Purrfect Ink (Side Hustle #10)

Chapter 1

KNIGHT

Take it easy for a few days.” I wipe down the fresh ink on Spike’s shoulder—a skull wreathed in flames, teeth bared in a permanent snarl. “You don’t want it to get infected like the last one.”

Spike grunts, twisting to check out my work in the mirror. The leather of his cut creaks as he moves. “That wasn’t my fault. Dumbass prospect spilled beer on it.”

“Sure.” I strip off my gloves and toss them in the trash. “Unscented lotion. Twice a day. No swimming, no direct sun.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t even know how to swim. You tell me the same thing every time.” But he’s grinning as he pulls out a wad of cash, peeling off bills. “Looks mean as hell, Knight. The boys are gonna lose their shit when they see this.”

I take the money without counting it. Spike always tips well, and he’s been coming to me for years. He knows the drill.

The bell above the door chimes as he leaves King Ink, and Clancy’s voice carries across the space from the front desk. “Your three-thirty canceled. But a woman called who wants to take the slot.”

I grab the antiseptic spray and start wiping down my chair. The smell of it cuts through the lingering scent of ink and skin. “What does she want?”

Clancy leans back in his chair, boots propped on the counter. He’s got at least fifteen years on me, salt-and-pepper beard, arms sleeved in faded traditional work. “Twenty bucks to anyone who guesses what she wants.”

“Pass,” Liam says.

“Tramp stamp. Little butterflies flying up her spine.” Carmine laughs.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not betting on what some stranger wants permanently inked on her body.”

“You’re no fun.” Clancy scratches his jaw. “Could be a sorority thing. Those little symbols they all get.”

“Every tattoo means something to someone.” I spray down the armrest, scrubbing harder than necessary. “Not my place to judge.”

“Since when?” Clancy snorts. “Last week you told that kid his tribal design was a ‘crime against creativity.’”

“That was different. He wanted it on his face.” I shake my head at the memory. The kid didn’t even seem drunk or high, but we sent him on his way. We don’t do that kind of work here.

“Maybe it’s another infinity symbol. Might as well tattoo ‘I have no imagination’ instead,” I say as Liam comes out of the back room.

Clancy barks out a laugh. “There he is. For a second, I thought you’d gone soft on me.”

Soft. If he only knew.

“What’s this girl actually want?”

Clancy checks the intake form and chuckles. “Huh. Says here she wants a Purrfect Kitten design.”

My hand freezes mid-wipe.

“You know, that artist who went viral last year?” Clancy continues, oblivious. “The cartoon cats with the big eyes. Everyone online is obsessed with figuring out who’s behind them. I don’t get what the big deal is. They’re just cute little drawings.”

They have no fucking idea who they’re talking to.

The air in my lungs turns solid. I force myself to keep cleaning, to keep my face neutral. “Which design?”

“She didn’t say, but she said she’d bring in the design she wants.” He looks up at me. “You okay with it? I can get Carmine to cover if you want.”

“I’m fine,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “Send her back when she gets here.”

Clancy shrugs and goes back to scrolling on his phone.

He doesn’t know. Nobody knows. That’s the point—the anonymity is what makes it safe.

Behind a screen name and a faceless brand, I can be soft.

I can be vulnerable. I can be the person Grandma Rose saw in me, not the rough-edged tattoo, grumpy-ass artist everyone else sees.

I finish prepping my station, but my hands want to shake. I shake them out because I can’t let anyone know I’m rattled. Someone wants to wear my art on their skin. Permanently.

The thought hits me deep, because in all this time, this is not something I’ve ever considered.

I started drawing those cats after Grandma Rose died, when grief sat on my chest like a boulder and I couldn’t breathe.

She was the only foster parent who didn’t flinch at what she saw.

Before her, all my foster parents said I was ‘too much’ or ‘too intense’ or ‘too wild.’ You’re just right, Grandma Rose used to say, pressing her hand over her heart. Just exactly right, my Billy.

I haven’t been her Billy for years. But those cats—they’re still hers. I created them in her memory.

I created an anonymous Instagram account and posted the first design at three in the morning when I was shitfaced drunk, thinking it would amount to nothing.

By morning, it had ten thousand shares. Now I’ve got a website, merchandise fulfilled by a print-on-demand company, and an anonymous email full of messages from people gushing over how much they love my art.

And someone loves it enough to make it permanent.

I don’t know whether to be terrified or—

The doorbell chimes again, and I look up.

My heart stops.

A woman is standing in the doorway, looking lost, clutching a folder to her chest as if it contains the secret to the meaning of life.

She looks innocent in a way that makes me want to strip that innocence away from her.

Her body is soft and thick, but the look in her eyes suggests there’s more to her than is visible.

I shift my stance because without warning, a hot rush of lust surges through me. I want to be pressed against those full, gorgeous tits.

My heart opens with a recognition I can’t explain. My soul is sitting up and paying attention for the first time in years, all because of this woman walking in for a tattoo.

She’s wearing a cardigan, sleeves pulled down over her hands.

Brown hair falls past her shoulders, and she’s got these blue eyes that are brighter and more piercing than I’ve ever seen.

She blinks, adjusting to the dimmer interior, and I watch her gaze travel over the flash art on the walls, the gleaming equipment, the leather chairs.

When her eyes land on me, everything in me goes quiet. Then all I can hear is the pounding of blood in my veins, my heart working double-time.

She takes a tentative step forward, and I catch a glint of silver at her ears. Cat-shaped earrings. Small, delicate.

“I’m Daisy. I have an appointment?” Her voice lilts up at the end, turning it into a question. “For a tattoo? I brought the design I want...”

She’s nervous. The folder trembles slightly in her grip.

Clancy clears his throat. Loudly.

I realize I’ve been frozen in place, paper towel in hand, staring at her like I’ve never seen a woman before. Heat crawls up the back of my neck.

“I’m Knight, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Chair’s there.” I jerk my chin toward my station, forcing my voice into its usual gruff register. “Show me what you want.”

She crosses the floor like she’s walking a tightrope. She settles into my chair, perched on the edge like she might bolt at any second.

Her cardigan has tiny, embroidered cats along the hem. I notice because I can’t stop cataloging every detail about her. The way she tucks her long hair behind her ear. The slight tremble of her lower lip.

“I know it might seem silly.” She opens the folder and pulls out a printout. Her fingers are shaking. “But this artist... it speaks to me, you know? I love cats.”

She holds out the page, and my throat closes.

It’s the heart-paws kitten—a small cat with crossed paws that form a heart shape. The one I drew the night I missed Grandma Rose so much I thought I’d never find anything resembling happiness. The one that means I’m holding myself together, but barely.

“It’s your skin.” I take the printout, careful not to let our fingers brush. If I touch her right now, I don’t know what I’ll do. “Where do you want it?”

She touches her collarbone, just below her left shoulder. The gesture is almost unconscious, like she’s done it a hundred times. “Here. Where I can see it.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “Where it’s close to my heart.”

Her words stop me in my tracks. Does she really understand what this design means? She wants my art on her skin. The design that came from the deepest, most wounded part of me. She doesn’t even know it’s mine.

“I’ll draw up a stencil.” I stand abruptly, needing distance. “Give me five minutes.”

I retreat to my workstation, pulling out transfer paper even though I don’t need it, trying to steady my breathing. Behind me, I hear her shifting in the chair.

“I’m a librarian,” she says, filling the silence. Her voice is steadier now. “Elementary school. The kids love the Purrfect Kitten art.”

I nod without looking up at her, my throat too tight for me to say anything.

I trace the familiar lines of the kitten I drew while crying so hard I could barely see the paper. Grandma Rose had been gone for three months, and I’d finally accepted she wasn’t coming back. That no one was ever coming back, and I was alone again.

And now this gorgeous blue-eyed woman wants my art inked on her body forever.

It takes everything I have to keep the lines clean.

When I turn back, she’s watching me. She’s tapping her fingers nervously, but has such a happy smile on her lips that it takes my breath away.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods. Then she reaches up and tugs her collar aside, exposing the smooth skin of her collarbone. The vulnerability of it—the trust—hits me like a punch.

I sit down on my stool, closer than I need to be. I wet a clean rag with some sanitizer, and wipe down the area she wants the tattoo. Her skin is creamy and soft, and I have to forcibly push away all the fantasies that try to flood my mind when my fingers graze the top of her breast.

“This’ll feel cold.” I press the stencil to her skin.

She shivers, and I feel it everywhere.

I pull back the paper, taking in my art on her skin. My heart pressed above hers. “Take a look.”

She twists toward the mirror, and a radiant smile lights up her face.

“I love it,” she breathes. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

“I need to prep the needles.” I turn away, busying myself with equipment I already prepped an hour ago. “Any questions about the process?”

“I’ve never done this before.” Her voice wavers. “Is this going to hurt a lot?”

“You’ve chosen a sensitive area.” I snap on fresh gloves, not looking at her because if I do, I’ll lose what’s left of my composure. “If you need me to stop, say the word and I’ll stop.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m ready.”

I turn back with the machine in my hand. She’s pulled her collar aside again, exposing the stencil.

I’m about to put my art on this woman’s skin forever. And she has no idea who I am.