Page 37 of Strelitzias in Spring

“You told me to come, basically demanded it, so I came. My God, you give me whiplash with your questions,” she retorts, sounding as exasperated as I feel.

“No, you don’t get to have an attitude with me, princess. I’m not the one who fucked up your back or convinced you that a back full of flying cocks would look good. I’m the fucker set on fixing this shit.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she erupts, sitting up and sliding her legs over the side of the table until she’s seated before me, indignant and beautiful. “Listen, I appreciate the help you gave me the other night, and I’m thankful for your hyper-fixation on my tattoo, but do not, for a single second, think that you bossing me around or treating me like a child is okay, Wolf. I may be younger than you, but I’m not an idiot. Your warped belief of age as a sign of maturity is inaccurate and baseless. I may be nineteen, but I have lived a thousand lives, and I won’t allow you to make me feel as though I oweyoua favor when you’re the one insistent on me being here and invading each other’s space. This entire thing is your fault because you refused to listen to me when I came into this room and asked for the tattoo I received at Royal Ink. Albeit it’s an ugly tattoo, but at least they attempted it.”

I stare at her in disbelief, processing her words. “Oh, fuck no, you’re not going to blame me for the cocks floating on your back. You were unsure and undecided when you came into ‘this room’ and asked for butterflies on your back, and I don’t fucking tattoo people who aren’t sure of what they want. So fine, paint me as the fucking villain, but know that you are the one who went to a shit-hole shop for a tattoo. You’re lucky you didn’t get hepatitis from the fucking needle.”

“Stop being vulgar.”

“Vulgar? You haven’t seen vulgar,” I growl, leaning forward until I’m in her space, speaking directly into her face. I would never put myself in this position, a giant looming over a woman in my shop, but Serena is my goddamn downfall.

“You know what? I’m leaving.” She pushes against my body with her dainty hand, and I allow it, moving as she exerts pressure on my chest. “And don’t you dare think about stopping me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she grinds out, pulling down on her shirt as she moves past me. “When you get the stick out of your ass, I’ll be back. And if you never do? Well, then I’ll find someone else to fix this because I sure as hell won’t ask you.” She pulls open the pocket door with an aggression that threatens to tear the wood from the hinges. She shudders at the sound of the wood rattling against the frame.

I watch her as she storms out, stomping across the shop and pulling the door open like it’s done her a personal injustice.

“Fucking hell,” I murmur, not for the first time tonight.

“That looks like it went well,” sounds from next to me, and I turn to see Aubrey watching Serena pull out of the parking lot in her piece of shit car.

“She’s fucking unreasonable. I asked her why she didn’t tell me that her tattoo was still infected, and she lost it.”

“Did you ask or demand? Because it’s a big difference, Wolf.”

“Same shit,” I mumble, knowing that my delivery probably wasn’t the greatest.

“Oh, Wolf. There is much to teach you.”

“Go schedule some clients, Aubrey. I don’t have time for this shit.” Her laughter follows me as I turn my back on her and walk into my private space, sliding the door shut behind me.

“What the fuck,” I say into the space, glancing down at the table Serena just occupied. I try not to reminisce on the smooth, golden skin that framed the infected tattoo or the fullness of her lips as she yelled at me for dictating to her, an accusation I strongly fucking disagree with.

What a goddamn shit show.

A knock on my door breaks me from my musings, and I turn to see Sloan sauntering in.

“Hey, boss, have a minute?” She doesn’t pause before continuing, “So, I was thinking, I can take the flying penises and transform them into a bunch of cool watercolor hot air balloons flying through the air. I think that if I pair it with some background—”

“No,” I cut her off. “I’m doing the tattoo.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m doing the cover-up,” I repeat, slowing down my words to cement their meaning.

I’m met with silence. Looking up, I see Sloan twisting her lips as though she’s debating if she should verbalize her next words.

“Just fucking say it.” I sigh, waiting for the accusation that I know is coming.

“Fine. If you knew you were just going to do it yourself, why would you bring me in in the first place? It seems unnecessary and kind of mean, boss.”

“I made the decision five minutes ago, Sloan. I’m not letting you put fucking hot air balloons on that woman’s body.”

“They would have been sick as fuck.”

“I’m sure, but you’re still not doing it.”

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