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I lock my eyes with Johnny. “Why don’t you head out back and work on those sketches you started last week? I’ll man the counter. Next client who enters is yours.”
Johnny nods before sauntering to the manager’s office stationed next to his cubicle. Once he passes through the battered wooden door, I return my focus to the blonde. Victory is etched on her face, and the bitch pose she’s already perfected escalates.
I stand from my slouched position, then shoot my eyes to a sign attached to the side wall of the foyer. “We have the right to refuse patrons under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or peer pressure.” I tap my fingers on the big black letters scrawled across the sign. Even someone with their eyes as thinly slit as hers can still read it.
After speedreading the sign three times, she scoffs. “I’m not drunk,” she denies while crossing her arms under her chest, hoisting her impressive rack higher.
It takes everything I have to drag my eyes away from her fantastic tits to peer at her intoxicated friends behind her, but I manage—somewhat. The blonde’s snarky beast comment was delivered over five minutes ago, but her friends are still cackling like a bunch of overly botoxed biddies holding an annual meeting at a members-only country club.
My curved brow arches higher when I notice the only brunette in the trio is clasping an open bottle of champagne.
While running a hand over my jaw, which is marked with a few days of stubble, I shift my eyes back to the blonde. When I twist my lips, a deep rustle escapes her nose before she cranks her neck to her friends.
Even smacking them with a furious stink eye doesn’t dampen their laughter.
If anything, her actions increases it.
Realizing her friends won’t help me believe she isn’t under the influence, she gestures to them that it’s time to leave. Just before she emerges onto the sidewalk, she peers back at me and narrows her eyes. I smile and wink at her, more than happy to add a sprinkling of salt to her freshly opened wounds.
When a black town car slides up to the curb at the front of the shop, I swing my eyes to Diesel. “What was so hard about that?” My tone is dripping with cockiness. “You need to stop entertaining bar bunnies on your days off and wrestle a few rich chicks. They give a bit of lip, but since it’s from the same mouth that will be screaming your name later that night, you put up with it.”
After lifting my arms to protect my face, I throw a handful of rapid-fire jabs into Diesel’s T-shirt-covered torso. A grin tugs on his fat lips before he spars up, priming for an impromptu spar in the foyer.
Usually, we box in an old gym at the back of the shopping complex in Ravenshoe. It’s rundown, but the guy behind the rusty equipment is a brilliant trainer.
In just a few short weeks, Hank has switched Diesel from a backyard brawler to a low-ranking fighter.
Fighting isn’t something I’m interested in, but I turn up every session to show my support to Diesel. Although I will admit, the energy boost after going a few rounds in the ring with Diesel has aided in my bedroom antics. I have stamina by the miles and more than a dozen bar bunnies willing to exhaust me of resources.
When Diesel uses my distraction of the shop’s bells to his advantage, my neck snaps to the side, and my jaw pops under the force of his knuckles. After working my jaw side to side, I lock my furious eyes with Diesel’s.
With a grin that announces he isn’t sorry, he holds his hands in the air in a non-defensive manner. “Sorry.” The shortness of his apology can’t hide his laughter.
While rubbing my hand along my now throbbing jaw, I drift my eyes from Diesel to the door. “Welcome to Inked…” My greeting falls short when I’m confronted with the same pair of icy-blue eyes that stormed out of here mere minutes ago.
The bitch is back.
When the blonde completes her surveillance of the rest of my package, I wait for her eyes to return to my face before giving her a cocky wink. “Back for round two?”
My jeans tighten when she laughs. It’s a dainty giggle full of poise and perfection—just like its owner.
“Unlikely.” Her words are as cool as the color of her eyes. “I don’twrestlewith Neanderthals.”
Ouch.If my ego wasn’t stroked by a pretty blonde out back thirty minutes ago—the same blonde who brought me my sandwich—this blonde’s taunt may have bruised my ego.
Lucky for me, I have a gigantic shield protecting my even bigger ego from spoiled princesses with vindictive tongues.
“Unless your daddy found a cure for drunkenness, yourdesireswill not be granted in this fine establishment this evening.”
Her eyes narrow at the mention of her father, exposing her first flaw of the night.
“I’mnotdrunk.” The crispness of her words adds strength to her statement.
Holding my gaze, she saunters closer, allowing me to see the frankness in her eyes. Her hardhearted eyes aren’t truth-exposing.It’s the fact there isn’t a single speck of life in her eyes, let alone the drunk shimmer most inebriated people get, exposing her sobriety. Her eyes replicate staring into an empty pit. They’re void of any type of soul.
“I adhered to your rules by requesting mytipsyfriends to leave. Now yourfineestablishment has no reasonnotto serve me.” She tries to make her voice sound sincere. Her attempts are fruitless. I don’t think she has a sincere bone in her body.
I grit my teeth, loathing that I’m about to overrule one of my guys, but just her take-no-shit stance exposes she won’t leave until she gets what she came here for, so I may as well give it to her. “Do you have a design in mind, or are we going into this agreement freestyle?”