Page 3 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

I wipe down the last chair, set the spray bottle back on the shelf, and let out a slow breath through my nose.

It’s been a day. Back-to-back bookings, one walk-in who wanted an entire phoenix up his ribcage today, and a guy who nearly passed out mid-wrist tattoo because he forgot to eat lunch. Classic.

I stretch my arms overhead, tattoos pulling across my skin, and look around the studio—Black Salt Ink.

It still doesn’t feel like mine, not entirely.

Not yet. The floors are scuffed in places that don’t match the rest of the wear, the back room light flickers when it rains, and Tank’s artwork is everywhere.

But I like it here. There’s something steady in the bones of the place.

Solid. Like it’s used to people coming in with all their noise and walking out a little quieter.

Tank’s behind the desk, balancing his laptop on one knee and drinking the last of his lukewarm coffee. He looks like the ghost of a rock band roadie—long hair, sleepy eyes, covered in even more ink than I am. He’s got one foot out the door already. Canada calls.

“So,” I say, leaning against the counter, “tell me again why we’re still open after hours?”

Tank glances at me over his mug. “You’re meeting your problem.”

“Excuse me?” I’m pretty sure this is the first time he’s mentioned a “problem” client to me. Sneaky asshole.

“Camden Crawford,” he says, with all the dramatic weight of a soap opera character about to reveal the secret twin. “Prop. Captain. Big deal at Exeter Seagulls.”

“Rugby.” I nod. “The one that’s like American football but with fewer pads and more visible violence.”

Tank chuckles. “That’s the one.”

I’ve lived in the UK long enough to recognise the sound of rugby fans yelling at a pub TV.

It’s like a primal chant. A lot of vowels.

Some war cries. Camden’s name’s come up once or twice when I’ve been out—usually followed by someone saying, “Oof, he’s a unit,” or, “Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. ”

I smirk. “So, what I’m hearing is: I’m meeting a massive, brooding man with a neck like a bridge support and the personality of a slightly pissed-off cat.”

Tank chuckles again. “More or less. You’ll be fine.”

I twirl the ring through my lip piercing. “What’s he getting?”

“Not sure. That’s between you two. But it won’t be tonight.”

Thank fuck, since it’s late and I’m not sure I have anything left to give this evening.

“He’s just meeting you. I told him you don’t suck.”

I huff out an amused laugh. “That was generous.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

I grin. “Nah, I got this. Oldest of five, remember? Two twin brothers who treated everything like a wrestling match, a younger brother who’s half golden retriever, half human spotlight, and a sister who can murder with a glare. I know how to deal with complicated personalities.”

Tank raises a brow. “This isn’t summer camp, Brent. Camden doesn’t do small talk.”

I wave that off. “Everyone does small talk. You just have to find the right language.”

“Yours being relentless optimism?”

“Exactly. It’s unsettling. Breaks down defences.”

He snorts and closes his laptop. “If he punches you, I’m not covering dental.” He shakes his head. “You know how hard it is getting an NHS dentist these days?”

I roll my eyes, knowing full well that for all its faults, the NHS is a damn lot better than what we have back home in the US. “If he punches me, I’m getting it tattooed.”

Tank just shakes his head. “God help you.”

I walk the floor again, checking needles are boxed, stations clean, lights low but not spooky. The shop’s good at night. It feels calm. Still. Like it knows it’s about to be part of someone’s story, even if just the beginning.

And yeah, I’ve been tattooing long enough to know this matters. For some people, it’s a design. For others, it’s a declaration. A line drawn in ink that says, This is mine. My story. My skin. My control.

Tank’s headed out next week, and this? Tonight?

This feels like the big test. I’m leasing the space, taking over the books, and hopefully will keep the clients happy—but Camden’s the one Tank’s most protective of.

If I pass this test, I’m golden, and he’s already said in six months, he’ll look at selling the place to me if I’m still interested.

I slide behind the desk, flick on the playlist—something mellow but not sleepy—and check the time.

Camden Crawford should be walking in any minute now. And hey, if he turns out to be the intimidating, scowly, tighthead of doom everyone says? Well, I’ve got charm, tattoos, and a well-honed ability to wear people down with friendship.

Let’s see how long he lasts.

The bell above the door gives a soft jingle. It’s nothing dramatic, but it still hits me like a cymbal crash in a yoga class. I glance up, and my gut does this weird little flip.

Holy shit. The man who steps in is big. Not just tall, though he’s definitely got a couple of inches on me.

No, he’s built—broad across the shoulders, chest like a battering ram, thighs that look like they’ve won arguments with steel beams. There’s a quiet power to how he moves.

Controlled. Deliberate. Like he could level the whole block if he wanted to, but he’s choosing not to, for now.

And then I catch it—the peek of black and red ink curling just beneath the sleeve of his right arm. Sharp lines, heavy shading. Something floral maybe? I can’t quite see, but it’s enough to tell me he doesn’t do his tattoos on a whim. They mean something. They’re his.

I’m still cataloguing all that when my gaze skims up past the beard—which, by the way, is excellent—and I hit his eyes.

Jesus. Tank wasn’t exaggerating. They’re dark and sharp, narrowed just enough to make me feel like I’m on trial. Not cold exactly, but watchful, like he’s measuring me, assessing, maybe even deciding whether I’m worth his time, his trust, possibly even his breath.

It hits me right in the chest. Not fear.

Not even nerves, really. Just this overwhelming urge to wrap him in a hug.

Which is ridiculous, because he looks like the kind of guy who’d throw a punch at anyone who tried.

And also because there’s every chance he outweighs me by a good thirty pounds, and I’m not a small guy.

But still, there’s something in him. Something hurt and guarded, stitched into the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth doesn’t quite settle. He looks like someone who’s been cracked open before and decided never again.

Yeah. He calls to something in me. That soft spot I try to hide behind the piercings and ink and my “whatever, man” vibe.

Tank stands and gives me a quick nod. “Cam, this is Brent Parks. Brent, this is Camden Crawford.”

Camden looks at me like I’m a puzzle he didn’t ask for.

“Hey,” I say, stepping forwards, smile easy. “Nice to meet you, man.”

He eyes the hand I offer like it might bite him, but after a second, he takes it. His grip’s solid, warm, a little slow to let go.

“Thanks for staying open,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “I know it’s late.”

I shrug. “You kidding? I live for late-night introductions with quietly intimidating blokes.”

Tank snorts quietly behind me. Camden just grunts. It’s not exactly a laugh, but I’ll take it.

He steps further in, eyes scanning the shop. There’s a tension to the way he holds himself, like he’s keeping everything tucked tight under the surface. I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or just built like a human fortress. Maybe both.

“I heard you’ve got opinions about ink,” I say lightly. “I respect that. You’ve got great work from what I can see.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. Not quite a thank-you. More like noted .

“I didn’t pick you,” he says. “Tank did.”

I nod. “Right. No pressure.” I hold back from raking my gaze over him again, confident he wouldn’t like that. Instead, I aim for a relaxed smile despite his short words.

“I’m particular.”

My lips lift a little, and I try to figure out the best way to handle this guy, because fuck me, I really think he could do with some kind of handling. I wrestle those thoughts away, settling on “So am I.”

That earns me another long look, and I swear I see the corners of his mouth twitch. Barely, to the point it’s almost nothing. But it’s there.

Tank gives Camden a nudge. “I’ll leave you two to chat. Just talk tonight, yeah? If you want to book, Brent’s got the schedule.”

Camden grunts again. I think that means yes.

Tank claps me on the shoulder as he heads for the exit. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

Camden crosses his arms, big forearms flexing under the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes still on me like he hasn’t quite figured out whether I’m the real deal or a liability. I take a breath and step back just enough to give him space without making it obvious.

“Want a drink?” I ask. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger? I make a killer herbal tea that would totally ruin your street cred.”

That earns a definite eye twitch. “Water’s fine.”

I grin and grab him a bottle, then gesture towards the chair nearest my station. He doesn’t sit. Of course he doesn’t. Standing means control, distance. I’ve met enough guarded types to know the drill.

Still, I’m not worried. I’ve got time. And I’ve got charm. I can wait him out.

I pass Camden the bottle of water and tilt my head towards the portfolio on the counter. “Want to see some of my stuff? Or are we just here to glare at each other until someone blinks first?”

He gives me a flat look, but after a second, he nods towards the binder. “Might as well.”

I slide it over and flip it open to a few pages I’ve marked—stuff that’s clean, bold, and not too flashy.

Strong lines, careful shading. One is a full back piece I did a year ago, a Norse mythology spread that took weeks to finish.

Another’s a minimalist series I inked on a couple who’d been together twenty years.

Not everything’s dramatic. Some of it’s quiet, but meaningful.