Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(20)

Elle’s mouth was hanging open when I finished my rushed explanation.

“Holy mother of all things unholy. Are you flippin’ kidding me?”

“Not even a little bit.”

She blew out a breath. “I don’t even know where to start. Except, wait. Yes I do. Let’s turn Lucas Titan’s dick into a weenie roast.”

The visual flared to life in my mind. “Gross. Can you please not say things like that?”

Elle smirked and looked down at her watch. “You better get going, and I’ll handle changing your plus one on the two invitations, change your RSVP on the other, and see what I can do to hunt down an invite to the last one. I’ll just say I’m your social secretary, which is mostly true anyway. But you have to swear to fill me in on every little detail.”

“I’m meeting him at noon; I doubt there are going to be any details worth hearing about.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve clearly never had a nooner then.”

I pushed away from my desk and stood. “True story. I better go.”

She hugged me hard. “Give ‘em hell, girl.”

“Done.”

“And don’t let him bully you about Titan. You do exactly what we talked about.”

“What did we talk about again?” Our conversation had been so rapid and filled with Elle asking about Con’s dick size that I lost track of whether we actually came up with a solution for how to handle the Titan situation.

“You lie. That’s what you gotta do.”

“Glad we have a viable plan.”





I checked my watch. 11:56. I had a feeling she’d be punctual, so I waited by the door like a chump and watched the seconds tick by.

Frustrated with myself, I ducked back into the break room and headed toward my desk. I forced myself to sit and study the new tat I was drawing. It wasn’t for me—and not just because I didn’t have much dermal real estate left to cover. It was a little too feminine. Charlie would probably love it, but I was reluctant to offer it to her. It wasn’t really her style. Although maybe her style was changing now that she was getting more serious with Duchesne. I really hoped that girl knew what she was doing.

A knock on the back door of Voodoo interrupted my thoughts. Which was probably for the best, because Charlie’s personal life was no longer any of my business except as a friend. Bittersweet maybe, but again, for the best. She’d never quite fascinated me like the woman knocking on my door—the woman I wanted to demand explanations from about why that slick son of a bitch had touched her like he’d had a right to. But I wouldn’t. Instead, I beat back the urge to grab my tattoo gun and brand her with my name.

She wasn’t mine.

And let’s face it; she’d never be mine. I might get a few stolen hours here and there, but it could never be anything more. My choices had ensured that. So I’d live with them and jack off to the memories of Vanessa in my bed. First, I had to make those memories.

Last night I’d had to watch her on the arm of another preppy douchebag. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle that again without drawing blood or breaking bones. I knew dozens of ways to kill a man with my bare hands, and I’d be happy to demonstrate on Lucas Titan if I ever saw him touch her again.

I pulled open the door, and the orangey-peach colored dress she was wearing cast my dark mood into the gutter. She reminded me of a Flintstone’s push-pop I’d had as a kid, and I wanted to lick her from neck to knees.

“Can I come in?” Her question and hesitant smile almost had me stepping aside to let her in. But that wasn’t the plan. And with this woman, if I didn’t have a plan, everything would fall to shit in a hurry.

“No. We’re going out. For lunch.”

She froze. “I don’t… I can’t…”

Her stomach rumbled, breaking the awkward silence that followed her trailing words.

“You don’t what?” I prompted. “Because it sounds to me like you’re hungry.”

Her hands clenched the fabric of her skirt before smoothing it, and her stomach growled again.

I crossed my arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, daring her to refute the fact.

“Is this part of the ‘be where I say, when I say,’ stipulation?” she asked.

“Yes. And it’s just f*cking lunch. It’s not like I’m telling you to strip and climb into my bed. Although, if you’d prefer…”

Her eyes flicked to the door just beyond me—the door that led up the stairs to my apartment above the shop.

I shoved off the doorframe, hot anger spreading through my veins. “You’d rather go upstairs and f*ck than go out to lunch with me?”

She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s just lunch. How f*cking complicated can it be?” And then it dawned on me. “If you’re worried I’m going to take you somewhere we’ll be recognized, don’t be.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Her silence fueled my annoyance. Picking her up by the waist, I kicked the door shut, carried her over to my bike, and dropped her onto the seat. I ignored her sputtered protests and the skirt hiking up around her thighs as I strapped a helmet on her head.