Chapter 29
A giggle erupts from beyond the wall, and I grip the handle of the tattoo machine harder.
It’s her laugh.
That full-bodied, throaty chuckle. A masculine voice follows another one of her laughs, and I want to punch through the wall and find out who the hell is in there with her.
Not knowing distracts me enough that I lift my tattoo gun and wipe away the leftover paint.
I need to focus or I’ll fuck up the latest portion of this piece.
I’ve tattooed for what feels like hours.
My back aches and my fingers are starting to cramp.
Since opening this morning, the shop has been busy all day.
Onyx handled a steady stream of piercing clients, while Riggs and I tattooed.
It’s not often that Riggs can spend the entire day working, but when he does, it’s back-to-back appointments with many of his clients booking months in advance for his brightly colored pieces.
My eyes are tired from the hours of working, and I lift my head, hearing that deep masculine voice again.
Not for the first time do I wish I had put cameras in her apartment.
I have to quell the urge to drag her out of her apartment and demand to know who that deep voice belongs to, but I can’t just get up and kill someone in the middle of a tattoo.
“You okay man?”
Looking down at the club member lying on my table, I ignore his question.
He’s young, and I inwardly sigh. He must be around 19 years old, and I feel 90 in comparison.
He’s sweaty and in pain. The piece he is getting will cover his entire back.
He bit off more than he could chew. I stop and put down the gun. “Let’s finish the rest next week.”
He sighs in relief, wincing as he rises from the table. I clean him up, add the protective gel, and then the skin cover to help the colors saturate into his skin.
Once he’s gone, I clean up, my whole body attuned to what might be happening beyond the walls.
I head to the doorway that leads to the stairs and listen through the wood.
The stairs creak, and I hear two sets of footsteps; her door opens and closes.
They’re in her apartment. I climb the steps to my apartment and open the door, heading to the wall, needing to know.
I lean against the wall, straining to hear their indistinct voices, their laughter.
A groan reaches me, and I sit up, fury pumping through me.
He’s in her apartment. I listen like a fucking asshole and take out a cigarette and light it, needing the nicotine hit to calm the fuck down.
But I wouldn’t mind tunneling the red-hot tip of my cigarette into his eyes.
I concentrate, preparing to hear another moan, or anything else that will confirm that I’m going to kill the man who’s touching her tonight.
But there’s no more moaning, and I wonder if it means she fucking him in another part of her apartment.
Despite being a mirror image of my apartment, the only wall we shared is part of her living room and bedroom wall.
I only hear silence, and then the voices come from beyond the window.
I look through the glass and watch them exit.
She’s wearing those fucking fishnets she always seems to wear.
Just like before, I imagine ripping the crotch and fucking her, while holding onto the shredded fabric, anchoring her in place.
Her hair is up in a pretty ponytail. Perfect for wrapping around my fist.
Wood cracks beneath my fingers from gripping the window frame. He’s young and, from the looks of it, artistic. The asshole leans in to hug her, and I want to rage. His hands are on her body. The touch pushes me over the edge. I pull my bike keychain out of my pocket and turn on the remote starter.
The deep, rumbling sound is loud and aggressive. Try talking with that much noise, motherfucker. I squeeze the tip, the burn from the ember making me hiss in satisfaction. ‘Skater boy’ gets in his sporty Tesla. I take note of his license plate, memorizing the number.
I blow the last bit of my smoke in my lungs to the ceiling, and pick up my black tin of cherry candy and pop one, sucking on it to help settle my rage. I feel a bit calmer. Moving away from the window, I turn off the engine.
Descending the steps two at a time, I reach the back door to her gallery. Soft jazz music notes escape through the wall. It’s different, with an electric melody. It adds something interesting to the music. I knock, waiting, energy buzzing through my body. Time to see my girl.
“Who is it?”
“Open the door, Countess.”
The door doesn’t open right away. I can sense her reluctance.
“What do you want?” Her hesitant voice comes through the wood.
“Open the door.”
Again, she makes me wait. She wants to deny me, but her natural curiosity won’t let her. I’ve come to know my girl. She’s inquisitive. She cracks it open, peering around the edge. Her expression is filled with confusion.
“Is there something you need?”
The cute frown on her face is sexy as hell. Bratty energy radiates from her green eyes. She has no clue what I need. Namely her laid out on the floor, my cum coating her breasts and belly. I push open the door easily, forcing her back.
“Hey! You can’t just come in here like you own the place, Stone!”
I don’t tell her that I’ve been in her gallery before, that I’m in the process of getting a key to the upstairs apartment. I close it behind me and lock it. I don’t want to be disturbed.
I take her in. The black smock she’s wearing.
The same one she wore to the dinky art studio she used to paint in.
It covers her white overalls and pink T-shirt.
My eyes roam over the rest of her, from her beat-up sneakers up her thighs encased in those tempting fishnets.
I visually assess her, looking for signs that the handsy motherfucker touched her, but she seems unruffled, untouched.
“Can I help you?”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you care?” She puts her hands on her hips.
I do care way too much. That snarky, bitchiness is sexy on her. She’s changed since last summer. I stand there and will my cock to go down. I raise a brow.
“Nice move with the eyebrow. See you around.”
When she moves to open the door, I block it with my body.
“What are you doing? Move!”
I peek over her head, noticing that she’s painting the walls. “How are you getting to the ceiling?”
“None of your business,” She scoffs.
When I spot the paint-splattered buckets stacked up high, irritation radiates through me. She had better not be fucking using plastic buckets to reach the top. “You’re standing on buckets?” Images of her falling make my body run cold.
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal and stands in front of me. “I don’t have a ladder.”
“Fuck’s sake.” I pick her up and set her aside, then walk into the space.
“Hey!”
Picking up the roller that is almost her size, I look at the rickety ass contraption she had set up. “You’re going to break your neck on this shit.”
“My neck. My problem.”
I don’t turn around because her sassy comeback is giving me an inconvenient chub. Instead of thinking about how sexy her snark is, I kick the buckets aside, watching in satisfaction as they fall over and roll away.
“What are you doing!? Cut that out!”
“It’s not safe to stand on.” I pick up the roller and start rolling the white gray paint on the wall.
“You are one high handed bastard, you know that?”
I hide my smile and continue rolling. “Why are you painting this wall this color?” When she doesn’t answer, I look at her and see another scowl. “Cat got your tongue, Countess?”
“It’s for an art piece. Onyx agreed to create it. I like his art.”
It shouldn’t bother me that she didn’t ask me, but why would she? I’m trying to pretend I hate her guts to prevent myself from fucking a 24-year-old.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, not pausing my movements.
“I told him to surprise me. I even asked him to sit for a portrait at some point. He has this intense energy that I am itching to experiment with.”
Right then and there, I decide Onyx won’t be doing shit. I’m doing her art piece.
Camryn bends down, picks up a thick paintbrush, and starts working on the baseboards.
The silence doesn’t feel strained. It feels good.
Usually, I can’t stand being around people for an extended period of time.
My social graces have long since expired, lost in the quagmire that is my past. She seems to not mind the quiet.
The jazz music she has on the speaker doesn’t irritate me like Riggs’s heavy metal or Onyx’s monotone, cold-case audio books.
Once the walls are painted, I detach the rollers and pick up the paint rollers, dropping them in her bucket of water and resting the pole against the floor.
Her ass is in my direct line of vision, and I can picture her bent over, offering me all sorts of distractions while she begs for my dick.
Her long braid hangs down, getting in her way, and she just keeps flipping it over her shoulder.
The ropey length is perfect to wrap my fingers around.
She’s kneeling in the perfect position for me to hold her head, keep that pretty mouth steady while I teach her about how much I like her sassy mouth.
She touches her back, and I see the exhaustion on her face.
There are slight bags under her eyes. She was up the first night I heard the music.
I’m a night owl with the work I do in my barn, so losing sleep is nothing to me.
I look around at the huge gallery. It’s come a long way, and it seems like she’s doing it by herself. Pride lodges in my chest.
Again, I wonder about this woman. She drives an old car, which, from my inspection the night I snuck into the parking garage, was leaking gas and needed a new transmission.
She lived at a friend’s place. She gave up living comfortably with that dead asshole Reed Spencer.
She hasn’t moved into another expensive residence.
Camryn Park could live anywhere. Fuck, she could buy this whole building if she wanted.
She’s a millionaire, but here she is kneeling in a run-down gallery, painting on her own, wearing clothing that doesn’t look like a name brand.
Then again, she could be wearing a garbage bag, and she’d look like a million dollars.
I call her countess, but it’s because of her countenance, her regal bearing.
Her pedigree is there, no matter what. I don’t understand it.
“I think that’s enough.”
She looks up and frowns at me. “You can go. I’ll finish the rest.” She dismisses me, and I can’t stop the feral smile at her pert response. What I wouldn’t give to punish her for it.
I crouch next to her and take the paintbrush out of her hands. “I said that’s enough.”
She looks at the brush in my hands, clearly shocked at its removal.
Her surprise doesn’t last long, before she snatches it right out of my hands and bends back toward the floor.
“Welp, now you can definitely go. I don’t know who gave you the idea that you can tell me what to do.
” She painstakingly applies another layer of white paint.
She grumbles under her breath, talking to herself.
“I mean, I didn’t invite him now did I?”
Her one-sided conversations make me grin, but as much as sparring with her excites me, she needs to get some rest. I haul her up, wrap my hand around her arm, take the paintbrush out of her hands again, and drop it back in the bucket of water with a loud splash.
She stumbles when I propel her by pushing on her lower back.
“I told you that was enough. Where is your bathroom?” I ask, pretending like I don’t know every inch of the space.
“What?” She spins around and puts her hands on her hips. “Did you hear me? I’m not finished.”
“Where is your bathroom?”
“I don’t need to use the bathroom, Stone.”
“You’re tired.”
Her eyes widen. Confusion is written all over her face. I use it to distract her and move her toward the back.
“I’m tired? What does that have to do with me going to the bathroom?”
I push her through the small door and flick on the fluorescent overhead light.
I realize my mistake as soon as I crowd her into the small bathroom.
Her scent is stronger like this. That flowery scent I want drenched on my cock.
The cramped space makes not touching her damn near impossible. “Wash your hands.”
She looks up at me, and I can count the handful of freckles on her nose.
The kaleidoscope of browns mixed in with the green around her pupils draws me in, and I crowd her more, taking advantage until she swallows and faces the small pedestal sink.
She turns on the water and begins washing her hands.
And like the bastard that I am, I step up behind her, her small frame dwarfed by my bigger body.
She’s thin and svelte. All long limbs and slight curves.
She stills when my cock brushes her ass.
Our eyes study each other in the cracked bathroom mirror.