More Than Lies (More Than #1)(23)

“Bring your fucking ass home, now.” My tone is laced with heat. I know it and I don’t care.

I walk off, toward the living room. Dinner is trash now, but I couldn’t care less about food at the moment.

“You just can’t help it, can you?”

“What?” I bark out at Mason. He’s sitting on the couch flipping through the TV channels. He’s not looking at me.

“You continue to push her into his bed, you know.”

By him, I assume Mason means Jared.

Prick.

I call her again as I make my way up the stairs. Voice mail is bullshit.

She doesn’t return home. I don’t see her again until Friday when she shows up at the studio.





CHAPTER FIVE





TARALYNN





“Taralynn.”

The first thing that registers in my brain is that I hear my name being called. The second thing is, it’s Shawn’s voice. In all seventeen years that I’ve known him, he has never once called me by my full first name. I think he started calling me “Tara” because when he was a little kid he had a hard time pronouncing “L” sounds. When he outgrew his minor speech impediment, he kept calling me Tara.

Finally, there’s the tone of his voice, laced with irritation, which brings me to the here and now.

My eyes fly open just as the smell of latex fills my nostrils. Once everything comes into focus, I see what looks to be a pair of black latex gloves bunched into a ball in his fist only inches away from my face. I can also feel him leaning over my back. My cheek is lying flush with Adam’s wooden desk, my arm is stretched out, and my hand is still cupping the computer mouse.

Apparently, I fell asleep at some point while going over the business financials.

I don’t have classes on Fridays, but what I do have is a part-time job at Southern Ink. I say part-time job because it’s only one day a week, but the reality is, I don’t get paid for the work I put in here. Adam Manning, the owner of the tattoo studio and Shawn’s boss, sweet talked me into handling payroll for his business about two years ago. The guy has a thick and deep Mississippian accent that’s impossible to say no to.

It all started with me coming in every Friday around noon, tallying up all the artists’ commissions based on their appointments from the previous week and any hourly wages for non-commissioned staff, then hand writing checks that were already signed by Adam. What it has turned into is me still doing all that, plus paying the business’s bills and ordering all the supplies. So in essence, I’m doing Adam’s job so Adam can continue servicing his clients, not to mention prolonging every appointment because the man was gifted with the art of gab.

“Yeah,” I yawn, lifting my head up. Shawn backs away from me, walking around to stand on the other side of the desk.

“What are you doing looking at Adam’s banking info?”

“What?” I cover my mouth as another yawn forces its way out. Damn, I’ve got to stop wasting nights spending time with Jared. Seeing him is only prolonging the inevitable.

“Never mind,” Shawn snaps. “Look, I’m finishing up on Cosmo’s arm piece. I’ll be done within 30, and I’d like to hit the road then, okay?” Cosmo is a longtime client of Shawn’s. He’s in a biker club out of our hometown of Tupelo. But when I say, “biker club” I’m not referring to the Harley MC types, I’m talking about the BMW MC types.

“Road. Got-cha.” I stretch my arms over my head.

“Do you think you can have everyone paid by then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I have them right here. I don’t know what happened. I guess not getting enough sleep the past two nights is catching up with me.” Shit. Why did I say that? By the look of his locked jaw he knows I didn’t sleep at home.

“Just . . . be fucking ready to leave.” With those words, he pivots and stalks out the door.

I don’t know what his deal is. Shawn Braden screws a different skank every other day. Why he cares who I do makes zero sense.

I log off the bank website and close down all programs before turning off the computer. I cringe at the mess on Adam’s desk, so I straighten it up, making it much more organized than when I arrived. I can’t help myself. Things look prettier when they are clean and properly placed. It may also serve to calm my nerves at times, too.

If people took better care of their things, our world would be more relaxed and peaceful. I’m sure of it.

I grab the checks I stuffed in envelopes earlier and walk out of the office.

I make it around to everyone, personally handing paychecks to each person. Leaving Shawn for last, I lay his check down on the side table behind him. His concentration is on Cosmo. Every tattoo I’ve seen Shawn create is nothing short of beautiful. This one is no less. It’s placed on the inside of Cosmo’s right forearm. It’s the form of a woman, similar to the tattoo Shawn has on the inside of his left forearm. Both are of pretty women.

“Who’s the pretty lady?” My question is directed at Cosmo. He opens his eyes and looks down at Shawn’s work. Cosmo takes a deep breath of air then follows with a sigh as he exhales.

“My wife, sugar.” That’s sweet, but sad, too. I know he lost his wife of twenty-five years last year. This piece is obviously honoring her.