Chapter One
Climbing out of my cherry-red 1967 Shelby Cobra GT500, I locked the doors and ran my hand down the hood as I headed toward another day of work. She was beautiful: all soft black leather interior, a deep rumble under the hood when you’d start her up, and a purr when she idled: pure panty-melting power all wrapped up in one muscle car. In case it wasn’t obvious, I was in love with my baby.
Throwing one last look over my shoulder, I stepped in through the back door of my store and relief settled through me. It was good to be here. It was my haven. My happy place. It was home. I owned a small tattoo parlor right in the middle of town. I’d received a small inheritance after my dad died just a year before I opened Needle’s Kiss.
After tying up all the loose ends and paying funeral costs, I was left with enough in the bank that I only needed a small loan to set up the shop just the way I dreamed. I always wanted to do something with my hands; great things could be created with just a set of hands. That was my life’s plan, to create masterpieces, maybe not the conventional type, but I most definitely did what I loved.
The smell of antiseptic wafted through the air as I walked through the shop flicking on the lights. Home. A large open space at the front of my shop acted as a waiting room, complete with two large black leather sofas separated with a chunky distressed wooden chest that acted as a coffee table. The walls were covered with an array of colorful posters, flip albums and photographs of previous work. Behind the front counter, there were four smaller three-wall cubby-type rooms, all stark white and clinically clean, but each slightly personalized for laying down ink and piercing. Every square inch was decked out with top of the line equipment. I was a firm believer in the old saying a man is only as good as the tools he works with, and we had the best of the best. There were also two more closed off rooms at the rear, one an office and the other a break room/chill out spot. All were evenly spaced, leaving a large walkway down the middle of the shop out the back door to our personal parking lot.
Now, Needle's Kiss wasn't even close to world famous, but it was mine. I worked hard to make it what it was. It gave me all those warm squishy feelings just looking around and knowing I belonged somewhere in the world.
The store was my life, my bread and butter, my father's legacy in a way. He too had a passion for body art and encouraged me every day to “step outside the box” and “do what makes you want to get out of bed every day. There’s no sense in doing something that makes your life mundane”. I knew he’d be proud of me.
The few years Needle’s Kiss had been open resulted in a long list of regular, loyal clients that raved about our friendly atmosphere and attention to detail. Not to toot my own horn, but toot motherfucking toot, I’d even won a few awards for my work and boasted the title of the only female artist in town.
I also had two fantastic artists, Remy and Trip; both were great at what they did and we'd become close friends working together the last few years. Those guys were like the brothers I never had. I never had been one of those girly-girls, always preferring to hang out with the guys. I had only one female friend. I’d rather spend time working on my car, watching a game or downing a cold beer. I swore like a sailor and didn’t give a shred of a shit if people didn’t like it. It’s who I am. I wasn’t without my girl-like vices, but they were minimal.
What made all this even sweeter was the fact I was just twenty-six. There weren’t a lot of women who could claim to be successful business owners at that age. And that right there was half of my dream. Three years ago, when I was equally excited and nervous as bat shit opening Needle's Kiss, I spent countless hours making sure everything was perfect and perfectly me. By the time I opened those doors to my first paying customers, the nerves had died down, and I was just downright proud of myself, and of the blood, sweat and ink that had gone into it.
Oh, there was plenty of all three before opening day. But with the help of my best friend and a few paintbrushes, we did most of the work ourselves.
I worked hard to get my loan paid off in record time, and knowing I owned my very own piece of paradise made my heart swell with pride and accomplishment.
The other half of my dream, the part that would have made it all complete, given me that awe inspiring sense of contentment; well, that was the part I'd given up on, or at least put off indefinitely.
Finding ‘The One’.
It was simple really. I just wanted a man who looked at me like I was his world. But now, I was happy to find a guy who didn’t think the sun shined outta his ass, wasn’t cheating, an asshole or a weird freak who walked around in my underwear and heels while I was out because it made him feel sexy.
Yes, it happened, and it really wasn’t that funny at the time. That prick stole my favorite Jimmy Choo’s.
Apparently, I had a stamp on my forehead that said 'fuck with me, screw me over, or flog my shit'.
I had my own style that didn’t appeal to everybody, and I knew I hadn’t fallen from the ugly tree—my best friend since the young age of five, Teeny, told me all the time that I was a knock out, but she had to talk me up, it was in the BFF rule book. It could be found right between “I shall not screw your man” and “during a bitch smack down, one must take each other’s back, or distract the police long enough not to get caught.”
I'd even had my share of male attention, so I knew I wasn’t unpleasant to look at. I had just enough self-confidence not to make me conceited. I also knew how to make myself feel good. I have this unhealthy obsession with ludicrously expensive underwear, and equally expensive, but no less necessary, hot-as-all-hell shoes. A little saying I liked to live by: Keep your head, heels and standards high.
Not a thing in the world can make you feel as good as you do wearing fetish-inducing heels and lacy, silky flirtatious underwear—bank balance damaging, but worth every penny. Even if you were having a prick of a day, you'd still be walking around feeling sexy and confident. And those are essential!
I could, however, be a raging bitch. I told it like it was, and if people didn’t like how I told it, they could shut their pie hole and ride it out, or get the fuck gone.