Page 1 of The Opposite Effect

PROLOGUE

Feet scuffling on a tiled floor steal my focus from my half-eaten cheesesteak sandwich. Even with me requesting they hold the relish, my hands are covered in the ghastly orange liquid that makes me gag just thinking about eating it.

When I lift my gaze from my partially dissected dinner, I spot Diesel standing in the lunchroom’s doorway. His shoulder is propped against the doorjamb, his extensively tattooed arms are crossed in front of his broad chest, and a look of terror is stretched across his face.

After pushing back from the lunch table hidden out back, I dump my unsalvageable sandwich into the trash, then head to the sink to get cleaned up. Diesel is a cutthroat take-no-shit-from-anyone type of guy, so I’m surprised his cocky personality is a little off.

“What’s up, man?” While washing my sticky hands in the kitchen sink, I mutter a string of profanities under my breath.

How the fuck can you mess up a cheesesteak sandwich?

Diesel waits for me to snag a dishcloth off the dryingrack before announcing, “Got a client out front requesting to speak to the manager.” My lips quirk when he air quotes ‘manager.’ Although I’ve held the title for the past two years, it’s rarely used by my crew.

Once I hang the damp towel onto a hook above the microwave, I gesture for Diesel to lead the way. Buzzing tattoo guns and the groans of idiot kids who walk through our doors the day they turn eighteen sounds through my ears when we stride through Inked Tattoo Shop.

When I spot Charity tattooing a Pokémon figure onto a kid who looks barely old enough to drive, let alone permanently mark his skin with the latest fad, I rake my fingers through my shoulder-length hair.

It will take a tattoo four times its size to cover up Pikachu or whatever the fuck Pokémon character that is. By the look on his face and the tears staining his cheeks, I’m confident having it covered won’t be a walk in the park for neither him nor the tattoo artist assigned to the job.

When we reach the foyer out front, I scan the area, seeking the bozo who interrupted the ‘manager’ during his measly half-an-hour lunch break.

Upon failing to locate the irate face I regularly see when a client realizes their home-botched tattoo will cost over a grand to fix, I shift my eyes to Diesel. “Where is he?”

Diesel smiles a grin I only see when he’s wrapping his arm around a bar bunny at the end of a Saturday night shift. “It isn’t a he. It’s ashe.”

Still grinning, he points to the far corner of the room. When I tilt my head, only just clearing Johnny’s wide shoulders, I catch the quickest flurry of an enticing body. My heart rate kicks up a gear—as does the pulse in my cock—when I drink in the slenderblonde sparring with Johnny like backyard brawls are a regular event on her schedule.

Her platinum locks roll past her shoulders like a satin waterfall, and her expensive threads showcase every curve of her fit body. Her face is fresh with only a slight sprinkling of makeup, and every strand on her faultless head has been meticulously placed.

Although I can’t hear a word she’s speaking, I know she’s giving Johnny as good as she’s getting. If the crossed arms under her ample breasts and stiffened stance aren’t enough indication, her resting bitch face is a sure-fire sign.

This woman is two seconds from exploding.

Since I don’t want a bomb detonated in my shop on a busy Saturday night, I pat Diesel on the back before heading for the attractive blonde. A rich floral scent with a hint of spice filters into my nose when I stand next to Johnny. I’m fairly sure the flowery scent is coming from the blonde, but I can’t one hundred percent testify to that. Johnny is generous with the discount he offers female clientele. If the loss comes from his takings, I have no concerns about him accepting payments for services rendered in the form of extra-curricular activities.

“I’m pretty sure you’re sitting at around two seconds,” I interrupt when I overhear the blonde telling Johnny she’s five seconds away from having his “moronic ass fired.”

“Great.” Her eyes snap to mine. They’re as dazzling as the diamond bracelet circling her delicate wrist. “Another beast added to the mix. What is this, a poorly scripted rendition ofBeauty and the Beast?”

Three females standing behind her break into an ear-piercing drunken cackle, but surprisingly, the blonde maintains eye contact. I’ll give it to her. I’m impressed at her ability to keep her eyes on my face. Most women absorb my face before dropping to samplethe rest of the package. It doesn’t matter if they’re screaming nothing but wealth like the princess standing before me, or they don’t have a nickel to their name, the routine never alters. So yeah, I’ll admit it, she gets credit where credit is due.

After propping my elbows onto the counter, I lean over it, which brings my six-foot-two height down to her at-a-guess five-foot-seven stature. “What can I do you for, Princess? Unlike you, some of us have to work for a living.”

She rolls her eyes before saying in a snooty twang, “Not according to…” She gestures her hand to Johnny, sending a multi-hued shimmer of light across the cabinet from her diamond bracelet. “Him?—”

“Johnny,” I interrupt.

She rolls her eyes again. “Whatever you call him. No one cares. I came here to get a tattoo.” She points to the tube light hanging from the shop’s awning. “This is a tattoo parlor. But…” she snaps her eyes back to Johnny, “…heis refusing to serve me. I don’t know about you, but in any other industry, that would call for instant dismissal.”

I smirk, not shocked by her attitude but most definitely stunned by my positive response to it. Normally, I would toss out a berating client before giving them the chance to explain. Instead, I slot into the ‘manager’ role I’ll never completely fill. “Lucky for Johnny, we aren’t just anyotherindustry.” My voice has an edge of annoyance to it even with me being most entertained by the change-up in clientele. “If Johnny is refusing to tattoo you, it will be for a reason. So, what is it?”

With a huff, she digs her hand into the front pocket of her designer jeans that look like they cost more than my entire wardrobe. “Other than Johnny being a moron, I have no clue why he’s refusing my request.”

“It’s beca?—”

I slice my hand through the air, cutting Johnny off. His wife packed her bags and headed to Reno nine months ago, leaving him the sole guardian of their two children. He wouldn’t refuse the chance to make a quick dollar without a legitimate reason. Just the blonde’s overpriced shoes, designer handbag, and perfectly swept hair leave no doubt he could have charged her triple the regular hourly rate, and she’d have been none the wiser.

He’d never turn down an opportunity like this without a solid reason.

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