CHAPTER 9
LARA
I’m working on a birthday cake order in the kitchen when a basket is set down on the floor at my feet. I look down at it before my gaze moves up the person in front of me. Seeing the baby belly is a pretty big clue as I smile at Graycie.
“What’s this?” I ask as I put down the icing I was using for piping on the cake.
“It’s a gift for you and Vanessa.” She says it like her words clear up my confusion; they don’t. I’m instantly suspicious.
With a humming sound on my lips, I pick up the basket and carry it across the room to a counter we don’t use for food. It’s heavier than I thought it would be.
I eye Graycie, “Snake let you carry this? It’s kind of heavy. Why are you even giving this to me?”
The secretive smile on her face is enough. I stop and then look down again, ripping the card from between two candles. Before I open it, before I confirm what I already know, I take a quick inventory.
There are two robes, both of them soft, two towels, more than a couple of face masks, nail polish, and salts for a bath along with bubble bath. It’s a spa basket for me and my daughter.
My eyes sting and I don’t like it.
The card has my name on it in that unhurried script again.
You ladies deserve a little pampering.
J
That’s it. No grand declaration. No big apology.
Just a simple gesture and a simple note.
I’m not sure why it pisses me off, but it does.
This whole thing is ridiculous. Why is he making an effort now? Because he feels bad?
I’m not sure if that’s enough of a reason for me to entertain his little redemption parade he’s throwing for himself.
I want this to end.
No more inserting himself where he’s not wanted.
No more talking people into being his messenger. He knows I won’t take it out on them. He’s right and it only pisses me off more.
I’m fuming, the edges of the card curling slightly in my grip.
“Woah,” Graycie breathes out, “you look pissed. Did the card say something mean or insulting?”
She looks genuinely bewildered. All I do is hold up the card like evidence. It’s not.
The card is sweet.
Still, I’m getting angrier with every breath I take. I watch as the confusion on Graycie’s face deepens. My feet start moving without realizing it and without warning.
“Where are you going?” Graycie calls out after me, but I don’t stop.
I don’t explain.
It doesn’t take me very long to march my ass over to Ridge Tattoos. I have no idea if he’s there or not, but it’s a damn good place to start.
The moment I swing the door open, Playboy looks up from an area that I can only guess is his.
Flooring color and furniture mark out the spaces while not making it feel cramped or closed in.
There are four large chairs throughout the space and a hallway toward the back that leads… who the fuck knows where.
I march right up to him, anger still steadily pumping through my veins. His chocolate brown eyes are wide as he looks at me. I’m sure I look like a fucking mess considering I walked the distance between our two shops like a fucking Viking on the warpath.
For the first time since I gave into my anger, I’m forced to consider if I’m overreacting. I mean, clearly, I am, but how much, really?
I’m going to roll with it.
“I’ve had enough,” I bite the words out while pointing at him.
“Enough of gifts which are both sweet and practical?” He asks the question innocently.
I only narrow my eyes even further at him and hiss out some sort of response which is hardly coherent and barely human. To his credit, Playboy holds up his hands.
“I just wanted to get something nice that you and Vanessa could use. You can have a nice night together. I was going to get a movie, but now with streaming and whatever I wasn’t sure,” his explanation makes sense.
It only makes me angrier. My hands clench into a fist, the one still holding the card is shaking.
“I know,” my words are arctic, “I read the card.”
“Why are you so pissed, then?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.
I’m not entirely sure I can blame him for that.
The hand I’m holding the card with makes a slashing motion.
“It’s enough, Playboy. You don’t need to do this.
No more gifts. No more gestures. It’s not necessary,” I insist. “We can just exist. This town is, in fact, big enough for both of us. As long as you stop being an asshole,” I’m quick to add that last part.
“I can promise you that I will not be an asshole to you,” he says the words so sincerely.
I find myself believing it. Which I know is a mistake. Or, at least, na?ve.
“I get it,” I talk like he didn’t say anything, “you had bad intel and were being manipulated.” It takes every ounce of strength I possess not to roll my eyes. “We can just call it good.”
“It’s not good,” Playboy immediately insists. “I owe you and I’m going to make it right.”
“No,” I press, “you don’t need to make anything right.
Just change and you can live your life with a clear conscious.
That’s all I need. And, anyway,” I try to force my voice into something slightly less murderous, “we’re neighbors.
You know, in the strictest and most loosely based definitions of the word neighbors. ”
He’s looking at me like I’m speaking another language. It’s for the best, really. Probably.
“It’s done, scales balanced,” I throw out there one more time, making my point crystal clear.
Then I turn on my heel and head right back toward the door. I’m not as angry as I was on the traipse over here. I didn’t even have to slap him, which is kind of impressive.
Just as I reach for the handle to pull it open, a hand lands on the door before I’m caged in from behind by a very muscular body. Playboy’s chest is heaving, every breath causing him to brush against me. My body erupts in goosebumps at the contact which feels more like a tease than a promise.
There’s not nearly enough room, but I still turn around and look at him. His brown eyes are fierce as he studies my face. My heart is beating fast, but it’s not from fear. I’m not even about to start admitting what it is from.
Absolutely not.
I am way too close to this man. It’s practically illegal how close I am.
So close I could easily bury my face in his neck.
So close I can smell his dangerous smokey scent; it’s wrapping around me and making me a little dizzy.
Every breath I take feels like a struggle.
To keep my hands at my sides.
To not kiss him.
To remember he’s an asshole.
“What are you doing?” I hiss out the question while trying to make my glare as menacing as possible.
“You can’t just storm into my place, yell at me, and then leave,” his words contain warmth instead of hostility.
It throws me, momentarily, for a loop. What the hell is he talking about?
Why is his body so hard? Everywhere.
Wait.
No.
I focus back on his face and when I press my palms to his pecs to push him back, I fuck up and squeeze instead. His eyes turn molten and he grunts in the back of his throat.
“Yes, I can,” my voice is filled with sass and challenge.
Playboy smirks and when I give a small shove, he takes a step back. It’s not surprising, not really, because I’ve seen how respectful the brothers are toward women. Still, it settles something inside my chest.
As he studies my face, something softens in his expression. I’m not sure what it means, but the way my body is heating up at our proximity is dangerous.
“That basket isn’t enough; it’s barely even the tip of the iceberg of what I need to make up to you.” He swallows hard, his eyes imploring me to hear him. “I want to show you I’m not that guy. I need to prove it to you.”
If only the problem was not believing him. Because I do.
“That’s about you, not me.” I force my voice steady, “I’m not required to help you prove a damn thing, and I’m not required to allow you into my life.”
Playboy’s eyes slide closed and my heartbeat stutters. Then he takes a large step back. I feel the loss of his heat immediately and my arms drop back down to my sides.
I want to pull him closer again, but I hold myself back. He felt too good under my palms.
“You’re right,” his voice is low and hoarse, “about all of it.”
“I know,” I don’t give him an inch.
He doesn’t get frustrated. He just takes it in stride, absorbing my words like I’m not trying to cause him to bruise.
“Since you’re here,” his voice turns charming, almost syrupy, “why not take a moment and check out my art?” His lips curl into a smile which is far too sexy. “You can just flip through some of my book? Since you’re here,” he repeats it like a mantra he thinks I’ll buy into, just like a cult would.
I’m more than aware of what he’s doing, but, damn it, he does make a good point. It’s times like these that I wish I could curb my curiosity. I haven’t even looked around very much, my entire focus on how pissed off I was, confronting him about the gifts, and putting a stop to it.
Now I look around to find the space clean and neutral with a moody bend.
The walls are on the dark side, without making it feel like I just stepped into my goth era.
The art on the walls is gorgeous. Every section around a chair has some wall space.
From the variation in style, it’s obvious each space features that artist’s work.
“Fine,” I acquiesce. Not because he suggested it.
But because it is a promising idea. And I am curious.
He leads me back toward where he was sitting when I stormed up to him. His space is laid out neatly and everything is organized. I have no idea what I’m looking at other than the bottles of ink filling one piece of furniture which acts as a partition between areas.
Before I’m able to really take it all in, Playboy shoves a leather book in my hands and rolls a stool over to me. I take a seat gingerly and flip through the pages filled with his work, some are pictures of tattoos on people and others are design ideas.
The book is colorful and bold in some places and then restrained, simple, and graphicly striking in others. Looking at his work is only making it harder for me to turn down his offer to tattoo me.
I would be lucky to have his art on my body and trapped under my skin.
My eyes travel over his space and catch on him for a moment. Playboy is simply standing there, waiting. He’s not rushing me. He’s not trying to make his pitch.
It would make this a hell of a lot easier on me if he did.
As I look away from him, my gaze falls on a large, framed art piece on the wall.
There’s a vague sketch of a woman’s figure, but that’s not what has enthralled me.
It’s the tattoo drawn on one side of her body, from the outside of her upper thigh and weaving along the curves of her body up over her hip and torso.
It then wraps up over her shoulder and down her arm.
The tattoo looks like stained glass has been made to mold around her curves, the most delicate armor I’ve ever seen.
It’s designed as a scene of vines and florals.
Down at the thigh, everything is dead, but as your eye moves up, the vines come back to life and the thorns fall away.
Then the flowers start filling in slowly before becoming so vibrant and full of life that they look realer than a garden in full bloom.
Overall, the glass effect, where little spots of light are caught and some areas look translucent, is stunning. The large black lead lines ground the wistful feel of the piece and help to balance it.
I can’t tear my eyes away from it. Even though I should.
That tattoo is far too big for me. I’d probably beg for it to end and embarrass the hell out of myself.
I’ve never seen a tattoo as beautiful as this one.
“That tattoo came to me in a dream,” there’s a soft quality to Playboy’s voice which has me glancing his way.
His gaze shifts between the framed drawing and me with an odd look on his face. I’m not interested in dissecting it at all.
“It’s beautiful,” the words slip from my lips without meaning for them to come loose.
Even though I expect him to look smug or arrogant about the compliment, his face softens into something like surprised gratitude. He has to know he’s extremely talented, right?
I only had to look through his book once to know he doesn’t just own this shop or have a reputation because of the notoriety of the club. He’s found success because he can back it up.
“Getting that done,” he points toward the frame I find myself looking at even when I try to force myself not to, “will take a few sessions because it’s so big. Because of that though, we can be meticulous about where we work and your pain tolerance in certain areas,” his tone is professional.
With a sharp look in his direction, I snap, “Why are you talking like I’m getting that tattoo?”
I don’t need to point to it. We both know what tattoo we’re talking about.
It’s impossible for me to look away.
“If you don’t have any tattoos,” he keeps going like I didn’t just ask him a question, “or if you only have a small one, something this size is going to be a lot more to take on. That doesn’t mean you can’t sit well for it or that it won’t be exactly what you want it to be.”
I find myself nodding without even realizing it. What the fuck am I nodding about? I’m not agreeing to this.
“I never said I was going to get that tattoo,” my words are filled with exasperation and frustration.
Playboy’s brown eyes snag mine. They’re filled with knowing.
“I think this tattoo was meant to be on your body,” his words are a rasp. “You can’t take your eyes off it, and you look at it like it’s already yours.”
I press my lips together because if I don’t then I’m liable to agree with him. I’m not ready to do that.
“I already said it’s beautiful, what more do you want from me?” The bite in my words is vicious.
Playboy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans toward me slightly, his voice dropping to a coaxing purr, “I can see it cost you something to say that out loud. And twice?” He lets out a low, impressed whistle.
Even though I try to fight it, the corners of my mouth tug upward. Thankfully, he doesn’t call me out on it.
“Well,” I stand and hand his portfolio back to him, “I’m glad I looked at your art.”
I almost tell him how impressed I am and how talented he is. At the last second, I’m able to swallow down the words.
He doesn’t deserve them.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I don’t say anything else and head out of Ridge Tattoos. I don’t look back and Playboy doesn’t try to stop me this time.
I can’t believe he almost made me smile. My instincts are screaming at me; I’m in big trouble.