Page 27

CHAPTER 27

Billie

I see the tattoo shop a block away. It’s been refreshing to walk lately, and I’ve been doing a lot of walking . Work has been hectic this week, and every day I’ve been walking from the office to my apartment, which is just under an hour, to clear my thoughts. Except it feels like I’m spiraling further.

Matthew and I have exchanged a few text messages throughout the week, and our date is this evening. Yet, I can’t muster the excitement I should be feeling. I finally got approval to date someone, and I’m not feeling it. If anything, I’m more furious at the fact that I even have to feel like I’m getting permission in the first place, and that has nothing to do with Matthew at all.

My thoughts and urges keep coming back to one person, and I fucking hate how many times I’ve grabbed my phone to text him.

Ford.

The man I can have only in body.

I even thought of using the excuse to see Felix to drop by his house, but I’ve exerted all of my self-control not to.

It’s not even that I was lying to my family and keeping what was happening between us a secret. My feelings were getting too heavily involved, and cutting it off felt like the closest thing to a breakup I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never felt this way for any man before. And while I’ve told myself over the past year there is nothing to it, I know I’m lying to myself.

It’s why I booked myself an appointment to finish the tattoo he started. I learned my lesson from last time and didn’t tell him about this one, so I’m relieved that it’s still in one piece. It’s absolutely wild to think he burned down the last shop just because I threatened to have someone else finish the tattoo. But it’s not at all surprising. I’ve seen Dutton, and Eli do some pretty crazy shit and hardly get reprimanded for it.

The woman behind the reception desk smiles as I approach her. I reciprocate it but get an uneasy feeling. Her smile seems forced.

“Welcome, Miss Taylor. I’ll just let him know you’re here. Please, take a seat.”

I’m a little confused. I didn’t even tell her my name or who I’m here to see. I glance around, impressed by all the sketches and drawings hanging on the walls. It reminds me a little of the room Ford has in his home. Except he doesn’t have so many drawings hung up. And a sinking feeling hits me as I note these aren’t as good as his.

I scoff at that. That’s a lie; these artists are probably better. At least they’d finish the actual job, unlike a certain asshole. It’s unfair of me to think that, considering I’d been the one to get restless while he was working on me, and every time I was over after that, we were too distracted by ripping one another’s clothes off.

I internally growl. Stop thinking about him.

It’s like the longer I go without seeing him, the more stir-crazy I become, and that’s so fucking crazy.

He said he can’t give you anything more than sex. You ended it, so stop spiraling. I reprimand myself.

“Billie?” I look up when the lady calls my name. She waves me through to one of the rooms and holds the door open for me.

“Thank yo—” My manners die on my lips, and my feet stop at the threshold of the room. Sitting on the stool beside the tattoo bed, wearing an arrogant expression, is Ford.

“Close the door,” he commands, and the lady who walked me in does just that, almost hitting me as she does. I feel like a trapped animal as my heartbeat picks up.

“Why the fuck are you here?” I demand, popping a hand on my hip. All the self-pity bullshit flies out the window, and I’m once again flooded by so much hurt and rage that I want to slap him across the face again.

It’s like a fucking detox with this man. I’m trying to get him out of my system, and although I don’t think I was making progress, this makes it harder.

“It would appear the artist you booked with suddenly fell ill, so I took over,” he says smugly.

Is this guy out of his fucking mind?

“Please tell me you didn’t kill the artist,” I growl. This man is madness in a bottle. One that, up until now, I’ve been happily sipping from. But where does it stop? When does it hurt too much that I run away, even though I already have?

“No, I have no reason to kill my employees. Unless, of course, they lay a hand on you.” He shoots me a devilish grin, and I want to smack it off his face.

“Since when the fuck do you own this place?”

He looks at his watch and then back to me. “Since four hours ago. And you can run, but just so you know, I’ve bought every tattoo parlor in the area, and they all have your name and face, so the moment you book an appointment, I’ll be notified.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind!”

His expression changes. I know that look well. It’s the one he gets when he’s about to strip away all of my clothes and inhibitions. My body freezes. I hate the way it responds to him, even when I’m at odds with myself and trying to fight it. Even when I’m trying to rationally tell myself he’s crazy.

“I told you I won’t let any other person mark your skin.”

“You mean finish off your tattoo?”

“No. I mean, touch you.”

The silence stretches between us. “We agreed to end us. You don’t get to go all macho over the decisions I make with my body,” I say, infuriated.

He stares at me, and the silence and tension build. I know I should walk out. I know that. I know it’s the same dance without rhythm or rhyme that we’ve been repeating these last few months.

He’s always there. Even when he’s not there, I’m thinking of him. And when I’m trying to walk away, he still appears.

“You can’t keep doing things like this. What if I tell Dutton?”

“Tell him,” he says, his tone serious. Hearing him say that has a wave of emotions breaking over me because we know the consequences will be greater for him than for me. It was my idea to keep us a secret in the first place, and yet I’m pissed with him for following the rules I set. “Until then, jeans off and on the bed like a good girl.” He taps the bed, then sits back and watches me. “Or we can play this same game every time you try to get that tattoo finished. But let me tell you now, Chaos, I’m the only one who will be finishing that piece. So either you get your ass up here, or we continue this game of yours.”

“I’m not playing any games. You’re the one who showed up here uninvited!”

He arches an eyebrow. Okay, so maybe I’ve been biting back a little, but this is different. Isn’t it?

Ford is a man of his word. Which means he will absolutely show up to every tattoo parlor I ever try to go to.

“You can’t possibly afford to buy every tattoo parlor in the world,” I grumble in complaint as I drag my feet toward the bed.

The defiant part of me wants to turn around and walk out the door, but I really want this tattoo finished. And he’s the one who started it, so he should be the one to finish it. I just didn’t think he would go to these lengths to do so.

“I’m a man with few needs, little chaos. I have more money than I know what to do with. And if I have to use it all buying every tattoo parlor to ensure no one else touches your skin, I’ll do exactly that.”

He begins fiddling with the gun and inks, and I hate the way he so easily commands a room. The way my heart flutters at his declarations that can so easily be taken differently by another woman. I consider myself not to be one of those foolish, lovesick girls… but maybe I am. And I hate that he has that over me. It turns out that even though my brother has been protecting me all this time, I never once had my guard up around Ford. And now I’m dealing with the consequences.

I begin undoing my jeans. “You understand what you did was crazy, right?”

“How so?” he asks, his gaze pinned to where I fiddle with my zipper.

“No. We’re not having sex. I won’t be your hit or fix, or whatever the fuck you think I am to you,” I firmly state.

His gaze darkens, but then he looks away as if ashamed. My stomach drops at the harshness of my words for poking at his demons and using them as a weapon. But if it’s the only thing to protect my heart from this monster who so easily stole it, then I’ll do it.

The palpable tension sits with us in this room like an insufferable weight, and I can’t stand it. Hate how much we’re both hurting when we never set out with that intention, so I extend a slight peace offering by changing the subject. “How did you manage to purchase this place so quickly? Aren’t there contracts and waiting periods?”

“When you have money, you don’t really have to wait for anything, do you, little chaos?” I can’t argue with his logic because I know he’s right. I’ve seen my family members buy many things, not in the legal way. So I shouldn’t really expect anything less from him, considering who his family is. But Ford’s right about something else, too. Besides his modest home, I don’t often see him spending his money. He wears plain, affordable clothes and lives a humble enough life. He’s not lavish like Hawke, who spends most of his money on women and partying.

“Now, drop the pants.” He nods to my jeans, this time without the smoldering gaze he had on them before. I remove my jeans and toss them on a chair in the corner. I actually wore panties today in an attempt at modesty. I was just planning to slip them to the side so the artist could finish my tattoo. He eyes the silky garment but says nothing.

I climb up onto the bed and get situated on my stomach. After a moment, I feel his hand on my ass, and then he adjusts my panties so he can see the cheek with the half-done tattoo.

“Are you starting?” I ask nervously. When I look over my shoulder, he’s smirking. “Shut up. Tell me when you’re starting,” I grumble and lay my head back down. I was the same the first time, and although I know what I’m in for now, it doesn’t lessen the apprehension. I can understand why some people get addicted to it. The rush and anticipation. The thrill in the subtle pain.

I’m relieved when his callused hand leaves my ass; it’s as if my tension has been sucked away with the removal of his touch. Noises begin as he prepares the ink gun. I brought headphones today, hoping they’d help me to forget about the pain. The first half of the tattoo wasn’t the most painful thing I’ve ever felt, but I can’t say that I loved it either. I’m sure this will be my one and only tattoo, and I’m not even sure why I asked him to do it in the first place. He’d just shown me his tattoo room for the first time, and it felt like I was seeing a part of him not many got to see. The fact that he was marking me felt special, and I left the design up to him.

“Stay still,” he warns.

“Wait. Count to three.”

He chuckles as he cleans my skin, and then the gun starts buzzing. He counts down from three. It’s the same as last time. I fall into a semi-relaxed state, trusting him entirely.

I give in to the experience but angle my head so I can’t see what he’s doing.

I usually like watching him work, and he’s gifted. There’s no denying that. I’ve seen him add to Hawke’s tattoos, but I don’t want to watch as it happens to me.

I’ve also heard he’s very gifted with a set of crowbars, but that’s not something I ever want to see. He has a set of crowbars tattooed on his chest, so they must mean something to him at, least. I’ve overheard Hawke sharing stories about how Ford crushes peoples’ heads in with them, and I always cringed at the thought. I understand that Ford is dangerous, but to me, he never has been. The buzzing stops, and he turns the machine off. Then I feel coldness on my ass.

“Is it done?” I ask, not yet ready to look, even though I can’t properly see it from this angle.

“It is. You can look now.”

I move my gaze from him to my ass and see a perfect heart. Half of it is red, and the other half is black—two halves meeting together to make a perfect whole. I love the unique beauty of it. The curve on the red side has a Q representing a queen card, and in the curve of the new half, he added a K, which I assume is for a king card. I don’t know if it means anything beyond that. I’ve been driving myself crazy by overthinking everything lately, and this can’t be another thing that monopolizes my mind. So, I accept it for the beautiful piece of art it is. And in a way, it kind of helps me accept the beauty of what Ford and I are. Or were.

I’m smiling as I face him, genuinely grateful for how beautiful it is. But the moment our eyes meet, my heart stutters at the intensity of his gaze.