Page 17 of King

It was the first time that I had a lively conversation while I showered, and something told me it wasn’t going to be the last. Especially if Scribe was around. Though our shower conversation was mainly about Scribe’s obsession with boy bands, we did venture into likes and dislikes. By the time Scribe handed me a towel, we were best friends.

I never thought I would have one, but there was just something about Scribe’s laid-back attitude that called to me. Nothing ruffled his feathers. He was easy to talk to, and we had a lot in common.

Maybe having him around wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought.

While Scribe milled around and did whatever it was he did, I spent the better half of the morning calling and emailing clients to reschedule appointments because of my hand. While most were understanding, I had one client that insisted that I keep his appointment. I tried several times through email, even sending him a picture of my busted hand to tell him there was no way I could do his tattoo. But when he kept insisting, he forced me to call him.

“Hello, Mr. Osborne, this is Venom. I am calling to explain again why I won’t be available for the next two weeks.”

“Lady, I don’t care.”

The door chimed.

“Sir, please understand that I broke my tattooing hand in three places. I am sorry for the inconvenience I have caused, but there is no way I can do your tattoo.”

“Your impairment is not my problem. I already paid the deposit. I will be at your shop at two pm and I better like the results, or you will hear from my attorney.”

The line went dead as I sat there, staring at my phone. He couldn’t be serious. There was no fucking way I could ink him, let alone hold my tattoo gun.

“Problems in paradise, Cupcake?”

Closing my eyes, I groaned.

No. He wasn’t here. I was already having a shit day because of him, so there was no fucking way he was here to watch me pander to an irate client. God wasn’t that cruel.

Opening my eyes, I moaned.

Yep, I was in hell.

Leaning against the front door, drinking a hot cup of coffee from Beth’s shop, stood fucking King, smirking at me.

“Unless you came to apologize to me by bringing me a cup of coffee, you can leave. I don’t have time for you and your delusions.”

“From what I heard, you have plenty of time. Well, until two o’clock that is. So, who was the blow hard who can’t take the hint?”

“None of your business. Why are you here? Don’t you have a shock therapy appointment to get to? If not, I can make you one. I’m sure any therapist would love to get their hands on you. You know, because you are fucking crazy and all.”

The man sighed, shaking his head. He was without a doubt the most aggravating man I’d ever met, and I met plenty. Just being in his presence was giving me hives. Scratching my wrist, I walked over to one of my stations, pretending to tidy up. I wanted him gone. He was the reason for my shit morning. Instead of catering to my clients and making money, I didn’t know what to do with my downtime. There was only so much I could clean and organize.

Looking over my shoulder, I sighed, seeing Scribe reclining in one of my tattooing chairs, sleeping like a baby. Hell, Scribe was as laid back as they came. Maybe he was. Who knew? But I wouldn’t put it past him if he was just feigning ignorance to give me privacy.

Not that I had any anymore, thanks to King.

“You ready to talk?”

“You ready to tell me the truth?”

King grinned, shaking his head. “Have it your way, cupcake.” Before I could utter a retort, he left just as quickly as he appeared. The sound of the bell chiming let me know he was gone as my shop drifted into silence once again.

Sitting in the chair, I leaned my head back and tried to calm my raging heart. If I could kill King, I would. He was making my life a living hell. I just wanted to do my job and forget the man, but he wasn’t going to let me. Shackled to King like a damn dog, all because of my former boss and that damn letter he sent.

“He isn’t lying, just so you know. He is the President of the club.”

Turning my head, I looked over at a sleeping Scribe and replied, “Oh really? Because the last I checked, the president of the Sons of Hell lived in Los Angeles. I was face to face with that evil bastard and he looked nothing like King.”

Scribe didn’t move as he lay there in one of my chairs, eyes closed, hands linked over his chest as he said. “If you want my opinion, I wouldn’t discount that King is telling the truth. Just saying, the world is full of devious people who are stealing other people’s identities. My mom was a victim of that a few years ago. It’s more common than you think.”

Huffing, I looked at the ceiling and considered what Scribe said.

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