I’m sure its owner, Tommy, would love to hire a woman of your caliber to count his money.”
Tommy is a great tattoo artist—his shop is Inked’s number one rival—but he is a fucking sleaze and an even bigger idiot. If anyone on this side of Ravenshoe will be fooled by Clara’s sudden desire to get dirt under her French-tipped nails, it would be Tommy.
Clara’s eyes bounce between mine. She appears to be considering citing an objection to my request for her to leave, so I’m somewhat surprised when she releases a quiet huff before stepping onto the concrete sidewalk.
After securing the deadbolt, I check that everything has been shut down in the shop, grab my jacket off the coatrack, then head out the back entrance of Inked.
With it being February, a nippy wind prickles my torso with goosebumps when I enter the poorly lit parking lot. I throw my arms into my jacket before locking the chained security door.
Happy everything is secure, I spin on my heels and walk to my custom Harley Davidson Fat Boy parked three spaces up.
My eyes roll skyward when clicking heels on concrete jingles through my ears. I don’t need to shift my eyes to know who is shadowing me. The smell of expensive floral perfume and the way the hairs on my nape prickled is all the indication I need to know who is tailing me.
The bitch is back.
“I can keep things in the shop running, freeing up your precious time so you can… doodle on more people.”
I stop walking to inhale a lung-filling breath of air. After calming down the mad beat of my heart, I turn around to face my newly acquired stalker. “Doodle?” I arch my brow as I glare into Clara’s stormy eyes. “You think I doodle on people?”
Even though a pinch of fear clouds her impressively stern eyes, she ignores the grim expression on my face and nods.
“It’s called art, Princess. It’s not fucking doodling.”
“Stop calling me that,” she snaps, glaring at me with her well-worn bitch facade firmly in place.
“Why? Don’t you like your name, Princess?”
She crosses her arms under her chest, hoisting her mouthwatering breasts higher in her tight, fitted shirt. “I’m not a princess, so why call me one?”
I shrug. “It’s either Princess or Stuck-Up Bitch… The choice is yours.”
The veins in her neck thrum as anger lines her face. “My name is Clara. Why don’t you just refer to me as Clara?”
“I gave you your choices.” My tone warns of my wavering constraint. I’m close to blowing my top.
Her mouth gapes, no doubt shell-shocked at my bluntness.
While scraping my hand over the stubble on my chin, I fight to rein in my anger. Although I’ve reached my quota of dealing with idiotic people for one week, Clara doesn’t deserve to solely cop the wrath of my fury. She may have an icy personality, but my poor mood was lingering hours before she arrived on the doorstep of Inked.
“Look, you’ve had your fun, so can we please cut the shit? It’s been a long-ass week, and I’m too fucking beat to be dealing with more crap right now.” I try to keep my tone sincere, but when her eyes slit into thin lines, I realize she isn’t buying my attempts at sincerity.
Deciding I’ll never win a battle of words against a woman with a fierce tongue like Clara’s, I issue my farewell with an emotionless smirk before continuing with my original endeavor .
I make it halfway to my bike before I hear, “What time do you want me to arrive on Monday?”
Fuck me, this woman is worse than a leech.
I don’t bother turning around. “I’m not hiring you.”
My hands shoot up to massage my throbbing temples when she asks, “Isn’t it illegal to advertise under false pretenses?”
After exhaling a large puff of air, I spin around to face her. “What have I falsely advertised?”
“Your sign said you needed help.” She stares into my eyes while running her hand down the front of her body. Even in my irate mood, I can’t miss her budded nipples braced against her fitted shirt. “I’m here, willing to help, but you’re refusing to hire me. I’m not a lawyer, but that sounds illegal to me.”
While dragging my eyes away from her chest, I clench my fists into tight balls. It’s the only defense I have to fight the urge to scream my frustration into the street. “You’re not qualified for the position advertised. If you were, I’d hire you,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Then give me a chance to prove I’m qualified.”
I arch my brow. “And how exactly can I do that?”
“Put me on a trial basis. Day-to-day agreement. No contracts. No paperwork.” She impresses me with her on-the-spot negotiation skills.
I nearly take a minute to contemplate her recommendation before reality smacks into me. I don’t owe her a damn thing. She should feel lucky I didn’t have her ass thrown to the curb the instant she stepped foot into my shop after the less-than-stellar rant she unleashed during her last visit.
I lock my eyes with hers. “You’re not qualified to work at Inked, but we thank you for taking the time to submit your application,” I quote, giving her the same comment I’ve given every unqualified applicant before her.
She cocks her hip out and glares into my eyes. “You either hire me now, or I’ll show up every day until you do.”
After straddling my bike, I drift my eyes back to the teeming-with-sass blonde. “So no matter what I say, you’re gonna rock up here Monday, ready to work?” When she smiles and nods, I inwardly chuckle. “All right. Good luck on Monday.” When her plump lips lift into a broad grin, I realize my attempt at sarcasm was lost on her . “ We aren’t open on Mondays. If you had done your research on Inked before applying for the position we have advertised, you would have realized that.”
Clara balks for the quickest second before stuttering, “Tuesday, then.”
I scrub my hand over my clipped hair. “I get it, all right. You’re on some soul-searching mission, hoping a few good deeds to those less fortunate will fix some of the fucked-up things you’ve done in your life, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.” I twist my body to the side and point down the street. “There is a women’s shelter three blocks over. Go and offer them your charity.”
She mumbles something under her breath, but she’s so quiet, I missed what she said. After rolling her shoulders, she fixes her icy-blue eyes with my dark brown gaze. “I’m sorry for wasting your precious time. I hope you have a pleasant evening,” she says before spinning on her heels and stalking back to the street.
A pleasant evening? Is she fucking serious? That proves she would have never survived working in a place like Inked. If the staff didn’t scare her off, the clients soon would have.
Maybe I should have hired her and let my crew work their magic?
After snagging my helmet out of the saddle bag on my bike, my eyes scan the nearly pitch-black alleyway. Other than a couple of heavy-breasted bar bunnies bouncing around hoping to secure a warm bed for the night, the parking lot is empty, which isn’t surprising considering it is well past midnight on a Saturday night.
The two heavy-breasted ladies’ large smiles dampen when I dip my chin in farewell, denying their silent offerings. With Inked’s regular schedule, the bunnies know the prime time to show up when they’re after a night of adventure. Although their offer is tempting, after my run-in with Princess Stuck-Up, I’m not in the mood for the antics a pair of bunnies would bring to my weekend.
I also can’t guarantee my dysfunctional cock will be up for the task .
The profound rumble of my bike echoes through the quiet night when I kick over the engine. After gliding it down the alleyway, I shift my eyes up and down the street, scanning for an opening in the dense flow of traffic that always clogs the streets of Ravenshoe. It doesn’t matter if it is one in the morning or three in the afternoon, Ravenshoe’s roads are always congested.
During my endeavor to find a break between vehicles, my eyes spot a flurry of blonde standing in the shadows of the bus shelter a few doors up from Inked.
What the fuck is she doing standing at the bus stop?
Unable to leash the moral compass my grandma embedded in me from a young age, I roll my bike away from the pavement and switch off the engine. After storing my helmet on the ape hangers of my bike, I stride to the bus shelter Clara is standing at. Although she frustrates the hell out of me, this side of town, at this time of night, is no place for any woman to be milling around unaccompanied.
“How far out is your ride?”
I rake my eyes along the street to seek the gray Audi I saw earlier.
It’s nowhere to be found.
While finalizing the last few steps between us, I tug my jacket in tighter, blocking out the crisp breeze blowing through my thin long-sleeve shirt.
Clara’s eyes stray from the street to me. Her pupils widen as a look of surprise washes over her face. “I’m not waiting on a car. I am taking the bus home.”
“What?” I ask, certain I didn’t hear her right. The roads are clogged with noisy motorists, so my hearing may be a little off.
“I’m waiting for the bus,” Clara advises again, her voice stronger this time around.
“You’re waiting on the bus ?”
She huffs loudly. “Yes! The bus . You know that big metal thing on four wheels that clangs past here every twenty minutes or so. It’s called a bus. That’s what I’m waiting for . ”
She rolls her eyes before turning them back to the street. I stare at her in utter disbelief. She must be a fucking lunatic. It is well past midnight on a Saturday. She’s decked out in designer threads and wearing more bling than the jewelry store three blocks over stocks, and she’s planning on taking the bus. Clearly, she doesn’t know this side of Ravenshoe after dark like I do. It isn’t a place for anyone to be wandering alone, let alone a woman with the dick-twitching looks she has.
Upon noticing a bus approaching my right, my naturally engrained protective instincts kick in. “You don’t need to take the bus. I’ll give you a ride home.” I nudge my head to the portion of my bike poking out of the alleyway.
“No.”
Her abrupt response dumbfounds me.
“Excuse me?” Surprise is clear in my voice. “When someone offers you a ride, you’re supposed to say, ‘Thank you. That will be lovely.’”
Clara’s eyes snap to mine. “Not when you don’t want a lift. I’m happy to take the bus. ”
“You’re not taking the fucking bus. Get your ass on my bike.”
She steps closer to me as her thinly slit eyes bounce between mine. “Do you have a problem with your hearing? I said no .”
I return her leering stare. “Do you think saying ‘no’ to a bunch of punks on the one a.m. express will stop them? You’re swimming out of your depth here, Princess. This isn’t fucking Kansas.”
The smell of exhaust fumes filter into my nose when a rusted old bus marked with ‘57’ on the side pulls in front of the bus shelter.
“I can take care of myself.” Clara glares at me with the same fiery spark she wore three months ago. “If I can handle a beast of a man like you, I’m sure a couple of punks will be no hard feat.”
After issuing me a final stink eye, she climbs aboard the bus, completely snubbing my request for her not to.
I stand frozen at the bus stop in absolute shock. I’m not just surprised by her stubbornness but astounded by how fucking hard her feistiness has made my cock.
I’ve never been so damn hard.
Yeah, not happening, buddy. You’d need a cool million in the bank to ever get the chance of unclamping those legs.
Clara’s smug eyes glower into mine when the bus chugs down the road, leaving a throat-clogging puff of smoke in its wake. She thinks she can take care of herself, but she’s swimming way out of her depth. But fuck it. If she wants to be stupid, so be it. It isn’t my place to play babysitter to a spoiled little rich bitch who would cut off her nose to spite her face. Besides, although the bus company advises their drivers not to engage in any domestic situations, the moral obligation of any man would outweigh corporate propaganda, wouldn’t it?
While cursing under my breath, I charge for my bike and throw my leg over it. The big rumble of my engine scares a group of feral cats out of the dumpster at the side when I kick over the motor. My heart beats double time when my departure from the alley has me narrowly missing a handful of motorists. When they honk their horns and yell obscenities out their windows, I flip the bird before pulling back on my throttle. My excessive speed has my front tire lifting off the pavement and the coolness of a late February wind pelting my chest.
Weaving my bike in and out of the heavy traffic, I locate bus 57 a mile out from Inked. When I pull my bike along the right-hand side of the bus, I scan the seats lining the edge, seeking any signs of Clara. When I fail to locate her, I lower my speed and slip my bike to the other side. A moment of reprieve pummels into me when I spot her sitting two seats behind the male driver.
At least she was smart enough to sit close to the driver.
Ignoring the absurdness of the situation, I continue to follow the bus as it makes its way across Ravenshoe. Even though she acts like she hasn’t noticed my presence, I catch Clara occasionally glancing my way.
I’ll admit, even pissed beyond hell that I’ve rode ten miles in the wrong direction and am wasting precious minutes of my days off tailing a lady who infuriates me more than any woman before her, the hardness of my cock hasn’t lessened a smidge. If anything, her blatant refusal to acknowledge my presence has increased its thickness, not lessened it.
“ What’s wrong with you? You want some Grade-A pussy?” I mumble to myself while peering down at the crotch of my jeans.
My attention diverts from reprimanding my cock for its unattainable goals when I notice a group of gangbangers at the back of the bus have locked their sights on Clara. If I had to guess their ages, I’d say late teens, early twenties. I’ve seen them hanging around Inked a few times the past month, but we haven’t officially met.
After doing a hand gesture with two of his pimple- faced friends, the approximately six-foot boy with pasty skin and a red bandana wrapped around his grease-slicked hair moves down the aisle, his gangbanger swagger in full force. His wonky grin enlarges the closer he gets to Clara, as does his grip on his crotch.
Blood roars into my ears from the gleam in his eyes. I slam my hand on the bus’s window, endeavoring to secure his attention. The glass rattles under the impact of my fist, but he doesn’t look my way. My heart rate climbs into dangerous territory when I glance sideways to check my location.
Fuck!
I’m two seconds away from being splattered onto the back of a four-thousand-pound sedan.
Gritting my teeth, I release the throttle and pull back on the brake before veering my bike onto the sidewalk. A delivery driver stacking the morning papers on the curb squeals like a girl when I narrowly miss hitting him. Scraps of newspaper fly into the air, and the scent of fear filters into my nose as I zip past a newspaper stand.
Once the delivery driver gathers his scattered composure, he yells out a string of obscenities. His voice is as shaky as my hands.
I raise my arm into the air in silent apology before continuing with my original endeavor. A rutted grunt escapes my lips when my bike leaves the sidewalk with an almighty thud. I pull back the throttle and catch up with the bus, swerving in and out of the traffic like a mad man.
When I glide up next to the bus, my jaw muscle tenses. The young gangbanger is sitting in the seat behind Clara, twirling a lock of her glossy hair around his index finger.
I bang my fist on the glass once more. My thump is so hard, the glass wobbles under my force. Hearing my commotion, the gangbanger twists his neck to the side and eyes me curiously. His ostentatious grin amplifies when I stare him straight in the face while pointing to Clara.
After removing his hand from Clara’s hair, he grabs his crotch while mouthing, “She’s fine.”
His cocky grin is wiped straight off his face when I use the same finger I pointed at Clara to make a throat-slitting gesture, wordlessly warning him if he touches another hair on her head, I will ruin him.
He balks as his eyes widen. He nudges his head to Clara as if to ask, “Is she yours, Brax?”
When I nod, he holds his hands out in front of his body like he didn’t mean her any harm before he stumbles back to his original seat.
If I didn’t arrive when I did, I’d hate to think of how far he was planning to take this. The good kids in Ravenshoe are slowly outweighing the bad, but there’s still a bunch of rotten eggs tainting the batch.
The tick impinging my jaw lessens when the fear-faced teen returns to his original spot at the back of the bus. Although I’ve never been an overly violent man, I was born and raised in this area of Ravenshoe. That alone warrants me a fierce enough reputation that I’m not to be messed with.
When the gangbanger takes a seat next to his two male compadres, I swing my eyes back to Clara. For the first time in the past twelve miles, she isn’t facing the front of the bus. Her eyes are locked on me, and all the smugness on her face has vanished, replaced with a look of a woman who is acutely aware of how close her stubbornness had her treading into shark-infested waters.
After issuing me a hesitant smirk, she returns her eyes front and center. Thankfully, the last ten minutes of her brush with the wild side is made without incident. I won’t lie, a conceited grin curls on my lips when the young gangbangers bolt off the bus at the stop following our exchange.
Without a backward glance, they hightail it down the alleyway as quick as their quivering legs can take them. If Clara wasn’t still sitting two seats behind the driver with a terrified gleam in her eyes, I would have had a good talk with them. But since my priorities remain with Clara, that talk is being held for a later date.
The instant the bus rolls into the good half of Ravenshoe, I could stop following Clara, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I continue tailing her for the next five miles.
I’ve already come this far, so what’s a few more miles?
When the bus comes to a halt in front of a fancy apartment building on the most expensive street in Ravenshoe, I pull my bike onto the curb behind it. I’m not at all surprised when Clara hops off the bus. Just seeing her in this expensive setting strengthens my belief that she was attempting to prank me earlier tonight.
Keeping her chin held high, she saunters toward the guarded doors. Just before she enters the heavily manned foyer, she spins around to face me. Her pupils are wide, exposing that she’s rattled from her brief encounter with the rough side of Ravenshoe, but even frightened, she holds herself with a sense of dignity and class. She has the type of poise no etiquette class could teach. It is infused in her blood.
“Thank you.”
A grin tugs on my lips. From the look on her face, you’d swear it was the first time she’s ever said thank you.
I inwardly chuckle. It probably is.
“You shouldn’t catch the bus at any time, let alone this late at night. It was a stupid thing to do.”
Even though her lips thin in grimness, she nods. “I’ll add it to my long list of things I’m unqualified to do.” Her snarls reveal her stubbornness is still loitering in the shadows. “I’ve found out today I can’t work at a tattoo parlor, a café, or even clean the gas station toilets on the outskirts of town.” The hardness of her lips is firm. “Who would have thought you’d need a degree from Harvard to clean a washroom?”
My brows furrow. “You’re that desperate for a job you’re willing to clean toilets for a buck?”
With her gaze planted straight ahead, she briefly nods.
My heart freezes. I honestly hadn’t expected her to say yes.
“Fingers crossed, biker bars and strip clubs aren’t as demanding because at the rate I’m going, they’ll be my only viable options,” she mutters before spinning on her heels.
Strip clubs? Even knowing she’s most likely goading me, and I don’t know her from a bar of soap, I hate the thought of any woman working in a sleazy club just to make a dime. My momma did it, and I swore I’d never let any woman I know follow in her disastrous footsteps.
Going against my better judgment, I blurt out, “You start Tuesday at two,” before my brain can compile a rejection.
Clara freezes halfway into the entrance of her building. Her shoulders rise as she gulps in a deep breath before her eyes snap to mine. “Really?”
When I nod, she smiles a heart-stopping grin that has my cock stiffening all over again.
Don’t even think about it. She’s way above your paygrade.
“You have a two-week trial to prove yourself. If you fuck it up or scare away any of my customers, your ass will be out on the curb faster than I can snap my fingers.”
“I won’t. I promise,” she guarantees, her assuring eyes adding to the strength of her words.
I arch my brow. “And you’re not to take the bus,” I warn while glaring into her eyes. “This is not a negotiable term. If you turn up to Inked on the bus, turn around and get straight back on it because your ass will be fired.”
Her face pales, and her breathing shallows. She looks more concerned now than she did when I began inking her virgin skin. “I don’t have any money to put gas in my car,” she mumbles, her quiet words relaying her embarrassment.
Jesus Christ! What the fuck am I getting myself into?
I dig my hand into the back pocket of my jeans to pull out my wallet and snag a twenty from the small selection of notes inside. I hold the note a few inches from my chest before locking my eyes with Clara.
If she wants my money, she’ll have to come and get it.
A stretch of silence passes between us as her eyes dance between the crumpled note in my hand and my face. After exhaling a deep breath, she spans the distance between us, her steps shaky and reserved.
Just before she removes the twenty from my grasp, I pull it out of her reach. “This is not a loan. It’s an advance. I’ll be taking it out of your first paycheck.”
She fights her hardest battle, endeavoring to keep her tears at bay before curtly nodding. “Okay. Good,” she says, her voice stronger than the weakness in her eyes.
She removes the twenty from my hand, folds it up, then places it in the pocket of her jeans. “Thank you,” she murmurs before walking into her apartment building, not once glancing back at me sitting on my Harley, shocked into silence.
Even though I could see the defeated look in her eyes when she accepted my money, I hope she just played me for a fool. No matter how much she irritates me, I’d rather have her pranking me than be so desperate for a job she turns up to Inked on Tuesday morning.