Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss) (2 page)

I looked up at the sound of the bell jingling above the door.

“How’s my best ho?” This was Teeny’s usual greeting; there was never a lack of smartass love.

“Hey, Hooker, I missed your face. Trip’s in the back waitin’ on his donuts, babe. Just go on through and he'll get you all prepped up.”

Teeny walked over to give me a one-armed hug and a big fat ol’ kiss and hurried on back to Trip's station. “Can’t keep a sexy beast like that waiting.” She threw over her shoulder as she went. As usual, she was decked out looking like a million bucks, mostly for Trip’s benefit no doubt. She looked good—she always looked fantastic with her pretty blonde hair that's as straight as a board, blue-grey eyes, and smoky make-up that gave her a sultry look. She might appear meek and quiet with her five-foot-three frame, but that girl was a firecracker. You would never guess from the way we talk to each other just what she meant to me. Teeny had always been there—at my worst, at my best. She was always in the wings, silently watching my back. She knew I could take care of myself.

One of the many things I’d learned about Teeny growing up was she loved her sleep. Since the age of seven, when we had our first sleep over, it was obvious then. She was grumpy as all get
out in the morning. This had only slightly improved over the years, significantly since she could drink a shit-ton of coffee. Another fact about Teeny that I discovered at age twelve, was you didn't mess with Teeny, her family or her friends. If you did, you'd get one hell of a serving; that girl had a temper worse than a rabid pit bull. At age seventeen, a house full of high school party goers and I watched her throw one hell of a right hook that knocked her cheating piece-of-crap boyfriend right on his ass. He was naked and caught red-handed, leaving him with a broken nose and two black eyes. Adding to his humiliation, he had to explain the rest of the school year how he was bested by tiny, little chick fists.

Not twenty minutes later, Teeny came wandering out to the front desk blushing, closely followed by Trip wearing a smirk, mumbling about aftercare instruction sheets.

“You need me to explain how to take care of it, Teen?” I questioned as I handed her the detailed instructions on cleaning and caring for a piercing.

“No, I...I think I got it... I mean Trip covered it, ah I mean explained it... I'm good, fine, perfect. I'll catch you for coffee tomorrow morning. Bye, see ya, later,” she babbled with her head down, trying to hide bright, pink flushed cheeks. She slid some cash into my hand for her piercing and dashed out the door so fast, you would have thought the building was on fire. Strange, it was hard to embarrass Teen.

I spun around and nailed Trip with a glare, asking “What the fuck did you do?”

He smirked and sauntered away, totally ignoring me. I jumped up to follow him, intending to give him an earful, and get some answers, then making a mental note to call Teeny later and kick a round of twenty questions off. Just then the front doorbell sounded, letting us know a customer had arrived, halting my progress. I knew we didn't have any appointments for a while, so it'd have to be a walk-in, no doubt someone coming to get some unimaginative flash piece from the wall charts.

I’d spun around. As I did, my mouth dropped open, closely followed by what I'm sure was drool and possibly my tongue hanging out. My heart rate kicked up a notch and my skin flushed.

Holy hot damn!

Standing in front of me was an older playgirl worthy, hotness-personified version of Trip. He was just slightly taller at what a guess would be around six foot three, meaning even on my four-inch heels, I was craning my neck to look up at him. His broad, muscular frame, that looked as solid and toned as a brick wall, filled the room. Beautiful aqua-blue eyes, in stark contrast to his slightly olive skin, gave a hint at what had to be a Hispanic background. My hands twitched at the thought of rubbing my hands over his jet-black hair that was neatly buzzed close to his head. Dear Lord and the angels above, he looked around about two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of panty wetting, drool-worthy, drop-to-your-knees and thank all that is holy muscled man. I blinked and gave my head a quick shake to pick my thoughts up out of the gutter, cleared my throat, and watched as he dropped a tan-colored duffle bag to the floor by his feet.

I took a calming breath before I spoke. “Hi, welcome to Needle’s Kiss. Can I help you with anything?”

A deep rumbling voice that shot straight to my nipples and spread goose bumps along my entire body answered “Lookin’ for Trip.”

With hottie’s eyes glued to me, I quickly told him to take a seat while I went and got Trip. He ignored my invitation and continued studiously eyeing me in a way that made me want to jump on him and lick him head to toe.

“Trip!” I called as I walked into the break room on wobbly legs.
Wow, I really needed to get laid if I was this affected by one guy, strike that one sexy as fuck guy.
“There is one hell of a hot dude that looks kinda like you in the front waiting room.”

Trip's eyebrows shot up, and he threw the titty magazine he had been reading onto the folding card table that sat in the middle of the room. He moved swiftly to the front of the shop, his boots thumping on the linoleum with each step.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” I heard Trip yell excitedly, before I caught sight of the two god-like guys moving in for a manly handshake and shoulder-slap type hug. A smile with both dimples played out on Trip's face.

“Just got in, first stop, little brother, and ink.” Sex God greeted him.

“It's damn good to see you back.” Trip’s head came up, and he pointed to me. “Scar here is the best artist in the state, for the last three years. She'll do a fuck-of-a-job, what ya want?”

“Back of the shoulder,” Sex God all but grunted, producing a piece of sketch paper that Trip studied for a moment. He then looked back to his older brother with a pained expression on his face, to which he received a slight head nod and another grunt. Trip walked over to where I was leaning on the front counter, made from a cool piece of black granite and stainless steel edging, handed me the paper and introduced us. “Scar
lett, this is my big brother, Mace. My appointment just walked in. You think you can fit him in?”

That’s why he looked familiar; I’d seen photos of him, but they didn’t do him not one bit of damn justice.

“Sure, come on back to my station. I'll get this one drawn up and be right with you.” I led him back to my room, turning to my workstation as he took a seat on the bright-red padded state-of-the-art electric tattoo chair in the middle of the room. Pinned to two of the surrounding walls were sketches and ideas, all looking for the right canvas.

As I was redrawing the image onto special transfer paper, I noted it was a pretty self-explanatory piece. A rifle standing vertically, an army helmet hanging on the top of a pair of boots in front at the base, with the script below reading—'All gave some, some gave all'. I cleared the somber thoughts of what his new ink represented, turned and walked back to my station to get started, conscious all the while of his large body taking up every inch of space in the chair, seeming to suck all the air from the room.

“Right or left shoulder?”

“Left, right’s taken,” he advised.

“Okay, shirt off. I'll get this stencil on, and you can have a look, yeah?”

Mace lifted one arm up and pulled his grey cotton shirt over his head, exposing strong, thick arms, and a ripped-to-hell chest. My eyes scanned down,
damn
! He didn’t just have a six pack, he had an eight pack, and those delicious V muscles that you just wanted to lick. I briefly noticed, before he’d turned his large, solid and nicely muscled back to me facing the large mirror on the only wall without sketches in front of him, that he had more tattoos scattered all over his upper body, along with a nipple ring Thoughts of running my tongue along the outlines of those tattoos invaded my head, making the temperature in the little room jump a few notches and my breathing pick up.

Come on, Scarlett, get a grip and stop drooling; he's just a man for crying out loud. A hot man admittedly, but just a man,
my brain whisper hissed at me.

I plonked myself down onto my rolling stool, pulled on a pair of black latex gloves, and wiped Mace's left shoulder with alcohol to clean it. Placing the stencil right where I wanted it, I tried not to let my hand linger longer than was professional. I held up the hand mirror slightly to the side, so he could see in the larger one and asked, “That where you want it?”

Mace’s breath caught as I spoke near his ear. He nodded his head and grunted, giving me the go ahead. I briefly noted his eyes trained on my cleavage in the mirror.

Wait, was he checking me out? Only one way to find out.

I leaned forward a little letting the girls pop out a bit, his eyes instantly honed in confirming my suspicions.

I can work with that.

Clicking on the gun and taking the needle to the ink pot, and then to the sinewy muscle of his skin, I took a deep, calming breath, concentrated and put myself in the zone.

My God, Mace was all man, the kind of man every warm-blooded woman would love to take home for the night, tie to her bed and let loose on. Sitting this close to him, my mind conjured up a long list of things I could do, just with my mouth. I was single and had been for a fair while. If the mere presence of him could have me this turned on, I would praise the Lord above for a ticket to that ride.

“You're in the Army then?” I’d asked quietly. If I was to say I was trying to make conversation for any other reason than to hear his voice, I’d be full of shit.

“Just got out.” I was rewarded with his deep rumbling voice that had my panties instantly damp.

“Are you planning on hanging around town for a while now?”

“Mmm,” he grunted out.

Hmm, not really a definitive answer there. Clearly, Mace wasn’t a big talker.

I knew Mace had two younger sisters, Milla who was twenty-four and Haven, the baby of the family, was twenty-two, both beautiful girls—good genes ran in the family obviously. Although currently both were a handful, definitely living life to the fullest.

Their dad had died about ten years earlier from cancer leaving their mother, Marcy, working two jobs to take care of four kids. Hector was the definition of her other half, her soul mate. They had what most people spent a lifetime trying to find. She'd never remarried, hadn't even gone on so much as one date, was happy to just raise her kids the best she could, but there was an air of sadness at times; you would see her eyes go vacant, and a soft look would fall upon her face. She missed him often.

She'd be pleased Mace was home, no matter the length of time.

He made a sound in the back of his throat that put my body on instant alert, and my mind dropped straight back to the gutter. I wanted—no,
needed
a night of unadulterated fun, and who better to have fun with than a sexy beast like Mace? It'd been far too long since anybody had affected me the way he did. Besides, who in their right mind wouldn’t make a play for a guy like that? The room basically crackled with the power in his body and the sexual tension in the room. I really didn't care if I got to keep him for a night, a week or a month; the wetness in my panties attested to the fact. I was down for any kind of fun he wanted to have.

Finishing off his ink, I put my tattoo gun down on the small metal table and wiped the excess ink away with paper towel. I held the mirror in place and softly spoke by his ear. “All done, how's that look?”

Mace's head snapped up. His eyes, hooded and slightly darker, met mine in the black iron-gilded mirror, making my insides heat as my breathing picked up to match his. Nothing was said for a few beats before his eyes lowered to take in the new artwork that had looked slightly red around the edges, fresh, angry and downright beautiful.

He’d nodded once with a grunt, and moved to stand as I rolled backward on my chair. I stood, trying to ignore the tingling feeling running over my body and the butterflies going crazy in my belly. While he grabbed his shirt, standing only in a pair of perfectly fitting faded jeans, heavy army boots, and a thick black belt with chunky silver buckle, I found it impossible to pull my gaze away.

I reached up to smear on some tattoo cream and put a clean dressing over the newly marked skin of his broad back, with slightly shaking fingers. As I did, he sucked in a sharp breath.