Page 7 of The Influencer

“This’ll look good on you. Barbell or hoop? I’d recommend a small hoop, but what’d you have in mind?”

“I trust you. Whatever you think would look best.”

Our eyes meet for a second, and he nods. He walks away and brings back a flat box with a wide variety of nose rings. He points at a particular row of gold ones. “One of these maybe?”

One immediately catches my eye. It’s the shiniest and the most ornate. It’s delicate, though. Subtle. Nothing like me, but I should probably start small. See how all this piercing stuff plays online—and—let’s be real—at the clubs. I point at my favorite. “Will it hurt?”

Asher shrugs his broad shoulders. “Depends on your personality, I guess.”

“You don’t have any piercings?”

“I do,” he says.

I look him over, but only see a few earrings. That’s hardly a comparison.

He gives me half a grin and puts on a pair of gloves. “It’s quick, and I’ve heard it’s not so bad.”

“I think I’ll just close my eyes and let you talk me through it.”

“You got it.”

So, it doesn’t not hurt, but nipple clips are way, way worse, and I love nipple clamps. The worst part honestly is when he uses some cold metal tool to shove my nostrils up, and I have to imagine what I must look like in that moment. Especially when Gideon says, “You should be so grateful I’m not taking a video of this.”

I am. I am so, so grateful. It’s like the one time in my life I don’t need a camera rolling to remind myself I’m alive. Asher hands me a mirror when he’s done, and he and Gideon watch me while I study myself at every angle humanly possible. I look at Gideon repeatedly, waiting for him to say anything.

“What?” he finally bursts. “It looks great. Is that what you need to hear?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah.”

“It’s perfect,” Asher says. “Good choice.”

I give him a smile, and I can’t help if it’s one of my flirtier ones. “Thank you.”

And so that’s how I met Asher.

Whatever.

3

asher

Adam finally gets around to telling me about his wedding date in a text a few days after Gideon let it slip. I don’t respond because I’m too fucking annoyed with him.

Or maybe I’m just annoyed. Either way, I don’t want to talk about a damn wedding, which is why going over to Gideon and Jax’s to coordinate some bachelor trip five whole months before the wedding is such torture, but I have to remember who I’m dealing with. It’s not like I don’t have to basically close my shop every time he comes in to get his tattoo worked on. Gideon York is a walking inconvenience, but at least he knows it. I can’t help but like him.

Jax, hulking and shirtless, lets me into the mansion. He’s covered in ink all over like I am, but his is like—early 2010s ink. No fine lines for miles. It’s all skulls and birds of prey. Scary, masculine shit that was in back then. If you told me he was in a motorcycle club, I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. He used to be a cop, actually. “Ash, hey, come on in. Gideon’s over at the guest house. The ballerina’s sick.”

“The who?”

“Jade. I call him the ballerina, but he likes it, I swear.”

I chuckle.

“He’ll be right back. Want anything to drink?”

“I’ll take some water. It’s hot today.”

I follow Jax into the kitchen and take a seat at the island while he pours me a glass of filtered ice water and serves it like a bartender. “How’s life?” he asks.

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