Page 10 of Strelitzias in Spring

Breathing in deeply, I press the call button and bring my phone to my ear before I back out.

He answers on the second ring. “Hello?” his gruff voice sounds over the line, causing goosebumps to erupt over my skin. I can hear the soft rock music in the background, the bass notes dripping with sensuality and carnage.

I clear my throat. “Uhm, hi. This is Serena, my last name is Castillo. My name.” I laugh awkwardly. “Right, this is Serena Castillo. I called because I need some help and I was hoping that maybe we could meet at the shop? I’m sorry, I got your number from Celeste. Is that an issue? I’m not sure—”

His deep laugh cuts me off, the sound jarring and beautiful. I suddenly crave hearing it in person. “Calm down, Serena. Yeah, I remember you. What do you need, princess?”

5

Wolf

I was at the bar when Serena called, well on my way to getting fucked up to forget the shitshow of a night at the shop. Like zombies onThe Walking Dead,idiots kept coming in, asking for artwork that was either a blatant rip-off of someone else’s work or the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen.

When a young kid came in asking for a gang sign tattooed on his neck, I nearly lost my shit. I don’t care what other shops do in the name of “business,” but I don’t fuck with drugs, gangs, or shady deals in the back alley.

Never have, never will. So, when the punk came in asking for a goddamn beetle on his neck to show that he was part of the Bógar crew, the newest gang to form in Forest Valley, I kicked his scrawny ass out of my shop and warned him that if he or his brothers ever came back, I’d beat their asses.

Threats typically work when you’re a six-foot-six Scotsman with a temper and red hair. My MMA background probably helps, too.

My phone went off just as I received my third IPA, the unknown number on my screen not phasing me in the least. I was used to promoters, sponsors, and tattoo referrals calling me on my cell and didn’t hesitate to pick up. What a fucking mistake that was. As soon as I hit accept and brought the phone to my ear, my cock got hard from the breathing on the other end of the line. The delicate clearing of a throat had me thinking about shoving my cock down someone’s fucking throat.

It could be a seven-foot hockey defenseman named Igor on the other end of this line, but fuck if my dick got that memo. My body started to relax as soon as I heard the soft, melodic voice burst through my speaker.

“Uhm, hi. This is Serena, my last name is Castillo. My name—” She paused and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Right, this is Serena Castillo. I called because I need some help and I was hoping that maybe we could meet at the shop? I’m sorry, I got your number out of Celeste’s phone. Is that an issue? I’m not sure—”

“Calm down, Serena. Yeah, I remember you. What do you need, princess?” The endearment slips out of my mouth, and I cringe, pretty fucking sure that I sound like a creep.

“Oh. You remember me? Great. I was hoping to book an appointment to see you. For a tattoo. An appointment for a tattoo. A consultation. Yes.” She pauses and releases a long breath. “I want to schedule a tattoo appointment.”

“That was a lot of words for a simple sentence. I’m free on Friday. The shop is closed right now but call tomorrow when we open; Aubrey will schedule you an appointment.” I hang up on her before she has a chance to respond and drain my beer.

At twenty-five, I’ve fucked more women than I can remember and have a trail of bad relationships. It’s not a brag—it’s a recognition of my lifestyle and the choices I’ve made. I’ve slowed down the last few months; I’m too tired to beat the shit out of people in the ring, tattoo art for my clients, and then fuck for longer than twenty minutes.

Sitting here, with my empty beer glass and half-hard cock, I reason that the stress of two careers and a depressing social life is the reason why the awkward ramblings of an eighteen-year-old did more for my cock than my ex-girlfriend, Kelly, ever did. Running a hand over my face, I scowl at the excitement and anticipation pounding in my veins over seeing her again.

Fucking hell.

—

“Do you think she’s trying to be inconspicuous?” Aubrey whispers beside me as we watch Serena from the windows of the storefront. At four in the afternoon on a Friday, the shop is packed, the buzzing of tattoo guns and the steady beat of rock music the anthem of the afternoon. I don’t know why I told her that I was free today or why I instructed Aubrey to book her an appointment in between my clients.

But I fucking did.

“I don’t know what she’s doing.” And it’s true, I have no clue what she’s doing or why she’s dressed like a celebrity undercover. In an oversized beige trench coat, baseball cap, large sunglasses, and holding an umbrella, she looks insane.

It’s thirty degrees and sunny; she should be wearing a winter coat, and there’s no need for an umbrella.

“Should I go get her?”

I shake my head, too curious to see what she’s going to do once she crosses the parking lot and enters the shop. Tugging her jacket lapels, she walks quickly across the lot, head downcast and not looking at her surroundings. I shake my head again, confusion taking over every other thought.

I mean, really, what the fuck is she doing?

I don’t realize how tense her shoulders are until she walks through the shop’s door and lets out an audible sigh, releasing the tension that kept her shoulders by her ears. The moment she catches Aubrey and me looking at her, she squeaks, sounding like a scared little mouse, before recovering her composure.

“Oh, uh, hi.”

I just stare at her, taking in her features swallowed by the ball cap and oversized trench. She looks like an extra in a bank heist movie.

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