Chapter 21
The pen in my hand glides across my tablet as I add some shading to the design I’m drawing.
A client asked me to design a dragon breathing out flowers instead of fire and I was all too happy to accept.
The past couple of days I’ve been pulling over twelve-hour days and then spending my nights in my studio, designing my clients’ tattoos.
I’m drowning in work, because I want it that way.
It gives me an excuse to avoid the clubhouse and the thousand questions that will no doubt be waiting for me.
I’m avoiding the bar because I’m a coward as well as an asshole and avoiding going home to an empty house where I’ll sit alone and think about her.
But apparently work isn’t enough to distract me tonight. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is her.
The confusion.
The hurt.
The humiliation.
The image is burned into my mind.
Kaia surprised me when she tried to kiss me, but what surprised me even more was that I wanted her to.
I haven’t kissed anyone since I was a teenager. It’s a hard limit for me and I’ve always done my best to avoid it. But for the first time the thought of kissing someone didn’t repulse me. I wanted to feel her soft lips on mine. I wanted to taste them. To show her just how much I want her.
And what did I do? I turned my face away, letting her lips land on my cheek instead. I didn’t even call her name or go after her when she ran out of the clubhouse, tears of humiliation glazing her eyes, embarrassment burning her cheeks.
I was too stunned and I still don’t think the shock has fully worn off yet and like the coward I am, I’ve been avoiding her ever since. The feelings she’s stirring inside are unlike anything I’ve ever felt and they scare me.
The bell above the front door jingles, snapping me from my thoughts.
Shit. I forgot to lock the door and turn the closed sign around.
“We’re closed!” I call.
When I get no response, I get up off my stool and head for the front door, my blood pressure spiking when I see who’s standing on the other side inspecting the pictures and designs on the wall.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Peter Watson turns to face me, his face as emotionless as ever. He really hasn’t changed over the years. He’s still a hard-faced bastard I want to fuck up with my fists. “I must say I’m impressed. You’re quite the artist. At least you put what you learned in prison to good use.”
“If you’re looking to get a tattoo, you’re shit outta luck. I don’t tattoo assholes.”
He huffs a laugh with a shake of his head. “Typical Killian Hunt. I came here to have a civilised conversation like adults and you turn it into a playground slanging match.”
“Civilised? That would involve one person listening to the other. I don’t remember you listening to a single goddamn word I said all those years ago in your office, Warden.”
Before becoming the mayor, Watson was the prison warden of Red Hook Penitentiary where I was incarcerated and I’ve hated him ever since.
Hate like that doesn’t go away. It burns hotter in my veins every time I see him strut down the street like he’s something important.
Even after all these years, I haven’t forgiven him for what he put me through—what he allowed to happen on his watch—and I certainly will never forget.
“What does she see in you?”
“Fuck knows, but it should tell you something if she’d rather spend her time with me instead of you.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“Coming from a guy who degrades his own daughter, I’ll take it as a compliment, but excuse me if I don’t give a shit what you think about me.”
This fucking guys has the gall to call me a piece of work? After all the shit he’s done?
“Where’s Collins tonight? Isn’t he your little bitch now?”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Hunt?”
And here he is calling me the animal when he just went straight for the jugular, a sick feeling settling in my stomach.
Before he can react, I have him pinned up against the wall, one of the framed photos smashing onto the floor at our feet. My forearm presses against his neck. It would be so easy to press a little harder and strangle the bastard.
“I would think very carefully about your next move, Killian,” he says coolly, like the fact I could end his life right here right now doesn’t faze him.
I bark a laugh. “Gonna plant drugs in my shop next time?”
“I could make life incredibly difficult for you, Killian,” he warns.
“Do your fucking worst, Watson. You got cards to play? So do I.”
“Hit me,” he goads. “Do it.”
My fist clenches. “Don’t fucking tempt me.”
“Give me a reason to have your worthless ass thrown back in jail. You can reunite with your old pal Curt Naylor after all these years.”
I bristle at the sound of that name.
“You fucking bastard,” I spit.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Too busy kissing your daughter to care. She loves my filthy mouth,” I taunt.
His face scrunches. “You’re disgusting.”
I grin. “It’s funny, that’s exactly what she said to me once.”
Reluctantly, I pull back, removing my arm from across his neck. He pushes off the wall, straightens his tie and his jacket. He tries to look the part in his five-hundred-dollar suits and his expensive haircuts but you can’t polish a turd.
He makes for the front door, the bell dinging above his head. He stops and turns to look back at me. “Stay away from my daughter. This is your first and only warning.”
I smirk. “I could, but I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away from me.”
“Heard on the grapevine that Naylor’s up for parole soon. How about that…?” I don’t miss the smirk on his face as he tugs open the door, striding out like his news didn’t just drop an atom bomb on my life.