Page 78 of Love Me Tomorrow

I haven’t even started shading the first half of the moon when she asks, “Sooo, are you single? I mean, I saw that you and Savannah Rose might be . . .together.” I cut my gaze north, to her face, just in time to see her frown. “But, really,” she continues, a touch petulantly, “she doesn’t deserve you, Owen. I mean, she sent you home.”

She sent you home.

Wonderful. I’ve got my hands on aPut A Ring On Itfanatic.

Wait. Are therestof the folks waiting for ink alsoPut A Ring On Itfanatics?

Leaning back on my stool, I make a show of fiddling with the coordinating colors that match G3, all while eyeing the group of women gathered at the front of the parlor. Unlike Lizzie, I’m not someone who keeps up to date on social media. If it weren’t for maintaining Inked on Bourbon’s Instagram and Facebook pages, I wouldn’t have an online presence at all. I like it that way. Keeps a certain divide that lets me live my life the way I want to, without running the risk of someone jumping in with an opinion I sure as hell didn’t ask for.

Except that clearlysomethinghappened this morning.

Casting a quick glance at the chick on the table, I casually ask, “Y’all all friends?”

The girl’s head tilts toward the other women. “With them?” She scoffs. “No way.”

“Just felt like comin’ to get a tat on the fly, then?”

I’m shit at small talk, but it must get the job done because she flashes me a predatory smile that’s more than a little terrifying. Pretty sure my nuts just shriveled up and called mercy. “Oh, no,” she says, still grinning like a piranha on the hunt, “pretty sure we’re all here because we saw that article fromCelebrity Tea Presentsthis morning.”

Celebrity TeaWho?

I wheel back over to her, tattoo machine returning to her hip to finish off the job. “And he talked about Inked?”

“He talked aboutyou.” Her fingers brazenly touch my wrist, stroking my pulse. “Don’t worry, I don’t really care that you’ve been to jail.” Giggle, giggle, giggle. “It’s actually kinda . . . hot.”

Everything in me goes still.

Over the years, I’ve done what I can to bury my past. I’ve volunteered on the board for the Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City. I’ve taken on countless apprentices like Kyle and Sammy, because in an industry like mine, opportunities to climb the ladder are slim to none. I’ve given my time and money to supporting charities and nonprofits all around New Orleans.

I’ve done anything and everything to erase a period in my life when drugs and alcohol quieted the roar in my head and the pain in my heart. I hate that Owen. I hate his recklessness and his selfishness and his desperation to play up this tough-guy-asshole persona that hasneverbeen me.

I may be broody. I may be shy—though I hate this word. I may take a while to open up to new people. But I’m not an asshole, and I’m definitely not a user.

You were, though. You were the worst one of them all.

Swallowing past the hard lump in my throat, I return my attention to the crescent moon. The colors swirl before me, like a kaleidoscope shoved under a magnifying glass.Focus, man. Just finish this off and get her the hell out of here. You. Can. Do. This.

The girl’s fingers dance up to my left elbow. “Is this the arm you shattered?” she asks, a sly gleam in her stare. “That’s what the article said, that you were in a prison fight. But I think you look good, Owen. Sexy. I like the beard. Did I mention that I’m single?”

Everything is too much. The endless chatter. The rough vocals of Five Finger Death Punch, a band that I usually love. The chick’s relentless flirtations. The damn colors that won’t stop swirling.

Focus, focus, focus.

I breathe in. Let it out.

Manage only three more seconds of shading before screaming erupts from up front. It’s only down to years of experience and perpetually steady hands that keeps me from fucking up this moon beyond all recognition.

“Uh, Owen,” Gage drawls from the workstation to my left. “We’ve got company.”

Chest squeezing tight with dread, I snap my gaze to the waiting area. I see Pablo, the homicidal cat, before I spot her. He’s prancing along the receptionist’s desk, sending papers flying left and right, and Savannah—

“Oh, my God!” someone shouts. “Savannah Rose, will you sign this for me?”

“You are so, so pretty,” exclaims someone else. “Here, let’s take a selfie for Instagram!”

“Are you hooking up with Owen Harvey? Is that why you’re here?”

Mass. Chaos.

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