Bad Intentions (Bad Love #2)(43)

I smooth my hair behind my ears, then wipe my face with the palms of my hands as I walk toward the door to shut it gently. I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to calm down. Five minutes to get the fuck over it. Five minutes to put on a happy face and go out there like nothing happened. Just five minutes. It’s all I need.





* * *





I CLOSE THE BATHROOM DOOR behind me before kicking it once, twice, three times for good measure. I need to reel it in. I have a client coming any minute, and I’m fucking losing it. It’s not only about Lo. It’s about the fact that I’ve spent ten fucking years working on my self-control, and I’ve blown it twice in twenty-four hours. First, when I fucked Lo without a rubber, and then again when I lost my shit in some bullshit attempt to protect her.

My self-preservation instincts war with my desire to keep her safe, and I don’t know what to do with it. She’s been here for a couple of weeks, and she’s bringing shit out of me that I thought had died long ago. Conflicted doesn’t even fucking begin to cover it.

I turn the metal knob on the sink and splash some water onto my face. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. I walk straight to my station and focus my attention on putting my tattoo machine together, sliding the needle through the tube before pushing it through the vise into the machine, snapping the rubber band around it, and plugging my clip cord in. I grab a few paper towels, a rinse cup, and some gloves while I wait for my client.

I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, tapping my foot restlessly. Everyone here knows me well enough to know that now is not the time. When I’m wound up like this, I need to get inked or fuck to get the anger out of my system. Right now, the closest option is tattooing.

Lo walks out from the back room, surprising me. I figured she’d go home, but here she is, heading to the front desk, looking calm and collected, the only signs of the earlier drama evident by her glassy eyes and red-tipped nose. Cord walks up to her, saying something quietly, and she nods her answer, giving him that bright smile. The fake one, I’m starting to realize. It makes me wonder how often she’s had to hide her pain to become a master at faking it.

She’s so fucking beautiful and complicated. Feral and distrustful. She’s beautiful when she’s smiling, when she’s crying, when she’s fighting, and when she’s writhing beneath me. We gave in to temptation last night, and I was being honest when I said it was a mistake. A complete and utter fucking mistake. Because I didn’t stop thinking about it once all day. At least, not until Eric showed up.

What kind of piece of shit touches a woman like that? For as long as I can remember, I’ve battled my anger, but even at my worst, I had my limits. I’ve never come close to hurting a female. The look on her face when he squeezed her arm flashes through my mind, causing my fist to clench around my machine. I knew something was off the second I saw them. I hung back observing, telling myself to stay the fuck out of it until she pushed him. When he violently jerked her arm, all bets were off. I didn’t plan to hit him. I wanted to fucking end him, but I’ve learned my lesson—at least, I thought I had. I let Lo get under my skin, and I lost control.

My next client interrupts my mental self-flagellation when he ambles through the door. His name is Lopez. One of my regulars. He’s inked from his feet to his shaved scalp, including a face tattoo—done by yours truly—that curves along the line of his jaw. The guy is so covered that I’m running out of room for ink.

“Hi.” Lo smiles warmly, not seeming even slightly put off by his appearance. I like that about her. She doesn’t judge anyone and treats everyone equally. “I think Dare’s ready for you,” she says without sparing me a glance. Lopez lifts his chin at me in greeting, and I wave him over.

“Who’s the dime piece up front?” Lopez asks once he’s in my chair. Lo pretends not to hear, but I see her back straighten.

“New girl,” I answer shortly. I snap my gloves on my hands and get to work on the piece. He wants “hopeless” in script above his left eyebrow. I will myself to relax—to let shit go—so I don’t unintentionally dig my needle too deep. Not that Lopez would mind. He’s in it for the pain, but he wouldn’t be too thrilled if my heavy hand caused scarring or an infection.

The session is quick, and after Lopez pays Lo, he walks backwards, looking her up and down, doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s checking her out before sending a wink in her direction.

This motherfucker.

I toss my gloves and wash my hands, and when I return, Lo’s cleaning my station. Her long, brown hair falls into her face as she bends over to wordlessly pick up an empty water bottle Lopez left behind. She puts on a good front, but I can tell she’s upset. Withdrawn. And suddenly, my shit takes the back seat. I have the urge to fix her problems. To get the fiery Lo back, that smile back—the real one.

Without thinking twice, I reach forward and swipe my thumb under her eye, rubbing away a streak of black. Hazel eyes flash up to mine, her lashes still wet and stuck together from crying.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not giving a fuck who hears me, letting my thumb linger on her cheek. Lo averts her eyes, severing the contact.

“Me, too. He shouldn’t have shown up like that. I don’t even know how he found me.” Her tone is deceptively casual, trying to minimize the situation.