Chapter 2
Declan
Painting sucks.
This probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I’m committed now.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and finish off my now lukewarm IPA.
The fucking internet got me into this mess, and I wish it could get me out of it, but it’s too late.
The dark green color covers all the wainscoting on the lower third of the walls in my new tattoo shop.
I should have done this before I put any furniture in the space, but it was a last-minute decision.
The longer I look at it, though, the more I’m convinced it was the right move.
I still have one more coat to do, but the first one needs to dry before I can move on.
I turn down my music and decide that this is the perfect time to go upstairs to check out my new home.
When I bought this storefront, the two-bedroom apartment above it was part of the deal.
A deal I couldn’t pass up. I worked my ass off in Newport Beach, building a clientele and saving money, and it was time that I had a space of my own.
I have more than a few clients who live in the area here and boast about the oceanside town.
And the more research I did, the more I was convinced this was where I was supposed to end up.
Don’t get me wrong, Newport Beach was fun. But everyone acts like they’re hot shit and owed something without earning it. It’s not as bad as L.A., but it definitely has its quirks.
I decided over the summer that it was time for me to move forward with my career and branch out on my own.
I came across this gem when searching for places and was surprised it wasn’t already taken.
It’s been on the market for a while, according to the real estate agent, but it’s probably because of how expensive it was and how shitty the economy is right now.
Since it came with the apartment and didn’t need any immediate renovations, I made an offer on the spot.
The stairs to the apartment are at the front of the building, in between the coffee shop next door and my tattoo parlor.
I unlock the door and climb the squeaky wooden steps until I reach my unit, the one on the right.
All my belongings arrive tomorrow, and then I’ll officially be moved out of my place in Newport.
If I remember correctly, the realtor said something about my neighbor across the mini landing at the head of the staircase being the owner of the coffee shop, but I have yet to meet him… or was it her?
I open the door to my apartment and look around.
I spent the other day dusting and cleaning every square inch of this place since it was unoccupied for so long.
It’s going to need updating eventually, but it has a functioning kitchen and bathroom, so I can’t complain.
Once the tattoo parlor is up and running and I have some time on my hands, I’ll start on the apartment renovations.
I head to the fridge and grab a water I stashed here the other day while I was cleaning and walk to the window, chugging the whole thing in one go. The sun is setting in yellows and oranges, and the apartment has a perfect view of the ocean just two blocks away.
I don’t know how this place was vacant for so long, but I’m glad I was the one to get it.
I check my phone to see if I have any new messages and am a little disappointed that I don’t. For the past few months, I’ve slowly come to rely on my new friend, Pen, to keep me entertained.
I’m what most people would call a grump.
I just call it being introverted. It’s not that I don’t like people per se, but from a young age, I learned that most people don’t really want to get to know you and only want one of three things from you: sex, money, or popularity.
When I figured that out, I turned my bullshit meter on and my social meter off. It’s worked for me ever since.
But the first time I talked to Pen, I was intrigued by her quick banter and came back for more a few weeks later. I decided it would be kind of nice to have someone to talk to who didn’t directly know me or actively want to fuck me.
We keep the conversation light, and it works for us. I have no idea what she looks like, other than knowing that she’s a blonde from her picture, and I kind of like it like that. Plus, she gives as good as she gets and keeps me on my toes.
Was it juvenile to ask Pen to be my friend?
Yeah. Probably. But I’m glad I did. She treats me like a person and not a piece of meat.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I needed that kind of friendship from a woman.
One where she doesn’t want to baby-trap me because of what I look like or can give her.
I shiver at the thought of kids. Fuck that.
The only other women I can count on for a platonic relationship are my sister, Kate, and Becca, a fellow tattoo artist who is coming to work for me here in Daybreak.
Other than those two, I’m hard up on female friendships.
But Pen is a nice reprieve from everyone else in my life.
Our friendship is easy and fun, something I desperately need more of.
Maybe one day we’ll reveal our faces to one another, but for now, I like what we have.
I head into the second bedroom and look out the window at the same view as from the living room.
I’ve never lived in a two-bedroom apartment before, only studios or one-bedrooms, and I’m excited to have the extra space.
I plan on turning this bedroom into an art studio with a hide-a-bed, so when my sister comes and visits, she’ll have a place to crash.
It’ll be the icing on the cake when I can get to modernizing the whole unit, but until then, it’s perfect the way it is.
I head back to the kitchen, toss my empty plastic bottle in the trash, and lock up the apartment.
I still have one more coat of paint to apply to the walls downstairs, and then I’ll head back to Newport to pack the last few remaining things before the movers show up in the morning.
It’s going to be a long night, but as of tomorrow, I’ll officially be a resident of Daybreak.
It’s a dream come true, and maybe one day, I’ll tell Pen about all of this.
~ ~ ~
Although it’s the end of November and the temperature is dropping, I don’t think I’ve sweated this much since mid-August.
The movers showed up at eight AM on the dot, and the four of us got to work loading up the truck with everything from my apartment and my storage unit.
We managed to make it to Daybreak by eleven and unload everything in under an hour.
Going up and down the thirty-two steps–yes, I counted–about a dozen times, had all of us sweating our asses off.
I got maybe a few hours of restless sleep last night and am tired and hungry. Boxes are scattered all over the apartment, but both bedrooms and the living room are set up with my large furniture, which is good enough for me right now.
I haven’t tried the coffee shop downstairs yet, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why not. I’ve been slowly setting up the tattoo shop over the last month and getting it ready for the grand opening, but I haven’t stepped foot next door.
I think it’s time to pop my Beach Brew cherry and get myself a pick-me-up because I’m tired as shit and still have a ton of unpacking to do.
I throw on a T-shirt, one that’s not saturated in sweat, and put on a few swipes of deodorant. I don’t bother locking up and head down the stairs to the coffee shop. The A-board out front is advertising fall drinks, and I can’t help but cringe at how anybody can stand the sweet concoctions.
When I open the door, the scent of fresh ground coffee beans assaults my nose, and I breathe in the familiar aroma. There’s nothing like a good cup of coffee to make your day better.
Two other people are in line ahead of me, and it gives me the chance to take in the space.
Surfboards hang from the ceilings, and greenery in the form of palm trees and other tropical plants is scattered about to bring the outside in.
Surf photography is hung all over the walls, and the coffee shop counter is made of light wood, making the space feel warm and homey.
It’s not too far off from the vibe I’m going for in the tattoo shop.
“Welcome to Beach Brew, how may I help you?” The sing-song voice of the barista pulls my attention towards the register. I must have dozed off because the two people who were in front of me are now waiting for their drinks at the other end of the counter.
I falter for half a second before taking the few steps up to the register.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful face in my life.
The woman before me is seriously gorgeous.
She has long blonde hair that frames her heart-shaped face, and Caribbean blue eyes that pull you into their orbit.
Her pink, pouty lips are all-natural, not plumped with filler like most women have nowadays, and her button nose is slightly upturned at the tip.
To top it all off, she’s not wearing much makeup but a little mascara to frame her eyes.
She’s a natural beauty. A natural beauty who has my dick stirring in my pants.
“Can I help you?” she repeats. Her eyes are slightly widened, and I can see her throat work a swallow.
If I had to guess, she’s intrigued by me, too. Nervous even.
I clear my throat and say, “Coffee. Black. Large.”
“Are you sure you don’t want one of our specialty drinks, sir?” she asks expectantly.
I almost laugh because sir is what people call my dad, not me. But I grunt and don’t say anything else.
“Is that a yes or a no? I don’t speak caveman.” It’s only been mere seconds, but she’s turned from nervous to sassy. “Earth to Viking…”
I can’t seem to form a sentence. I’m usually a little more tactful, not by much, but for the most part, I use words. Let's just blame it on low blood sugar and mild sleep deprivation.
I shake my head at her, indicating no. The woman has balls if she’s already calling me names.
I mean, she’s not wrong. I do look like a Viking, but I’ve never known anyone to straight-up say it to my face within the first few minutes of meeting me.
Most people are intimidated by my size and lack of emotion to say anything remotely insulting to me.
Not this girl, though.
“That will be five dollars.”
My eyes snap from my wallet to hers. “Seriously? Five dollars?”
She plants a devious smirk on her face. “The man does talk. I’m only kidding. It’s three dollars.”
I narrow my eyes at the captivating woman and have the urge to call her a brat. But I know that wouldn’t go over well. Plus, I save that term for Pen.
I hand her a five-dollar bill, and when she hands me my change back, I stick the extra two dollars in the tip jar.
“Your name?”
I stare at her once more.
She tilts her head to the side and bites down on her bottom lip before saying, “For the coffee order…”
Oh. “Declan,” I tell her, finally speaking.
Her eyes flick from the cup and pen she’s holding to my eyes and then slowly move down to look at my neck tattoos and arm tattoos.
Her expression remains neutral except for the slight furrow in her brows.
When she finally makes eye contact with me, I’m not sure what to think.
She doesn’t smile or say anything else, so I move down to the end of the counter to wait for my coffee.
My gaze slides to her one last time as I wait, and she’s staring at me now.
Almost like she’s in a trance. I have no idea what’s going through her head, but it’s not the first time I’ve been stared at, and it won’t be the last. I have half a mind to stare back at her because she’s exactly my type, but I refrain from making an ass out of myself any more than I already have.
Maybe the next time I come in, I’ll try to be a little less caveman and a little more human.
When the barista with a short pixie cut calls out my name, I grab my drink and head out the door without looking back.
I think some food and sleep would really do me some good.
And maybe a chat with Pen.