Page 5 of Flash

“That’s it,” I hiss between my teeth. “It’s time to meet my new neighbors.”

“Why don’t you go get some coffee instead? We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, right?” Again, so fucking reasonable.

“Nope. Sorry, Row, but this is happening.”

I shove the door open forcefully and step out into the bright morning. I wince at the glare of the sun, but it only takes a second for me to stomp the few feet from my door to the next. Ink Slingers is plastered across the door in stylized letters, and there’s an LGBTQ flag hanging in the window, which I would be thrilled to see if I weren’t about to storm in there and rip whoever is inside a new asshole.

The door swings open easily, and the music that has been pounding through the shared wall all morning hits me like a tidal wave. It’s an upbeat pop song about dancing the night away, I’m pretty sure it’s from the Barbie movie, which makes it all the more surprising when my attention zeroes in on the person who’s been listening to it for hours.

There’s an elevated area that spans the back wall and down one side of the shop, which is where all of the tattoo chairs and supplies are set up. Hanging from a hook on the back wall is a leather jacket, a skull with rainbow horns emblazoned across the back of it. Something about the design tickles at the back of my mind, but I’m way too hungover and annoyed to think about it any harder than that.

There’s only one man in the shop, a guy who’s around my height and weight, except unlike me, both of his arms are covered in tattoos from shoulder to knuckles. He’s dressed in a neon pink tank top straight out of the eighties and a pair of teal pants, with a studded belt and heavy black boots that are completely out of step with the rest of his outfit. He’s too busy dancing to even hear me come in. He shakes his ass and claps in time with the punchy beats of the song, throwing in some high-pitched harmony during the chorus.

“Excuse me,” I shout over the music to get his attention. Rowan isn’t totally wrong; I don’t want to piss off my new neighbors before my shop has even opened. I can be polite. My brain throbs in time with the beat of the song and I grit my teeth. “Excuse me!” I try a little louder when he doesn’t respond.

But Neon Disco Barbie still doesn’t hear a thing other than his own damn singing. I spot a phone docked on the counter and let out a sigh of relief. It must be synced to the speakers all around the shop. I beeline for it, praying that simply taking it off of the docking station will make the ungodly music stop already. Blessedly, the second I lift it off, silence falls.

Well… near silence. It takes a few seconds for the tattooed twink to realize the music has stopped, and he warbles the last few lines of the chorus again before stuttering to a stop.

“Hey, what the hell?” He spins around to finally face me, looking outraged as if he’s the one who’s been tortured all morning.

“Does this thing have like one other song on it?” I ask. “Or a volume control?” I drop his phone and rub my temples again.

“Excuse you, but that song slaps.” He squares his shoulders and sizes me up. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“I’m the holy angel of shut the fuck up, here to deliver a very important message,” I say blandly. “Shut the fuck up.”

He scoffs and braces his hands on the railing that surrounds the raised platform, vaulting himself over and landing with a soft thud on both feet like he’s done the maneuver a thousand times.

“Sweetie, cutie, babycakes,” he says with a patronizing smirk as he approaches me. “Maybe you don’t know how things work around here, but you’re not going to come into this shop and tell anybody what to do. Are we clear?” He stops right in front of me, puts one hand under my chin, and leans in to peck a kiss to the tip of my nose.

Oh no he fucking didn’t. I bare my teeth and let out a growl, giving him a hard shove in the chest to reclaim my space.

Something about the smell of this dickhead, a mixture of motor oil and lavender scented antiseptic, gives me a sudden flashback to that wild afternoon a month ago with Arrow in the back seat of my car. A twinge of embarrassment and guilt squeezes inside my chest. I can’t believe how fucking needy I was, begging him to make me feel special. I cringe internally at the memory, then shake it off. I have more important things to focus on right now than the gorgeous biker I never bothered to call.

“Are you always this much of a cocky prick or is this just how you greet your new neighbors?” I seethe.

He chuckles and smooths his hands over his shirt like he’s dusting himself off.

“Bit of both, honey. But wait, new neighbor? You must own Little Shop of Horrors?”

“Little Shop of Flowers.” I correct him with a huff. If I wasn’t so annoyed with this asshole, I might smile about the fact that he clearly got the reference I was going for with the name.

He hums, plucking his phone out of my hand. Holding my gaze the entire time, he leans past me and puts it right back on the dock, and in an instant, the music is back. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. Now—” He waves both hands dismissively. “—off you fuck.”

Another yowl tears from my throat and I flip him the double bird. If this is how he wants it, fine. I can be a shitty neighbor too. It’s fucking on.

ARROW

There’s nothing quite like roaring down the street on my Harley, two of my best friends flanking me on either side. My brother loves to tease me about the motorcycle club, ragging on everything from our name—The Skins—to our matching jackets. He can tease all he wants; I know he’ll never truly get it. These guys, this club, saved my fucking life. Henry is my blood, but my club is my family. They’ve picked me up and dusted me off at my worst, bailed me out when I was too young and too damn impulsive to channel my anger into anything productive, and somehow, they managed to turn me into a responsible, upstanding guy. Fucking miracle if you ask me. I’d be dead in a ditch or rotting in prison if it weren’t for them, and that’s a debt of gratitude that won’t ever be paid.

I take the turn down the street towards Ink Slingers, Hero and Piston right behind me. Not like I need a two-man escort to our own shop to pick up the digital sketch pad I left on the counter last night, but I’m always happy to have the company. Without at least one of these loveable assholes up in my shit, I’m left alone with my thoughts, and we definitely can’t have that. I’m bound to start brooding again about the pretty twink who never called.

I’m not sure why I’m even still thinking about him. There are plenty of men who are eager to climb onto the back of my Harley or crawl into my bed. But trying to figure out why my brain latches on to the shit it does is a pointless task, so I’ve stopped wasting my energy questioning it.

My little pal Gregory yaps excitedly from his spot strapped to my chest, the wind whipping through his fluffy white fur. He loves riding nearly as much as I do. The second he sees his custom-made goggles and helmet come out, he always spins in excited circles until he makes himself dizzy. He’s a cute little idiot. He wiggles once I slow to a stop in the alley behind the shop.

“Keep your fur on, little dude.” I laugh, unstrapping him from my chest and setting him down on the ground. He darts up and down the alley, then circles my feet as I dismount.

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