King of Masters by Brynn Ford

CHAPTER 3

Stella

"WHAT TIME DO you get off?”

I lift the tip of my tattoo machine from my client’s arm and turn it off, raising my eyes to glare up at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, baby girl. I wanna take you out after you finish me off.” He arches an overgrown eyebrow. “Then maybe I can finish you off…”

I sit up straight and push back, rolling along with my stool as I back away from his chair. “Did you ever consider asking if I was interested first?”

The moron must have a death wish teasing my last nerve like that, especially when I’m controlling the needles stabbing ink into his flesh.

“You’re down for a good time, aren’t you, honey?” He smiles crookedly, shifting in his seat to lean toward me.

I look him dead in the eye. “No.”

“No? Bet I can turn that no into a yes.”

I stand, my rolling stool whipping out behind me and crashing against the wall. “Oh, fuck no. Get out.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

“Are you serious, baby?”

“Call me baby one more time. One. More. Time. I fucking dare you.”

His amused expression slips to shock and his eyes widen. “Hey, calm down. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He gestures at his outstretched arm. “You haven’t even finished my tattoo yet.”

“And I’m not going to. Get the fuck out.”

Shock switches to anger. “I paid in full. You’re gonna fucking finish it.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

I’m so sick of these fuck-boys thinking they can mess around with me in my own damn tattoo shop.

Anger becomes outright rage as he leaps out of his chair, rushing into my space. “Fucking finish or give me my money back.”

He’s trying to threaten me, trying to force my back to the wall, but I widen my stance and hold firm, unwilling to back down. I didn’t make it this far in life backing down to shit stains like him.

“It’s half done. I’ll send a partial refund to your credit card after you kindly leave the premises. You have my full blessing to let some other unfortunate artist finish my work.”

It’s a damn shame. It would’ve been a masterpiece, but I’m not putting up with that bullshit. I’ve learned that if you give guys like this an inch, you ought to be prepared for them to take a mile.

“Where’s the shop owner? I wanna talk to him about your fucking attitude, bitch.”

I slowly tilt my head and lift the corner of my lips. “Go ahead. Talk to the shop owner.”

“Where the fuck is he?” He turns his head to glance around the open shop, and I let my eyes track where his go.

I note Cora stifling a laugh and dipping her head lower as she continues to ink her client a few feet away. It almost makes me want to smile, but I won’t give this asshat the satisfaction. My eyes meet his again as his gaze returns to me.

“Hello, sir. I’m the owner. I understand you’ve had an experience you interpret to be less than desirable in my shop today. We’re happy to resolve this non-issue with a partial refund to your card the moment your feet hit the pavement outside. I’m afraid we don’t tolerate misogynist losers who think our female artists owe them something.” I point toward the register. “As you can see, we have a sign.”

He glances back to see the WE DON’T SERVE ASSHOLES sign that I actually made myself and posted behind the desk. I’m proud to employ more female artists than males at my shop. It’s not that I have anything against men specifically—though most of the ones I’ve met are as obnoxious as this one. We’ve dealt with enough pushy customers who think they can take advantage of us, and I’ve had enough of it.

I have a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit.

Moving quickly, I grab hold of his arm, wipe it down, and carefully but furiously slap a bandage over it. “Judging by the rest of your shitty artwork, I trust you know how to take care of this one while it heals.” I let go just as he jerks his arm away with a scowl on his face.

I flick my fingers, shooing him toward the door. “Go on now. Don’t make me gather the girls. I promise you don’t want to be seen getting shoved out the door by a bunch of wicked females. That would be a blow to your ego that I just don’t think you can handle.”

He stares me down, unable to speak, surely shocked that one, I didn’t want to go out with a gem like him, and two, that I’m kicking him out with a half-done skull tattoo.

I give him five more seconds before I charge for the front, pushing the metal bar on the glass door to swing it open. I hold it wide with my back against it as I sweep my arm out toward the busy sidewalk.

It’s a Saturday night and it’s noisy outside—not a surprise since my shop is nestled between a nightclub and a bar. While we don’t give tattoos to drunk people, we do get a lot of drunk traffic on the weekends—people we will gladly take non-refundable deposits from for future sober appointments.

Business is good and I fucking love it.

Now if I can just get this asshole to leave.

Eventually, once he realizes there’s literally nothing else he can do, he rages toward the exit. He rambles off a final, “Fuck you!” before disappearing into the crowd outside.

I let the door swing shut behind me as I come back in.

Cora doesn’t even look up. “I’m too fucking tired to give you a standing ovation for that, Stell. Would you settle for an ‘atta girl?”

Her perfectly pleasant client chuckles.

“I don’t do it for the fame and fortune, but I do enjoy the praise.”

Her eyes flicker up at me from behind her clear-framed glasses to give me a quick, approving look. “You’re my hero.”

I flash her an appreciative smile as I move back to my station. “Well, I guess that’s it for me tonight.” I start to put away my supplies. “Just threw out my last client.”

“You know you can head out if you want. I can close up shop,” Cora offers, tossing her head to the side to knock away an obstructive strand of mermaid blue hair from her face.

“I don’t know why you even bother offering. You know I don’t leave any of my artists alone to close. Despite the sign,” I nod back toward the WE DON’T SERVE ASSHOLES sign at the desk, “assholes and creeps do wander in here from time to time.”

We both laugh.

After cleaning up my station, I head behind the desk to issue a partial refund to the creep I kicked out, and then I prep for closing while Cora finishes up. Once finished, I head back to my client’s chair and make myself comfortable. I breathe deeply and let my eyes drift shut, taking a moment of meditation to clear my head and calm my nerves.

Truthfully, it’s hard to be a tough woman in this world. I don’t have a problem speaking my mind and standing up against men who think they’re owed something—entitled pricks—but I’d be lying to say it didn’t bother me at all when I have to.

I don’t care which bad bitch you ask, we can look as confident as the next motherfucker on the outside, but standing ground against a big, tall, and furiously unpredictable man can be unnerving.

After another thirty minutes, Cora’s done with her client and she heads to the register to take his payment. When I hear the door open and shut again, I open my eyes and sit up slowly. “We should get a drink.”

“Yeah? I’m down,” Cora replies.

I swing my legs over the side of the chair, letting them dangle. “You wanna go to Serendipity or The Jaded Wingman?

“Well, that depends. Do you wanna get hit on by dancing drunks or fighting drunks?”

We both look toward the door as the bell overhead rings and it opens with a sharp tug from the outside.

“Where are you going?” a man’s voice says from the sidewalk as another man stumbles inside.

I raise my eyebrows at Cora. “I guess we don’t even have to leave the premises. The drunks are on their way to us.”

She laughs, leaning forward with her elbows on the counter. “Can we help you?” she asks the tall, lean guy stumbling toward the desk.

He topples sideways, and Cora and I both reach out a hand on reflex, as if we could catch him from as far away as we both are. Luckily, another slightly shorter man with dark hair rushes in to catch him…and thank God, because clearly mine and Cora’s psychic catching abilities have suddenly gone on hiatus.

“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” the dark-haired man says, clearly much more sober than his brother. “We’re on holiday and he’s had a few too many.”

“I’m getting married!” the drunk man enthusiastically states, punching a fist into the air.

Cora and I both laugh as the two men saunter toward the counter. The bells on the door chime as it’s opened once again, and my attention is diverted. A third man walks in, more serious and somber. He’s tall and stylish with his black overcoat, tailored gray slacks, and sleek dress shoes. He’s far too fancy to have found his way in here on his own. His ashen blond hair has a ginger tint and is too perfectly styled, his beard too well-groomed and manicured.

Damn, there’s just something about a man with a good beard.

My eyes lock onto him, and I feel a little something extra pulse inside me when he enters the shop. He’s got a strong aura. Something within him demands to take up a lot of space, and when I somehow forget to breathe, I think it has to be because he’s sucked all the air from the room.

“I want a tattoo,” the drunk man at the counter says.

The man at the door catches me staring and with a sharp turn of his head, our eyes meet.

“Sorry, we can’t ink you when you’re drunk.” I hear Cora explain, but her voice sounds far away. “Shop policy.”

“I told you that,” the sober guy holding him up says.

My eyes are still on the man at the door.

“But I want my bride’s name tattooed right over my heart.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Cora says. “What’s her name?”

“Tallulah. My perfect, beautiful Tally.”

“Tally-ho!” both men shout after him in unison.

The timbre of the man at the door’s voice strikes me. I can feel it vibrate in my chest from across the room as our eyes remain locked. His lips quirk up at one side and fuck, if mine don’t twist up the same way.

These boys have an accent and damn, it’s sexy.

Irish? Scottish? Cockney? Shit, is it offensive that I don’t know the difference?

I stand and saunter toward the counter, moving behind the desk to stand beside Cora. “Where are you boys from?”

“Ireland,” the sober, dark-haired man says. “We came in for a little holiday with his fiancée, but she didn’t want to come out with us, so it’s just us boys tonight.”

The gorgeous piece of man at the door moves closer and somehow, he still has my attention. His light, bewitching eyes scan my face, and I feel the scrutiny under my skin. His coarse beard frames his plump lips, so obviously kissable that looking at them has me biting mine.

I need to calm myself down and stop eye-fucking him. But his hair is thick—the kind you want to comb your fingers through—and his open collar hints at artwork on his chest, hiding beneath. I’m dying to see his chest…For the artwork, of course, not because I want to know how strong his pecs are.

I’m a woman with standards for God’s sake.

“Sorry to bother you ladies,” the sober guy says after glancing around the empty shop. “Looks like you’re shutting down.”

“It’s no bother,” I tell him politely, finally dragging my eyes away from his beautiful friend. “But we can’t do anything with your drunk brother tonight. If you guys are gonna be in town, we’d be happy to take a deposit and you can schedule an appointment to come back.”

“We’re only here for another night.”

“You should check out Serendipity next door. Get a drink, do some dancing,” Cora suggests. I feel her amused smile and see her head turn to look at me from the corner of my eye. “We were actually just talking about grabbing a drink.”

I dare to look over at the man who’s stolen my attention, and he offers me a grin. His crow’s feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes, effectively triggering all my daddy issues.

Fuckity fuck fuck.

He takes a step toward the counter, moving straight toward me, and though there’s an entire desk separating us, the sheer demand of his presence makes my spine straighten, and I lean back.

He speaks directly to me. “Serendipity sounds like fun. If you lasses happened to wind up there in the next hour, we just might see you there?”

I feel Cora’s eyes on me as I open my mouth to impulsively reject, but she saves me.

“Yes,” she says. “Yep. You’ll see us there.”

I snap my head to look at her. “They will?” She looks at me sternly—so sternly it nearly scares me enough to take a step back. I hold up a palm to her as a white flag. “Okay, yeah, you will.”

“I’m Declan,” the dark-haired man says. “This one is Cormac.”

Then the man who’s caught my attention tells me, “I’m Murphy.”

I’ve already forgotten the names of the other two.

“Cora,” she pipes up beside me to introduce herself, then gestures toward me. “And this gorgeous thing is Stella. She owns the shop, you know.”

“You don’t say?” Murphy cocks an eyebrow, though his expression remains somewhat impassive.

He’s tough, this one—a hard shell to crack. It’s written so clearly in the way he presents himself. He seems like a challenge, and that’s something I haven’t had for a while. To speak minimally, he’s piqued my interest…and it doesn’t hurt that he’s drop dead gorgeous, too.

“I’m quite impressive, I realize that,” I say with a mock-cocky tone.

“Aye,” he replies with a scan of his eyes down the front of my body.

Oh, my fucking, God.

I hear Cora chuckle beside me, probably expecting me to read him the riot act for so overtly implying that my looks are what’s impressive to him, and by all means, I should.

But for some reason, I don’t…because I guess I find his looks impressive, too.

“All right, mates,” Declan says, “let’s head on out, then. Ladies, we look forward to seeing you.” He gives a small appreciative nod and drunken Cormac awkwardly salutes as they hobble toward the door.

Murphy remains standing in front of me and I can’t help the curl of my lip. “See you soon,” I tell him.

“I look forward to it.”

He leaves and I make no effort to pretend I’m not watching him walk away. I rush to lock the door behind them after he exits and spin around quickly to face Cora, pressing my back to the door with my arms behind me. I blow out a breath and she grins at me.

“You’re crushing hard, babe.”

I can feel my cheeks warm. “Not crushing.”

“Totally crushing.”

“That’s not a crush. That’s just plain fucking lust.”

She chuckles at me. “Well, I hope you wore your good panties today.”

My face falls. “Well, shit.”

“What? Are you wearing granny panties?”

I knock my head against the door and shut my eyes. “I am. I actually fucking am.”

“Go take them off,” she says with all the seriousness in the world. “Go commando.”

I cock a brow at her. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Do it.”

“Jesus, I’ll get a wet spot on my jeans.” I laugh.

“So what? He’ll probably think that’s hot.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like a typical guy.”

“No shit. That’s why you have a lady boner for him. Stella Scott doesn’t like typical guys. You’ve always been about that strong, silent type, babe.”

I sigh. “Yeah, totally. But he’s only in town for a night.”

“So? That’s perfect! You don’t want a relationship. Have a one-night stand.”

I tilt my head. “Can I do that?”

“Yes, girl! Why not? Own your feminine sexual prowess or whatever.”

“Right.” I nod. “Yeah, you’re right. I can do whatever I want to.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “That’s if he even wants to…”

“Shut the fuck up right now. He totally wants to. Did you see the way he eye-fucked you?”

I let out a long, slow breath. “Yeah. He eye-fucks really good, too.”

I haven’t wanted anyone in a long damn time, and this random guy just walks in and makes my stomach feel like it’s literally filled with butterflies. He gives me that gnawing ache deep down in my gut that sets an anticipatory blaze in my veins.

I can’t remember the last time I felt such urgency to get out of my shop, but damn, I feel it now.

Excitement.

A mad rush.

An odd—and unexpected—need to spend some time with a random, sexy Irishman who stumbled into my shop. His drunken brother did the stumbling, but that stumbling brought him here, nonetheless.

I rush off to the bathroom in the back so I can take off my stupid granny panties.