Page 13 of Red My Lips

She’s so still—she always is when she sleeps. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s completely dead to the world. I could start singing and jumping on the bed, and her eyelids wouldn’t even flutter. Sleep is the only time she’s still and silent. Peaceful—like the calm before the storm.

Because with Jill, there’s always a storm brewing.

Walking backward four steps, I lower onto the chair at her vanity. My eyes trace the glorious curves of her—the way her back dips, how her plump, gorgeous ass leads to round hips, thick thighs, and shapely long legs.

I have plans for that ass, those hips, and those legs. I have plans for every sinful inch of her.

She sleeps sprawled in the center of her king-sized bed until there’s no room for anyone else—we’ll have to fix that. Soon, I’ll be in that bed with her, and she’ll be the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning. I’ll sleep feeling every beat of her heart.

I sit and watch her breathe, shift, and sigh for hours. Just like I have most nights since I first saw her. And just like all those nights, she’ll sleep soundly until one of her many blaring alarms wakes her up to an empty room with no idea I was ever here.

I can picture how her hair will look when she sits up in bed, the grogginess in her voice while she mutters to herself about how she’s ‘never drinking again’ as she searches the apartment for wherever she left her phone. But I know better.

Because I know Jill.

I know her past, I own her present, and I am her future.

Chapter Five

Gage

“Oh, so you are alive.” The female voice carries over the buzzing of tattoo guns as I walk through the door. Fuchsia flashes out of the corner of my eye as I turn to see Stevie standing by the reception desk, her hand on her full hip.

“You’ve moved on to pink, huh?” I ask, taking in her bright pink hair. Stevie reaches up a tattooed arm to touch the ends of her freshly dyed shoulder-length hair.

“The white was a moment, but I was ready for a change. You know how much I love to play with color.” She’s wearing all black to match the uniform of my shop, but her body is covered in brightly colored tattoos. As young as she might look, Stevie is a master at saturation and color blending. That’s why I hired her, and it’s because of her tattoo abilities that I keep her around, despite her insistence on splashing her eccentric style in my otherwise all-black shop.

“It suits you,” I comment.

“Connie’s been calling,” Stevie adds, making me pause. “She said to tell you ‘if you don’t get your ass over to the clubhouse to spend time with your family, she’s gonna come bang down your front door.’” I look up at the ceiling and huff out a deep breath. My mom has always had a flair for the dramatics, but it seems to be getting worse as she gets older.

“This is exactly why I didn’t join the Chained Saints. If she calls again, tell her I have businesses to run. I can’t be hanging around an MC clubhouse all the time,” I say, walking past the front desk towards my office. My eyes catch on a pink vase full of bright yellow flowers. “And get that shit off my reception desk.”

“Oh, come on, boss,” she protests behind me. “They look nice.”

“No yellow,” I call over my shoulder before walking back through the shop towards my office.

The interior of my studio is designed to be simple and classic, with black-on-black walls, fixtures, and furniture. The only colors on the walls are featured in the framed tattoo design options and client photos. Each artist is allowed to personalize their workstation, but the theme remains throughout the space.

This building used to be a Catholic church, and I paid a pretty penny to restore the tall, arched, stained glass windows and hardwood floors that are original to the building. I’m not a religious man, but people come from all over the world to worship me as their tattoo god.

I have five tattoo artists working for me, each with their own chair in the main bullpen that we call The Chapel. Three additional chairs sit along the back wall in separate booths—The Confessionals—with heavy black curtains for clients wanting more privacy.

I pass three empty chairs—one of them being Stevie’s colorful workstation. It’s still pretty early, and I usually only require one tattoo artist per shift to be in the shop available for walk-ins. The rest come in to handle their appointments. Today will be fully booked.

Once in my office, a decent-sized room featuring the biggest and most ornate stained glass window in the building, I walk past my tattoo station to my desk. With a few clicks, the surveillance feed appears on my computer screen with a grid view of several cameras. Placing my palms on the desk, my eyes scan each feed until my focus lands heavily on what I’m looking for.

Her.

Just the sight of her—even black and white and pixelated—hits my bloodstream like a drug.

The door to my office swings open without warning, and two massive figures enter unannounced.

“I told you he’d be creeping on her when we got here. Pay up,” Messer says. He holds his hand out to Anders, who smacks it away as he trails in behind him.

“I was the one who said that, dumbass. I’m not giving you shit.” Anders turns his attention to me and pulls his shirt over his head. “Take a break from being a peeping tom to get this tattoo finished.” Lowering his bulky frame onto my tattoo chair, he makes himself comfortable, looking at me expectantly. Taking one last glance at Jill on the screen, I push off the desk to walk over to my tattoo station.

Anders’ deep brown skin has healed fully from our last session, and he’s ready for the final ink to finish off the angel wings across his chest.

---