Reckless(101)

Annnd right there, my interest plummets.

Of course, my last night working here and I get Malibu Barbie. I’m half-wondering when she’s going to break out her phone for a selfie.

Yanking on my gloves, I watch her unstrap the twins as my irritation builds.

“We can pull the curtain closed.” I motion behind her to the partition I should’ve grabbed on the way in, but she shrugs with a grin and drops her bra.

Okay then.

When she slides into my chair, I lower the back so she’s reclining. I have to hold back a laugh when she thrusts her chest out.

I don’t know why I think this is funny.

Because you’re an asshole.

“So, Chastity—” Yes, her name is Chastity. It’s always the ones with the wholesome names. “You want these piercings horizontal, correct?” I make the motion across in case she doesn’t know which direction I’m talking about.

She nods and bats her eyelashes at me before she grabs her tits and pinches her nipples. “Do you want me to hold them up for you?”

I almost choke on my gum. “No, that’s okay.”

A flash of disappointment crosses her face, and I force a smile to counteract my fuck-off vibe. I don’t mean to be a jerk. I’m just exhausted. Working seventy hours a week landscaping while I moonlight here at the tattoo parlor will do that. So I try to reassure her. “You have ideal breasts for piercings.” Her eyes brighten, and she smiles back.

It’s true, though. Her nipples are high and distended. Maybe a tad long if you ask me. Not like National Geographic tits or anything. Just a little pouty.

Like someone’s been sucking on them.

My dick finally rears up like someone rang a dinner bell.

But then Chastity opens her mouth. “My sorority sisters dared me to do this. I couldn’t say no.”

That’s a terrible reason. I just nod. It’s none of my business. But it’s enough to make my cock tap out. He should be interested. I haven’t been with anyone in a while, not even Gwen. But seeing Gwen takes time, time I don’t have.

“Just relax. I’m marking the skin first,” I explain.

Chastity takes a deep breath, but when I touch her breast, she lets out a little moan.

I try not to laugh. This girl should not be turned on right now. Getting her tits pierced is going to hurt.

After marking a dot on both sides of one nipple, I repeat the process with the other, the whole time ignoring the flush of red down her neck.

I’m a dick for being amused by her obvious state of arousal. But she keeps opening her mouth. “I love that photo. Is she your girlfriend?” She motions toward the front of the tattoo parlor, where a larger-than-life image of me wrapped around a half-naked woman hangs on the wall.

Jesus Christ. I hate that pic. How a favor for a friend in art school last winter became an image plastered all over Boston to advertise the Wicked Tattoo Parlor, I’ll never know.

“No, that’s not my girlfriend.”

The redhead in the photo, Dani, and I were always just friends. Someone I definitely hoped would be more than a friend, but things didn’t work out that way. In fact, the douchebag she’s engaged to was here last week getting a tat of Little Red Riding Hood—for her, no doubt. Fucker.

But the experience taught me something important. That unless you find the perfect girl, putting yourself out there is pointless.

My foul mood must be rubbing off, because by the time I aim the 14-gauge at nipple number two, Chastity is no longer interested in talking. Told you. Nipples and needles are no joke. But I have to admit I’m at a loss when the tears start.

If there’s one thing I can’t handle, it’s a crying woman.

I pat her shoulder. “You took it like a champ.”

When I’m done explaining how to care for the piercings, I motion toward her. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, I do.” She licks her lower lip that’s stopped quivering. “Think you might have time later for a drink?”

Bad idea.

“Wish I could take you up on that, but my schedule’s pretty packed.” Not a lie. “Maybe some other time.” Or maybe not.

Be nice, man.

I force myself to smile. “If you decide to get a tattoo, I’ll draw something for you.” Piercing helps pay the bills. Tats are what I love.

Her eyes brighten, and she nods.

I turn away before I let something rude slip. Because when I’m this exhausted, I have one mode—asshole—and I don’t want to treat this girl that way. Or any girl for that matter.

That's why I’m better off alone right now. Flying solo seems to be the only thing I have time for.

In between clients, I text my father an update on the Jackson property. He responds immediately. Great job, son! Can’t thank you enough.

No thanks needed, my thumbs tap out.

I stare at the screen, hoping we’re done and he doesn’t launch into another round of apologies, apologies that aren’t his to make.

Part of me feels guilty about not wanting to run my father’s landscaping company. But this was supposed to be temporary. Just until my brother Cal returned and he took over for my dad, who had a heart attack.

My jaw tightens.

Cal’s down in Texas, kicking back with his new wife—the one he eloped with after knowing two weeks—and their baby. Ironically, he was down there taking courses I paid for so he could return to Boston and take over our family’s company, but he got sidetracked when some chick tripped over his dick. How else do you have a baby nine months later?