More Than Lies (More Than #1)(35)

What’s a girl gotta do to get a damn tattoo tonight?

“Yes, Shawn,” I force out as I fall back into the chair. Why is he making such a big deal about this? His work is flawless and beautiful. The moment my eyes landed on this design I knew it was the one I wanted.

“Then relax. We’re going to be here about an hour.”

That hour turned into two. Apparently, my threshold for physical pain isn’t as high as my capacity for mental pain. The needle jabbing into my hipbone and rib cage was enough to bring on the waterworks. Shawn eventually had to get Adam to come over to talk me through it, because he couldn’t do that and concentrate on the tattoo process. Adam not only talked to me, but he let me hold onto his arms too, never complaining once.

He’s a great guy like that. I don’t think he could have stolen from his own company. I don’t see that in him at all.





CHAPTER EIGHT





SHAWN





It’s been a week since I inked the book tattoo on Tara. The morning after, she freaked. I initially thought she was acting nuts because she regretted getting the tattoo, but then I realized she thought something was wrong. When I discovered it was just a little plasma leaking from the fresh wound, I laughed. She didn’t find the same humor in the ordeal that I did. She was okay once I explained that what was happening is perfectly normal.

I have to admit her hysteria was cute.

It’s a Friday night, and like any other Friday night after work I’m at Mac’s Pub. Eventually I’ll make it out to a club if I don’t find a prospect here.

The two jackasses standing at the bar catch my attention. They were having what looked to be a pissing contest when I walked in the door half an hour ago. Doesn’t look like their conversation will be mellowing anytime soon. Mac needs to get his ass out here and end this shit.

This may be a local hole-in-the-wall bar, but it’s a good spot to chill after a long day. Drama doesn’t have a place here. These two old fuckers either need to take their shit outside or go sit at the opposite ends of the bar, as far away from each other as possible.

“Hey man, that was a pretty cool piece you did on Calvin’s leg.”

My attention on the two drunk middle agers at the bar arguing is interrupted by my now ex-boss. I’m now the proud owner of the tattoo studio in which I work at. We haven’t made the announcement yet, and I don’t plan on announcing it until I find out who is stealing money from the company. Adam and I had it out on Monday morning. He swears up and down he’d never do something like that. I believe him, and we both found it laughable that Tara believed either of us would think she was capable of something like that.

“Yeah, I thought it turned out pretty good, too.” I glance in his direction momentarily before turning my sights back onto the bar. Calvin’s been a client of mine since my first week at the studio here in Oxford—that was over three years ago. I’ve been fortunate enough to do every bit of ink he has on his body. It’s a cool feeling to know someone trusts you—and only you—enough to permanently mark their skin.

The old fucks’ conversation is starting to escalate, and Mac is still nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t stand for BS in his bar. People come to drink and chill out after a stressful day at their jobs.

Honeysuckle blonde waves catch my eye. I glance a few feet around from the confrontation seeing Tara and Holly talking. Tara looks frustrated. She can’t stand Holly, and the feeling is mutual.

At a distance, you might think their looks are similar. Holly has blond hair too, but it is straight and bleached. She’s of average height. Tara has an inch or two on her. They are both well endowed, but where Tara’s tits are real, Holly’s double D’s are enhanced with silicone. Tara is all curves with a plump ass, whereas Holly has no ass to admire—or waist, or even legs, for that matter. Up close, Holly is a big ole mess.

Something about Holly’s stance is off though. Tara clearly wants away from her, but Holly grasps onto her elbow. Yet, she is looking past Tara. I glance in that direction, turning my eyes to the men I was previously watching. Their argument escalated, and now they’re pushing and shoving each other. I glance down noting the glass item in one of the guy’s hand. He’s holding it too tight. I don’t register my quick movement in their direction until a body crashes into my chest. At the same time a beer bottle crashes into my shoulder blade making me clench my fist around blonde strands. A quick intake of air is pulled into Tara’s mouth, followed by a soft moan.

“Son of a bitch!” I shout releasing Tara’s hair. She steps a fraction backwards, looking up at me in confusion.

“Oh fuck.” I hear a tone of fear from behind me. Tara looks past me, and I pivot around with what I’m sure is the threat of death coming from my eyes. The guy I’ve only seen in here on a rare occasion releases the remaining broken bottleneck of the beer from his hand. “I . . . I . . . I’m sorry, man,” he stutters.

“You’re sorry?” I snap. “You’re fucking sorry doesn’t cut it.” I walk forward, grabbing a handful of dirty T-shirt, shoving him backwards. “Had I not seen what was happening and stepped in, you would have hit her in the face with a beer bottle instead of me.” I jut my finger out, point in Tara’s direction. Everyone looks at her. The asshole looks ashamed, but I don’t care. His carelessness almost hurt Tara.