Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss #1)

Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss #1) Page 1

Chapter One

Climbing out of my cherry-red 1967 Shelby Cobra GT500, I locked the doors and ran my hand down the hood as I headed toward another day of work. She was beautiful: all soft black leather interior, a deep rumble under the hood when you’d start her up, and a purr when she idled: pure panty-melting power all wrapped up in one muscle car. In case it wasn’t obvious, I was in love with my baby.

Throwing one last look over my shoulder, I stepped in through the back door of my store and relief settled through me. It was good to be here. It was my haven. My happy place. It was home. I owned a small tattoo parlor right in the middle of town. I’d received a small inheritance after my dad died just a year before I opened Needle’s Kiss.

After tying up all the loose ends and paying funeral costs, I was left with enough in the bank that I only needed a small loan to set up the shop just the way I dreamed. I always wanted to do something with my hands; great things could be created with just a set of hands. That was my life’s plan, to create masterpieces, maybe not the conventional type, but I most definitely did what I loved.

The smell of antiseptic wafted through the air as I walked through the shop flicking on the lights. Home. A large open space at the front of my shop acted as a waiting room, complete with two large black leather sofas separated with a chunky distressed wooden chest that acted as a coffee table. The walls were covered with an array of colorful posters, flip albums and photographs of previous work. Behind the front counter, there were four smaller three-wall cubby-type rooms, all stark white and clinically clean, but each slightly personalized for laying down ink and piercing. Every square inch was decked out with top of the line equipment. I was a firm believer in the old saying a man is only as good as the tools he works with, and we had the best of the best. There were also two more closed off rooms at the rear, one an office and the other a break room/chill out spot. All were evenly spaced, leaving a large walkway down the middle of the shop out the back door to our personal parking lot.

Now, Needle's Kiss wasn't even close to world famous, but it was mine. I worked hard to make it what it was. It gave me all those warm squishy feelings just looking around and knowing I belonged somewhere in the world.

The store was my life, my bread and butter, my father's legacy in a way. He too had a passion for body art and encouraged me every day to “step outside the box” and “do what makes you want to get out of bed every day. There’s no sense in doing something that makes your life mundane”. I knew he’d be proud of me.

The few years Needle’s Kiss had been open resulted in a long list of regular, loyal clients that raved about our friendly atmosphere and attention to detail. Not to toot my own horn, but toot motherfucking toot, I’d even won a few awards for my work and boasted the title of the only female artist in town.

I also had two fantastic artists, Remy and Trip; both were great at what they did and we'd become close friends working together the last few years. Those guys were like the brothers I never had. I never had been one of those girly-girls, always preferring to hang out with the guys. I had only one female friend. I’d rather spend time working on my car, watching a game or downing a cold beer. I swore like a sailor and didn’t give a shred of a shit if people didn’t like it. It’s who I am. I wasn’t without my girl-like vices, but they were minimal.

What made all this even sweeter was the fact I was just twenty-six. There weren’t a lot of women who could claim to be successful business owners at that age. And that right there was half of my dream. Three years ago, when I was equally excited and nervous as bat shit opening Needle's Kiss, I spent countless hours making sure everything was perfect and perfectly me. By the time I opened those doors to my first paying customers, the nerves had died down, and I was just downright proud of myself, and of the blood, sweat and ink that had gone into it.

Oh, there was plenty of all three before opening day. But with the help of my best friend and a few paintbrushes, we did most of the work ourselves.

I worked hard to get my loan paid off in record time, and knowing I owned my very own piece of paradise made my heart swell with pride and accomplishment.

The other half of my dream, the part that would have made it all complete, given me that awe inspiring sense of contentment; well, that was the part I'd given up on, or at least put off indefinitely.

Finding ‘The One’.

It was simple really. I just wanted a man who looked at me like I was his world. But now, I was happy to find a guy who didn’t think the sun shined outta his ass, wasn’t cheating, an asshole or a weird freak who walked around in my underwear and heels while I was out because it made him feel sexy.

Yes, it happened, and it really wasn’t that funny at the time. That prick stole my favorite Jimmy Choo’s.

Apparently, I had a stamp on my forehead that said 'fuck with me, screw me over, or flog my shit'.

I had my own style that didn’t appeal to everybody, and I knew I hadn’t fallen from the ugly tree—my best friend since the young age of five, Teeny, told me all the time that I was a knock out, but she had to talk me up, it was in the BFF rule book. It could be found right between “I shall not screw your man” and “during a bitch smack down, one must take each other’s back, or distract the police long enough not to get caught.”

I'd even had my share of male attention, so I knew I wasn’t unpleasant to look at. I had just enough self-confidence not to make me conceited. I also knew how to make myself feel good. I have this unhealthy obsession with ludicrously expensive underwear, and equally expensive, but no less necessary, hot-as-all-hell shoes. A little saying I liked to live by: Keep your head, heels and standards high.

Not a thing in the world can make you feel as good as you do wearing fetish-inducing heels and lacy, silky flirtatious underwear—bank balance damaging, but worth every penny. Even if you were having a prick of a day, you'd still be walking around feeling sexy and confident. And those are essential!

I could, however, be a raging bitch. I told it like it was, and if people didn’t like how I told it, they could shut their pie hole and ride it out, or get the fuck gone.

I turned the computer on to check on my appointments for the day appreciating the fact it was going to be a fairly slow morning, which meant I had time to work on my sketching. I was drawing up a piece for my ribs: a curling dragon breathing fire downward to the front of my lower abdominal muscles, stopping just at my panty line. It would be intricate and sexy when it was done, making an exciting addition to my other ink.

I heard the sound of heavy boots coming from the back door of the shop just as Trip rounded the corner wearing his signature look of black jeans with a chain running from his belt loops to his back pocket. A chunky black belt with a large silver buckle teamed with a white wife beater tank under an open black short-sleeved button down shirt that showed off his art and ripped body completed his look.

“Hey Scar, how's it lookin’, babe?”

“Hey, Trip, slow goes it this morning. You've got Teeny comin’ in to get her nipple done at ten, and then you’re free till noon.”

“Why's Teeny comin’ to me? She’s your girl. Shouldn’t you be takin’ care of her?” he asked, looking slightly annoyed.

I couldn't help the urge to tease him first thing. “Says you've got magic hands, honey. It's either that, or she just wants a hot hunk of a man playin’ with her titties.”

Trip choked on the coffee he’d been about to swallow and glared at me. “Told ya once, tellin’ ya again, don't piss where ya sleep, babe.”

I stifled a laugh, loving the fact I could get a rise out of him. I replied softly “Sweetheart, she's just checkin’ you out; she's not going to throw herself on you while you’re shoving a needle in her boob.” I ruffled his feathers. “Besides, I've seen you checkin’ her ass out more than once, so don't be sittin’ there acting the choirboy you ain’t ever been.”

That was met with a smirk and him walking off with a cocky strut to set up his station for the day’s clients.

No one could ever accuse Trip of being unsure of himself.

He was a ladies’ man through and through. The same age as me, he was still sowing his wild oats with anything that had tits and a heartbeat. Women flocked to his flirty, bad boy ways and his good looks. His black hair was cut into a Mohawk which only made him look hotter. That and his eyebrow, lip and tongue piercings—these just the ones you could clearly see—plus his bright-blue eyes and slightly tanned olive skin, an array of colorful tattoos from waist to neck and down both arms, forming beautiful full sleeves made him a sexy specimen of a canvas. The women who crushed on him didn't care if they had him for an hour or a night, as long as they got a piece of his own personal brand of dirty.

It was known across the wider population of the female species that he was well equipped and never left his lovers with any complaints. Some would go so far as to say he'd reached legend status, but I’m not quite sure if he spread that rumor or not! He'd also never been seen with the same girl twice, but behind his man-whore ways, he was still a sweet funny guy, loyal to a fault and had a fierce love for his family and friends. Cross the man though, and you had more than a problem on your hands.

“She bringing donuts at least?” he asked with a grumble.

“When doesn't she?”

Trip always made a point of being clear not to sleep with someone close to him or his friends; however, I knew Teen had crushed on him for years. I just hoped he'd stay strong and steer clear. Those two together would only end with heartbreak, tantrums and tears, from which party I wasn't even sure.

“That two o’clock appointment won’t show,” he yelled out from somewhere behind me.

“When does he ever? I’m not taking bookings for him anymore. He’s a damn tire kicker.”

I hated liars and bullshit artists. You say you’re gonna do something, just do it; that was one of my few pet hates, right up there with people who thought they were better than everyone else. Worse again were people who judged a book by its cover. Cliché, yes, but so fucking true!

Unfortunately, not many people could see me through my jet-black hair, which every other week (only a slight exaggeration) had different colored streaks through it, bright green eyes and five foot six stature, with a decent serving of ink and piercings, and not pass judgment. Besides the fact that I was mostly tits and ass, and I dressed to play up my assets sometimes to the extreme. Hey, you got it, flaunt it, baby.

My personal favorite judgments came from the woman who had called herself my mother.

They went a little like this: “You could have been such a pretty girl if only you hadn't put all that stuff on yourself.” Oh and, “I would have grandchildren by now if you hadn't ruined yourself. Nobody wants’ a mother or wife looking so lower class, darling.”

Yeah, a stellar mother I had, and I used that name very loosely. We didn't see eye-to-eye, and frankly, I never understood how my father had been married to her for ten years. They’d split up when I was thirteen, mostly because she had been cheating on him for years.