Page 2 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

He laughs, and it’s a good sound. He’s awkward, but he is so fucking cute.

I might already be a little obsessed with this guy who doesn’t seem to have a clue of what he’s doing here, treating this encounter like a regular meet cute at a regular old bar.

Or maybe it’s just because he’s gorgeous, frankly, and I’m just that shallow.

His wavy hair is carelessly tousled around a face that could’ve been sculpted by some Renaissance artist, and he has an aquiline nose and cheekbones that can cut glass.

I wonder how far down the tattoos go, just how much of him is inked.

“You’re right,” he says, and raises his beer. “We’re both having a shitty night.”

Our glasses clink. “I’ll drink to that.” My thigh presses alongside his as I shift closer, emboldened, and I run a fingertip along his forearm.

There are roses tattooed in a hyper realistic style along the inside of his elbow, and woven through them is a snake.

“I like your ink,” I tell him. “What I can see of it, anyway.”

He doesn’t flinch away. He leans closer, in fact. “Thanks,” he says. “Designed it myself.”

“Did you? All of them?”

“A lot of them, yeah.” One corner of his mouth quirks. “I’m a tattoo artist, actually.”

“Really?” I’m immediately skeptical, my nose crinkling.

“Like, what, you do them out of your basement or something?” I am always a little judgmental when people claim to be artists—and maybe that’s because I’m an artist myself.

I’ve been selling art online since high school and I’m graduating from MassArt in May, so I feel decently qualified to judge.

Luca pats the pockets of his jeans until he finds the right one, then produces an actual business card. He passes it to me. “Not a basement scratcher,” he reassures me.

I push my hair out of my face to inspect the card in the low light, which is difficult because the card is mostly black with white text.

I manage to make out the details, though: Luca Karvelas, Tattoo Artist at InkLab in West Roxbury, which isn’t that far from my apartment.

It’s got his mobile and his Instagram handle on it, and I pull my phone out. “Well, now I’ve gotta see this.”

“Go ahead.” He’s more amused than anything as he watches me scroll through his profile, chin on his hand.

And shit, he’s fucking good . Almost against my will, I’m impressed.

I had been ready to tear him apart for bragging about his supposed artistry, and it turns out he is an actual artist. I’m not an expert on tattoos, but his grid is like a curated gallery.

Though he seems to favor realism, he’s done pieces in every style, both in color and black and white, big and small, on bodies of all shapes and sizes.

And despite the diversity in his range there’s a consistent, cohesive style across every piece.

I’m almost envious of his ability. It’s been a long time since I’ve been jealous of another artist’s skill, especially one who doesn’t even work in the same medium as I do.

“Well, Luca,” I say, my phone clattering to the bar, “looks like you win again.”

He grins again. “What do I win?”

I find myself returning the smile. He’s a dork, but it’s kind of refreshing. “My admiration, for one,” I declare. “And for two, a potential client.”

“You want a tattoo?”

“I’ve been wanting one. Just haven’t taken the plunge.” My gaze flicks up to his, locking in. “Couldn’t find an artist who caught my eye.” I take the card and slide it into my shorts. “I think I’ll need this.”

“Awesome. How big you wanting?”

I get the distinct feeling we aren’t talking about tattoos anymore. Sincerely, I tell him, “Go big or go home.”

The smile doesn’t leave Luca’s face, but it changes to something hungry and wanting.

He leans closer and his fingertips brush the inside of my bare thigh.

His touch raises goosebumps, and when I don’t pull away, his thumb rubs over my knee.

“I wonder,” he says in a low voice, “if there isn’t somewhere quieter we can move this conversation. ”

Fuck yes there is. I open my mouth to tell him exactly where we can take this conversation—in an Uber to my apartment—when my phone buzzes in my pocket, and there’s a spark of panic when it does.

Hardly anyone calls me, and if they do, it’s for a bad reason.

“One second,” I say, pulling it out to check.

And it’s fucking Jordan because of course it is. He’s left me five million messages, all variations of where are you? And I need you to pick up . I can only imagine what it is that he could possibly want from me after he spent the day thoroughly ruining my life. I should block him.

But what if he’s sorry ? What if he’s about to grovel and beg for me to take him back? What if he’s waiting outside the apartment with the stupid U-Haul his mom rented, waiting to move it all back in? Am I actually pathetic enough to take him back in the unlikely event that any of this is true?

Well. Yeah.

I look up at Luca’s expectant face. His hand still lingers on my knee. “Can you give me a few minutes?” I ask sweetly as my phone rings again. “I just need to run to the bathroom really quick.”

That hungry, wanting expression recedes to something more reserved. He raises his chin with a faint smile. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

“Hello?” I answer breathlessly, the bathroom door banging shut behind me .

“I need to get in the apartment.” Jordan sounds drunk, and I find myself wincing already. “I left some shit behind.”

“Maybe you should’ve actually double-checked instead of screaming at me the entire time,” I snap. “I bet you would’ve caught it if you’d bothered cleaning up after yourself.” He didn’t even vacuum the spare room after moving all of his stockpiled crap out of it. Dickhead.

“God, you’re a miserable cunt. Where are you that you can’t do me one last solid? Is it one of those kink nights at ManRay you wanted to go to so bad?”

Behind me, a leather-clad couple stumbles into one of the stalls, lips locked. They yank the door shut before I get much of a show, but I can hear belts and zippers coming undone. “No.”

“Noel, come on,” he wheedles. “I’m already here.”

“Here? Where’s here?” For a split second I wonder if he’s shown up at Anathema, a terrifying and exciting possibility.

“Your place. I thought you’d be home.”

Home alone on a Saturday night after all that? I’m pathetic, but not that pathetic. I squeal with the indignation of it all, my palm slapping the porcelain sink before me. “You are out of your goddamn mind, Jord. After the absolute havoc you wreaked on my entire day? Fuck all the way off.”

“It is literally the least you can do for the hell you’ve put me through the last year. ”

I’m silent for a moment. The bathroom echoes with the extremely unsubtle sounds of mediocre oral sex in that bathroom stall, heavy breathing and audible gagging. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and my eyeliner is smeared, god dammit. I lean forward and try to fix it with my pinky nail.

“So are you coming or not?”

“I said no.”

“Then tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. You can give me a key and I’ll get it back to you on Monday or something.”

“ Drunk ?”

“Then I’ll get a fucking Uber,” he says snidely. “If that’ll make you happy. Waste my money some more.”

His mom pays for literally everything. This kid has never worked a day in his life. “I don’t want you to come here,” I say. “I don’t want to see you. And there is no way in fucking hell I’m giving you back the key.”

He blasts a sigh directly into my eardrum. “Genuinely,” he says, “I despise you right now.”

I am exhausted suddenly. I watch my mirror-self’s shoulders sag. “That’s not brand-new information.”

“Are you even sorry? For any of it?” I can hear himself working back up to his earlier tirade, but it’ll be much worse this time with alcohol and whatever else in his system. He is so much fucking meaner when he’s drunk.

I straighten. “I’m going to go fuck a complete stranger. Hope you have the night you deserve.”

I hang up on his retort and shove my phone back into my shorts. I examine my reflection once more, running my fingers through my hair and rearranging my harness. The eyeliner is sort of a lost cause, but it can’t be too bad. It was enough to get an extremely attractive man to pay attention to me.

“Do not talk to him anymore,” I order myself in the mirror. “Grow a fucking spine.”

“Dude, are you done?” This comes from one of the guys in the bathroom stall. “You’re sort of killing the vibe.”

I almost tell him to fuck himself, but I guess he’s the one getting sloppy head right now.

So I leave the bathroom, chin up and false confidence renewed.

I do not need my ex-boyfriend. Mr. Tall, Tatted and Handsome wants me, and he’s out here waiting for me.

I’m going to take him home and rock his fucking world, then never, ever see him again.

That’s okay because it’ll answer the most important question: if someone out there does still want me.

Except he’s not there when I come back. Strangers occupy the stools we were sitting on, and when I flag down the bartender, I’m told he’s already paid up his tab.

“When?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Five minutes ago?”

I gape at his receding back.

The bastard ditched me.