I've just replaced the 13 mag in my tattoo gun's needle bar when my co-worker, Corbin, sticks his head inside the supply room.

"Hey, babe." He tips his head to the side. "Your four o'clock is here."

"Thanks." I hold the tattoo gun up in acknowledgement. "Tell them I'll be right out."

He knocks twice on the door before closing it again. I grab all the supplies I need for my set up—needles, grip, tubes and coils—before stepping out of the room. My Doc Martins thump against the hardwood floor, somehow still loud enough to hear over the blaring music. "BLOW" by Ed Sheeran blasts through the parlour and I bop my head along to the beat of the song. His music isn't typically my type but this song definitely speaks my language.

"Who's here for me?" I stand in the middle of the main room where the reception desk and waiting area is.

"Melanie Parks, right?" A girl in jean shorts and a hot pink tank stands up. She looks like straight up Barbie with her platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, and lithe frame. She also doesn't have a smudge of ink on her but I know better than to stereotype. I've inked all kinds of people.

"Lenny." I correct. I hate being called by my name. "Follow me."

I start for my office without checking to see if she's following me. The slap of her flip-flops is enough to tell me she is. I mindlessly chew the same piece of gum that I've been assaulting all day. My afternoon appointment took longer than I thought and I ended up missing my lunch break. Still, my client's piece turned out badass so I don't mind all that much. Seeing the face of a client when they're shocked and elated because of the ink I did for them? Hella rewarding.

"In here." I call over my shoulder and kick my door open. My boss, Titus, has told me a million times to stop doing that but I've yet to kick the habit. Besides, there's already a faint outline of my shoe on the door anyways so no point in stopping now.

I set my supplies down on the table, assembling the gun together and barely having to look at what I'm doing. I notice Barbie shuffling back and forth uncomfortably and I instantly know this is the first time she's getting tatted. I know I said I don't stereotype but sometimes the verdict is too fucking obvious. Take Barbie for example. My money is on a butterfly tat on either her hipbone or the back of her neck and she's doing it for her preppy boyfriend. I'm going to guess his name is Josh.

"Take a seat." I raise my brows at the reclining chair.

She sits down and immediately pulls out her phone, texting. No doubt telling her friends what a badass she is for doing this.

"So, what's it going to be?" I ask as I grip the tattoo gun, shut my office door, and take a seat beside her.

She sits up, hopping in her seat excitedly. "A butterfly tattoo. Just a small one. I'm thinking maybe on my hip? I'm surprising my boyfriend, Jake."

Damn. So close.

"You got it." I try to contain my smile. "Have a design in mind or do you want to flip through our catalogue?"

"No, that's okay. I found one on google images and printed it out."

She takes out a folded paper from her shorts and hands it to me.

"Colour or black and white?"

"Colour, duh. Baby blue and black."

Shocker.

I grab my sketch pad and pencils and immediately draw out a replica of the image. Barbie—who's name is Chloe I found out—kills time on her phone texting away. It doesn't take me long and in less than five minutes, I hold up the finished product for her.

She gasps dramatically. "Oh. Em. Gee! That is perfect! You're really good."

"Thank you." I appreciate the compliment and try not to get hung up on the fact that she actually spoke the abbreviations of "omg" out loud. Who does that? Still, she's a nice chick and that's more than can be said for myself.

"Which hip?"

"Right." She says, which is perfect because that's the side closest to me.

"Cool. Just pull your shorts low and lay back."

She does as I ask and I poise my needle where she wants the tattoo, stretching her skin back with my other hand. I use my foot to press on the pedal that switches my gun on and the familiar loud whirring noise takes over the room. I love the sound of a tattoo gun. I can't think when it's on which happens to be perfect for me. I just erase my mind and get lost in the art, away from my head for a few hours of the day.

"Is it going to hurt?" Chloe squeaks, eyeing the needle like it's going to eat her.

People generally start getting cold feet when I start up the gun. The noise is intimidating as hell for starters and when they feel the press of the cold needle on their skin, it freaks them out.

"It is." I shrug. I don't sugarcoat shit. "But I know it's nothing you can't handle. Chin up, buttercup."

"Right. You're right. I can do this." She tells the ceiling more so than me.

I grab a cloth before stretching her skin back again and put the needle to her skin.

"Ah!" She screeches. "Jesus, that stings!"

"You got this." I sound as bored I feel. Every first tattoo will obviously hurt but I also know she'll adjust in a few minutes. I've done this more times than I can count.

"Can I hold your hand?" She whimpers.

I frown, concentrating on the needle that starts to form the outline of the butterfly in black ink. "You're not giving birth, Chloe. And I kind of need my hands to get the job done."

"Oh, yeah." She sounds put out.

"It'll stop hurting soon." I assure her. "How about you play a song you like to calm you down?"

"That's perfect!" Her pain is immediately forgotten and I sigh deeply. That's why I hardly sympathize with screamers anymore—most of the time the pain in just in their head and they need it knocked out. "I have just the song! Jake and I slow-danced to it for prom and it was the single most romantic moment of my life! Of course now he's not romantic anymore and it's like he forgot I'm his girlfriend. I mean, I'm such a catch! How can he just—"

I tune her out, focusing on the task at hand. I don't know what it is with people and thinking that getting a tattoo means indulging in a therapy session while they're at it. Maybe it's the reclining chair? Either way I've heard the craziest stories from the other side of my needle and it really puts in perspective what I think of the world—it sucks. I've heard drunken heartbreaks and losses of parents and the end of careers. It's funny how people think tattoos are painful but they usually come to get one when they're experiencing something inside of them that hurts so much more than what my needle will ever do. And I sympathize with that. Truly.

I hate people and I hardly have any in my life I give a shit about. But I happen to prefer it that way because I've seen the worst of life enough to last me for as long as I'm alive. I'm not interested in getting hurt more than I already have. So as much as I'd like to give my total attention to the countless sob stories from my clients, I just don't have the time or patience anymore. I'm here to give them the art they ask for and nothing more. It's just better that way for me and them.

I get lost in the process and find myself sketching away at Chloe's skin with a small smile. Tattooing is the one thing that makes me happy. I used to draw designs a lot as a kid in a sketch pad that I carried with me everywhere. Art has been my escape for as long as I can remember. The sound of faint pencil scratches against paper, the mindless hand motions, and the absolute pride of creating a living breathing image with your hands is something that I'll never get tired of. Now it's the sounds of drilling, the faint smell of ink in the air, the easy glide of needle into skin and it's even better. It's more real. There's just something about the knowledge that another human will carry a piece you made with them forever. How insanely wicked is that?

Chloe eventually grows numb to the process like I knew she would. When she realizes I'm not really into her story, she goes through her phone instead which is fine with me. She has a freak out moment when she notices that I'm pausing every few minutes to wipe away pinpricks of blood but I assure her that it's normal.

Forty-five minutes later I have a happy client that can't stop jumping around my office and I'm richer than I was when she walked in here. I take a picture of the finished product on my phone for my Instagram page and Chloe has me take a few shots of her posing with the tat for her boyfriend. I hold back a sigh as she tries all kinds of angles because she did just pay me but I draw the line when she tries to do some sort of weird kitty pose on my recliner. Now it's just weird.

I kick her out and send her on her way, closing up in my office and breathing a heavy sigh. My shift may be over but I also design a lot of tattoos for the Make Your Mark catalogue so I'm going to be spending another couple of hours in the break room sketching away. Still, it's pretty good down time.

I take my sketch pad and stencils to the break room and flop down on one of the couches. The urge to take a nap is so real but Titus would kick my ass. I may be his best employee—he fought tooth and nail to get me on his team for two years—but nobody messes with his furniture, especially not my Doc Martins. His words, not mine.

"Knock knock." I recognize Corbin's voice.

"Go away." I singsong in the same tone.

He tsks and I hear his footsteps growing closer. "Pretty sure you're going to want to see this."

"What?" I grumble and sit up.

I immediately release a loud sound of relief when he holds a cup of coffee and takeout bag in front of me. "You fucking angel."

"Yes, my fucking is rather otherworldly." He smirks.

I roll my eyes and retrieve the goods from him. My coffee is just how I take it—black like my soul—and the takeout is from my favourite burger joint around the street.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver." I kiss his cheek when he takes the seat beside me and throws an arm around my neck.

Corbin is incredibly good looking. He has the whole brooding vibe going on with dark hair and dark eyes that go hand in hand with his constantly black attire. Oddly enough, his tats are all colours and are a stark constant against his pale skin. He also has a killer grin and his lip ring drives the ladies crazy.

Too bad he doesn't swing for our team.

I found that out the hard way when I hit on him on my first day working here and he straight up asked me if I had a dick. The answer was an obvious no so he informed me I'd never have a chance. I was highly amused with his bluntness because it resembled my own and so we instantly clicked as friends instead. He's one of the few people in the world I can actually stand. Him and my best friend, Aria.

"What're you working on?" He snags my sketch pad from the table in front of me while I dig into my food, moaning at the burst of flavour on my tongue. Pretty sure this is the first meal I've had all day.

"Nothing yet." I answer him when I've swallowed my bite. "I haven't started yet but I'm going to go through the ask bar I put up on my Instagram yesterday and see what kind of tats people are requesting."

He flips through the pages mindlessly while I munch away, probably eating my burger way too fast but my tummy is too satisfied for me to stop.

"These are incredible, Len." Corbin sets the sketch pad back down. "Damn. Imagine being this talented."

"You are this talented." I bump his shoulder with mine. "You're also the one who taught me a thing or two when I first came in here."

He considers that. "I guess you're right. I'm fucking awesome."

I take out the tomato in my burger and give it to him, which he happily eats. I hate tomatoes. Ketchup, too.

"Who was your last client?" He asks around a mouthful.

"The blonde. Looked like Barbie?"

"Let me guess—butterfly."

"Yup."

"Hipbone?"

"Uh-huh."

"For her boyfriend."

"Ding ding."

He looks thoughtful for a moment, stroking his chin. "I'm going to say...Blake."

"Good guess. It's actually Jake."

"Damn it." He snaps his fingers. "So close."

I snicker into my cup of coffee. I really am convinced Corbin and I were one person in another lifetime.

"What're you doing after this?" He asks conversationally.

"Drinking." I set my cup down and stretch out my limbs. "I have tomorrow off so I can afford to be hungover."

"Lucky. I have the afternoon shift so I can't get shit-faced with you."

"Not that it matters. You know I like drinking alone."

"Which I will never understand." He shakes his head. "Why do you insist on going through that creepy abandoned bar on main? It always looks like the aftermath of a Chucky movie."

My lips twitch. He isn't wrong. "Because there's never anyone there. The drinks are expensive and the entertainment is shit and the place is pretty empty most of the time. I can drink in peace without getting hit on or forced to watch two meatheads throwing fists over their love for the same girl."

"When you put it like that, you make a good point." He relents. "But how do you get laid if there are no conquests?"

"I have all the willing participants I need in my contacts." I hold my phone up. "There's enough in here to keep me entertained."

"But not a single one you'd settle down with."

"God, no."

"Would it really be so bad if you had a boyfriend?"

"Yes." I deadpan.

Corbin sighs. "But just for shits and giggles, say you are looking to settle down. What's the first thing you notice about a man?"

"His audacity."

He chokes on his spit, laughter bubbling out of him. "What?"

"His audacity." I repeat. "Too much of it and he's not even allowed to breathe in my direction."

That gets a round of full blown cackling out of him. He slings his arm around me. "Oh, babe. Have I ever told you how special you are?"

"Come on." I punch his shoulder. "I'm over this conversation. How about keeping me entertained while I sketch?"

So for the next two hours I sketch away while my co-workers take turns keeping me company in the break room during their breaks. Lavender—a super sweet chick with a passion for art—helps me with colour placements in my designs since that's her forte. Titus doesn't do much beside munch away at his food and look over my sketch pad every so often, nodding or grunting his approval. His wife, Gia, is much more useful. She points out areas of shading that'll make the pieces look more three-dimensional.

By the time I'm able to head out for the day, I've got five new perfected pieces for our catalogue. I feel productive as hell so I'm actually in a decent mood when I clock out. I wave goodbye to my co-workers and head out to my favourite deserted bar to get shit-faced. Well, not entirely. I'm driving myself home so I won't have more than one beer, give myself time to sober up, then take a couple drinks home.

I swing my leg over my bike, putting on my motorcycle helmet. When I've got it strapped in place, I grab the handle bars and kick the gas pedals to send me off.

The wind whips at my face as the city around me becomes a blur, nothing more than colourful blobs that I pass by. Chatter around me sounds like broken records, only catching a second of each as I drive past crowds, and I skillfully weave through the cars that are piled up for traffic hours.

At one red light, the car beside me that's full of douchebags all roll their windows down and catcall me. Even with my helmet on, I know my figure gives away that I'm a girl. My skintight black jeans and cropped leather jacket that exposes some of my midriff is clue enough. Regardless, I give them the finger right before I drive off fast enough to leave them eating dust. Why do guys assume women like being catcalled? What the fuck is so appealing about a bunch of strangers singling you out in public and putting you under an unwanted spotlight? Maybe I'm just not enough of a romantic chick or some shit. I don't know nor do I care.

I park in front of my go-to bar and make sure to lock my motorcycle in place. She's my baby and it took my blood, sweat, and tears to be able to buy her four years ago. I've never come from a rich family and at one point in my life, I was bottom barrel poor. I'm talking living on the streets, but I don't want to dwell too much on that. My head is always going back to places I need to move on from. That's exactly why I'm at this bar now.

"Hey, Charlie." I call out to the owner, a handsome dude in his mid-thirties, as he wipes down the counter.

"Hey, Len." He greets back, already reaching for the faucet. "Your usual?"

"You know it."

I take a seat on the barstools and watch him pour my drink, the foam reaching the rim of the glass just before it has the chance to spill over, and sliding it down the counter to where I am. I catch the glass easily and lift it up in acknowledgment, taking a sip. Then I swing the barstool around to survey the usual crowd. There's probably a maximum of ten people in here, maybe more, so it's easy to recognize an unfamiliar face if you're here often like I am. That's why I pause with my drink to my lips when my eyes land on someone who I didn't even know existed until a month ago.

Wolfe Emerson.

Boxer, giant beast of a human, a friend of my best friend's boyfriend, and most importantly, a pain in the ass.

Okay. Maybe that last one is a little far-fetched. But he didn't seem to have any problem getting all up in my space a few weeks ago when I basically lost it on a random dude that groped me. If there's one thing I can't stand for the life of me, it's strangers getting in my space the way he did.

But I think what annoyed me most about Wolfe intervening, grabbing my waist to pull me aside and punching out the dude that made a grab at me, was the fact that I didn't mind his touch as much as I should have. The moment his stupidly large arm wrapped around me and pulled me back against a hard as steel chest, I think I nearly sunk into his touch. He felt safe and that scared the shit out of me because no touch is safe. I know that. Or at least I should. And who the hell did he think he was anyways, coming to my rescue as if I was a damsel in distress? I could have knocked that asshole out myself and I knew it. I've learned enough in self-defence classes to know I had the advantage, even more so because the douche was drunk. I had it in the bag before the fucking hulk literally bulldozed his way between us and gave me an insight to what his touch feels like. I was much better off not knowing. I have no business knowing anything about this man.

But I'm still curious about why I've never seen him here before until today. I'm here all the time. Is it just a coincidence?

"Charlie." I call over my shoulder without taking my eyes off the big guy, watching as he intensely stares down at the glass he twists between his hands, completely oblivious to the world around him.

"What's up?" His voice is now closer behind me.

I point a finger at Wolfe. "He a new one?"

"You mean the big tatted dude?"

"Yeah."

"No." He says surprising me. "He's a local. Comes here only a couple of times a month though. He only ever buys one glass when he's here and usually doesn't even finish it. I think he just likes that it's a quiet place."

"I've never noticed him before."

"He's surprisingly hard to notice for such a large dude. He's usually in the back and never says anything to anyone."

That doesn't surprise me. I don't think I've ever heard him speak. I wonder if it's part of his brooding act or what.

"Why do you ask?" Charlie's question snaps me out of it.

"No reason." I slide away my glass that I've only taken a couple sips out of and hop off the stool. I suddenly don't want to be here anymore because I'm going to end up thinking about the mysterious dude that apparently has a thing for playing hero to girls who don't ask. No thanks. I'd rather get shit-faced at home with no distractions. "I'm heading out."

"Already?" His surprise is evident.

"Yeah. It was a long day." And that's all he's getting out of me.

I slide him a bill for my drink that he waves away. "You didn't even have any. Keep it."

I smile gratefully and pocket the money again. I could use it. I'm trying to move out of the shit-hole I'm currently living in.

I grab my jacket and slip into it, freeing the hair that got tucked in the back and shaking it out. I zip myself up and wave a goodbye to Charlie, heading for the door. Just as I've pushed it open and take a step outside, I have the insane urge to turn around. So I pause and look over my shoulder, my eyes immediately seeking out one person.

And he's looking right at me.

My stomach actually fucking flips. I mean, what the hell? I was kind of counting on him not recognizing me but there's definitely familiarity in his eyes and his stare is so goddamn intense. It feels like he can see right through me and I have to hold back a scowl. There he goes again—getting all nosy when we don't even know each other. Yet somehow I can't bring myself to look away. I meet his stare dead-on and something flickers in his dark pupils, something like curiosity or intrigue or...fuck, I don't know. Either way it's getting a reaction out of me and I don't like that. I don't like not being in control of myself.

So I raise a brow, give him my best resting bitch face, and leave the bar without another glance. Just the way it should be.

__________________________

A/N

I have such a good feeling about this story! All that happened in this book was a measly state yet I FELT IT! Who else?

And how are you liking Lenny? Personally, I think she may be my favourite female lead yet. She's super entertaining and I'm excited for more.

Please VOTE, comment and share if you liked this chapter!

Happy Reading :)