Page 11 of Flash

“I’ve decided that Pedro Pascal is my soulmate,” I say wistfully.

He snorts and opens his mouth, no doubt to rib me mercilessly as is his right as my best friend, but before he can get a word out, the phone rings again.

“Thank you for calling Little—”

“Oh my god, please tell me you still have the Tay tickets. Please, please, please, I’ll do anything,” the breathless voice of someone who sounds like a gay man in their twenties begs through my phone.

“Okay, what the fuck is happening right now?”

Rowan’s eyebrows shoot up at my use of the f-bomb on the phone with a customer and I flap my hand wildly in his direction, mouthing that I’ll explain later.

“Does that mean you don’t have the tickets?” the poor guy sounds crestfallen.

“No. Can I ask where you heard that I did?” I ask in my best syrupy sweet customer service voice.

“Some guy called in to K97 this morning and said you were running a promotion and giving away tickets.”

My mind spins for a second over how the hell a mix-up like this could have happened, and then it clicks. I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw so quickly my teeth audibly click. That petty bitch.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not correct. Have a good day,” I grit out, then slam the phone down before he can hang up on me like the last one did.

“I feel like I missed something,” Rowan says with a half chuckle.

“That mother f—” The phone rings again and I let out a screech through my clenched teeth, huff out a breath, and pick it up. “If you’re calling about Taylor Swift tickets, I don’t have them.”

“Shit,” the person on the other end whines.

I slam the phone down again but the second it hits the charging base it rings again.

“Do me a favor and look up what time Ink Slingers opens,” I growl before answering the phone again and delivering disappointment to yet another Swiftie.

It’s going to be a long fucking morning.

*****

I swear to fuck, I’m going to be hearing the phone ringing in my sleep tonight. My eardrums are permanently altered, and I’ll be hearing it the rest of my fucking life, even if I give in to the urge to ram something sharp into my ears. I slam the phone down for the millionth time and check the clock.

Ink Slingers is finally open, and that asshole is about to get a piece of my mind.

“I’ll be back in five,” I shout to Row before storming outside.

I’m seething. I’m shaking. Never in all my life has anyone been this immature, this rage inducing. My eye is twitching as I practically kick open the door to the tattoo shop and storm inside.

Unlike the last time, the psycho gremlin isn’t alone. The shop is bustling with other tattoo artists and customers. I shouldn’t be surprised that the Barbie soundtrack is still playing, albeit at a more reasonable level this time. I don’t even hate this song—the enraging twink was right, it does slap—but he’s ruined it for me. Dua Lipa’s catchy dance beat just makes me want to punch something now.

“Hey, asshole,” I shout. The chatter in the shop suddenly dies down, all of the artists and customers suddenly turning to look at me.

I would love to feel embarrassed about throwing a fit in front of paying customers, but all shame has left the building, replaced by a level of pissed off that can probably be seen from space. The twink spins around in his chair, tattoo needle held high as he tilts his head and grins at me.

“Oh, hey, neighbor,” he says sweetly.

“Is there some kind of medication you should be on? Because I’d hate to go off about your fucking unhinged behavior if it’s the result of a disorder and not just the charming way you were born and raised.”

A titter of laughter ripples through the shop, but my nemesis doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m sorry, should I know what you’re referring to?” He feigns innocence and I drag in a few steadying breaths, trying to convince myself that he’s not worth an assault charge.

“My phone has been ringing off the hook all morning with rabid Swifties who think I have tickets to her sold-out concert,” I say through gritted teeth, trying like hell to turn myself into the bigger person in this situation. “I’m trying to run a business, you realize that, right?”

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