Page 184 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

This is your dream job. You can do this. He’s probably a soft teddy bear beneath all that angry energy, black fabric, and heavy boots.

Lincoln steps through a doorway and disappears from my sight and I collapse against the back of the green velvet-covered couch, blowing out a harsh breath. I don’t understand how his mood seemed to follow him through the place like a wave cresting and crashing on the shore. There was a violence about him that was impossible to miss and I frown at my lap as I consider the possibility of working alongside someone with so much negative energy.

“Don’t worry, doll. He’s mostly all bark,” the older guy calls across to me with a chuckle.

I try to smile and laugh at his obvious attempt at a joke, but I doubt I pull it off.

Two

Lincoln

“I’m asking you to stop, Linc. Please,” Mom begs as I rest my foot against the wall outside my studio.

“I can’t. It’s been part of me for so long. I don’t know who I am without it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pint-sized woman peering in through my studio windows. She may be short, but she has curves in all the right places—damn. And that long, thick hair. I’m a sucker for beautiful hair. An image of wrapping my fist through the strands and pushing her to her knees assaults me out of nowhere.

“It’s been thirty-one years tomorrow. I miss her too. Don’t you think pieces of my heart aren’t missing? She was my baby girl.” Her sigh rings out across the line and the pocket-sized woman steps inside my studio. “Every time you fight, you dredge up all the pain again … I worry I’ll lose you too. I can’t keep doing this, Linc. Can’t you see that you’re causing more harm than good?”

Like I need to be reminded what tomorrow is. It’s not like I’ll ever forget. I exhale a long breath. I hear what she’s saying, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to. It’s my way of coping. “I gotta go, Mom.”

“Okay, Linc. Remember, I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.” I disconnect the call and push off the wall, running my hand through my hair to push it out of my face. I need a fucking haircut, but the chick I normally see has moved south to be with her boyfriend, and I’m fussy about who cuts it.

Dragging open the heavy wood and glass door to the studio, I storm through and let it bang behind me. I can’t believe she wants me to give up my fights. I’m only gonna stop when my body can’t do it anymore, but maybe I shouldn’t tell her about them. Let her think I’ve given it up. I doubt I’ll be fighting too much longer, anyway.

“Hey, Linc. Can you help our visitor?” Ken calls from his station, pointing toward our waiting area. I peer over my shoulder at the pint-sized chick I saw enter—now that I look at her properly, she seems young, really young. She’s sitting straight as a board, clutching a folder tightly on her lap. I keep walking and step into the office to give myself a moment to collect myself. I’m sure the college chick can wait a few minutes before I have to discuss yet another butterfly tattoo. What is it with girls and butterfly tattoos? Why can’t they be a little more creative?

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I drag it out to read the screen. “Shit.” I completely forgot about the interview with Sophie.

The back door to the studio opens and Jenna steps inside. “Hey, Linc.”

“Hey. How are you feeling?” I narrow my eyes and study her closely.

“Tired. And look at my feet.” She shoves her foot at me, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at. She shakes it around, lifts her other foot, and repeats the process. “I don’t have ankles anymore,” she complains.

Oh, yeah. I guess she doesn’t. “Damn.” I laugh and she whacks me playfully across the chest.

Her eyes go all dreamy as she rubs her very round stomach. “If I didn’t love this bean so much, I’d be pissed at how much my body has changed.”

“Pretty sure it’s bigger than a bean now,” I raise my eyebrows and pointedly look at the size of her belly. I’m not sure how she’s standing upright. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be home resting.”

She waves off my comment. “I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.”

“I think that’s the point, Jen.” She shrugs. “You wanna do a consult while you’re here? I’m waiting on the woman I’m supposed to interview for your position, and there’s a college chick out front.”

Her lips tip up and her eyes sparkle. “Sure.” She waddles to the front of the studio and I pull out a sheet of paper to design a mechanical sleeve tattoo for a new client. I glance at the time. Sophie’s late. That’s strike one. I dislike tardiness.

I press the tip of my pencil to the paper, ready to make the first stroke. “The chick out front says she’s here for the interview,” Jenna says as she leans against the door. “Says her name’s Sophie.”

I spin in my chair to look at her. “Can’t be. She told me she’s twenty-six. That chick can’t be over twenty.”

“Why would she say she’s here for an interview if she isn’t?” Her lips tip up in that mischievous way of hers. “She’s gorgeous.”

Damn. At least she wasn’t late, but I doubt she’ll fit in here. I didn’t notice any ink—a tattoo artist should have ink. It’s bad for business if they don’t. I blow out a harsh breath and rise to my feet. “You wanna sit in on the interview?”

“Nah. I’m gonna window shop for a bit, then go home and take a nap before Dean gets home.”

“All right. Let me know if there’s anything you need.” She leaves out the back door and I step out of the office to meet with Sophie. This should be interesting. My first instinct is to tell her to fuck off for wasting my time. The only problem is that I’m short-staffed, and the samples of her artwork were spectacular. When I step through the door to the front of the studio, she has her head down, looking at something on her phone, the folder she was clutching when I walked in, balanced precariously on her lap. “Sophie?”

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