The Opposite Effect

by Shandi Boyes

  “I’m sure she has.”

  I turn my gaze back to my grandma. Her excited eyes are bouncing between Penny and me. A whizz escapes my nostrils when the reasoning behind my grandma’s sudden interest in escaping smacks into me.

  For the past year, my grandmother has made it her mission to see me shacked up and married. I lost count of the number of times I arrived home from a shift at Inked to find a female in my living room lying in wait, ready to pounce. My grandmother’s tactics were so convincing, she had most of my dates believing I had personally invited them over.

  No matter how often I tell my grandmother that it’s not true in this day and age, she's convinced if I'm not married by the time I'm thirty, I will live the remainder of my life as a childless bachelor. Although she means well, her matchmaking is driving me crazy. It isn’t my grandma’s lack of taste that has my appreciation waning; the quality of the women she finds is excellent. It is the fact she lures my dates into my home with the promise of matrimony and a family. Considering neither of those two items are on my agenda anytime in the near future, my newly acquired friends don’t hang around for long.

  After a few more minutes of awkward silence, Penny checks my grandmother’s blood pressure and temperature before excusing herself from the room. The instant she slips into the corridor, I drift my eyes back to my grandma.

  “Stop trying to set me up with the nurses and doctors.”

  “Why? Penny seems lovely, and you need a smart girl in your life,” my grandma replies, using the same tone she regularly uses when we argue about her matchmaking techniques.

  I arch my brow. “You're setting me up to fail.”

  “Pfftt. I'm doing no such thing. Penny is single. You're single. How could that turn into failure?”

  I smirk. “Grandma, you know as well as I do. Penny might be good for a bit of fun, but even if I were interested in something more than a few nights between the sheets, she will never take me home to meet her parents.”

  My grandma waves her hand in front of her face like she's shooing away a fly. “We are in the twenty-first century, Brax; parental permission is no longer a necessity.”

  I chuckle and shake my head, loosening the invisible noose she slung around my neck.

  Not willing to roll over without a fight, I continue, “So when the fun is over with Penny and she ends up brokenhearted, what do you think will happen to your secret candy stash the whole nursing staff knows about but chooses to ignore?”

  Panic floods my grandma’s eyes as she locks them onto her top drawer, which is full to the brim with every candy bar you could imagine.

  “Is meddling in your grandson’s love life worth the risk of losing your beloved chocolate binge?”

  Without hesitation, my grandma shakes her head.

  I crouch down so my eyes are level with hers. “I appreciate your effort. But my love life is fine how it is. Especially since I can take my dates to my place now that my grandmother isn’t sleeping in the room next door.”

  My grandma tries to hold in her laughter, but the littlest giggle topples from her lips. She may be seventy-eight, but she has the dirty mind of a twenty-year-old male.

  Chapter Three

  “Did you want me to head out or stay and see what card she's going to play?”

  I shift my gaze from the blonde princess I tattooed three months ago pacing the cracked sidewalk at the front of Inked to Diesel standing at my side.

  “Nah, man, you head out. I’ve got this,” I assure him, my tone as unconvincing as my facial expression. “I’m locking up and heading out myself in a few.”

  Diesel snags his jacket from the counter and slings it over his shoulders. “She signed a contract, Brax; there is no coming back from that. No matter what her fancy lawyer told her,” he reminds me, reading the concerned expression etched on my face.

  “Yeah, I know,” I reply with a nod. “But I’m still curious as to why she’s been pacing out front the past two hours.”

  Diesel bows his brow. “Maybe she's hoping to get you alone?” he jests, waggling his brows. “Your tattoo might have convinced her she needs to sample your other gun. The more magic one.”

  I pick up a cash register roll at the side of my hand and peg it at his head. A grin curves on my mouth when my fluke shot has perfect aim, hitting Diesel just above his left brow. With a cheeky grin and rubbing his brow, Diesel lifts his chin in farewell before striding to the door.

  Clara jumps in fright when the deep rumble of Diesel’s Harley Davidson kicking over booms through her ears. Her eyes track Diesel as he executes a U-turn maneuver and rides past her. Once he is no longer in eyesight, she runs her hand down the front of her jeans and saunters towards the entrance door of Inked.

  Dropping my eyes to her stilettos, I rake them up her body. Although her entire composure still screams of wealth and superiority, her outfit and jewelry selection aren’t as elaborate as three months ago. Her fitted jeans cuddle the slender curves of her swinging hips, and her body-hugging jacket doesn’t have a chance in hell of hiding assets most men would happily ignore her poor attitude to sample.

  As the bells above the door ring into the front entrance, I stand from my slouched position and cross my arms across my chest, prepping for round three in our vicious battle. Clara’s brisk pace to the counter falters when her eyes stop scanning the premises and connect with mine. A grin curls on my lips when she mumbles “Shit” under her breath before she continues on her journey, pretending she isn’t shocked to see me standing behind the counter.

  When I tattooed her three months ago, I had long wavy brown hair that sat an inch below my shoulders. After Ryan’s little joke about my pretty boy status, I had my hair clipped two weeks ago. If I’m being totally forthright, it wasn’t just Ryan’s taunt that had me visiting the barber; it’s the fact I’ve had the same haircut since I was a senior in high school. When I updated my look, I hoped it might inspire the same thing to happen between my bedsheets. I’ll do anything if it will fix my broken cock.

  Did my plan work? No, not really. Unless you count Clara’s sudden arrival? She is only standing before me because of the combination of the glare on the shop windows and my new haircut. When she saw Diesel leave, I have no doubt she thought she was clear from running into anyone who would remember the long-winded tirade she unleashed the last time she visited our shop. How fucking wrong was she?

  “Did your lawyer stand you up?” I ask, believing that is the only reason she's been pacing at the front of the shop for the past two hours this late at night.

  She freezes like a statue before cranking her neck to peer behind her shoulder. Failing to locate anyone behind her, she returns her eyes front and center.

  “Lawyer?”

  I nod. “Yeah. To sue me for your tat? If I recall correctly, you were going to take me for every penny I had,” I say, quoting part of her rant she evoked the last time she was on these premises. “You signed an agreement, Princess. It is a binding contract–”

  “I’m not here about my tattoo,” she interrupts, her voice surprisingly strong. “I’m here about that.” She points to a display in the shop window.

  “You need to be a little more specific,” I say when the direction of her finger points to numerous tattoo displays. “There are hundreds of tattoo designs in that window.”

  Suddenly, I freeze and my brows scrunch. “If you want another tattoo, I suggest you find another tattoo artist.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want another tattoo.” Locking her icy blue eyes with mine, she mutters, “The one I have is more than enough.”

  I smirk, loving her edge of feistiness. I’ve always appreciated a woman who calls it as she sees it.

  Expelling a deep breath, Clara paces to the shop window. “I'm here about this,” she utters, pulling down the help wanted sign that’s been displayed in the window the past six months. It is so old, the thick black ink has faded to a murky gray coloring.

  She spins the sign around to face m
e. “I’m here to apply for the position you have advertised.”

  I throw back my head and laugh. I’m not talking a slight chuckle. I'm talking a full belly-clenching, I won’t need to do a sit-up for a month type of laugh. Tears spring into my eyes, and my entire body slicks with sweat. The only thing that dampens the intensity of my laughter is when I catch sight of Clara’s furious glare. Her gaze is scorching and her strong stance is even hotter than that.

  I stop laughing and take a step backward. She can’t be fucking serious. I shoot my eyes around the deserted shop, anticipating seeing some of the guys from my crew lying in wait. They must be pranking me, as there is no way this shit is real. Failing to detect another body in our presence, I shift my eyes back to Clara.

  “You’re serious?” Disbelief taints my words.

  She strengthens her take-no-shit stance before nodding. “I need a job. You have a position advertised.” She places her hand onto her cocked hip. “Hire me and it will be a win-win for us both.”

  I bite on the inside of my cheek, struggling to hold in my next bout of laughter that’s dying to break free. It’s a pointless effort.

  The instant my lips tug higher, the grim expression on her face firms. “Is this how you treat all your applicants?” she grumbles, clearly unimpressed with my response.

  Smirking, I shake my head. “But I’ve never had an applicant who looks like you.”

  Even though most women would take my statement as a compliment, the angry spark in her eyes brightens. Feeling playful, and since I have five minutes until I can officially close up the shop, I decide to play along with her little game.

  “Can you tattoo?” I use the same tone I used when handling an inquiry from a junkie for the same position earlier today.

  Her throat works hard to swallow before she shakes her head.

  “Do you know how to sterilize tattoo equipment?”

  “No,” she replies, her tone as abrupt as her pose.

  “Do you even know how to clean?”

  My lips curve high, no longer able to hold in my smile when she once again shakes her head. I’d never tell her this, but her honesty does rate her application one point higher than her earlier competitor. That guy couldn’t lie straight in bed. But even with her outscoring previous applicants, not only does she not hold the skills necessary to fulfill the position, I’m also not buying her story about why she’s suddenly arrived at Inked.

  Playing my part of manager, I connect my eyes with Clara. “As part of the management team at Inked Tattoo, I thank you for your interest in working with us, but unfortunately, you have been unsuccessful in acquiring the position advertised.” I try to keep my tone neutral. My attempts are borderline.

  She takes a step closer to the counter, engulfing my senses with her rich floral scent. “I may not know how to clean or tattoo, but I have no concerns maintaining a vigorous schedule, and I most certainly know how to handle money.”

  A ghost of a grin cracks onto my lips. “I'm sure you do, Princess, but we are not seeking a bookkeeper. We’re after an all-rounder.”

  Snagging my keys from the glass display cabinet, I make my way around the counter. Clara balks when I curl my arm around her shoulders to guide her to the door.

  Flipping the sign to closed, I open the front door of Inked and gesture for Clara to leave. I’m not at all surprised to spot a steel gray Audi parked a few spots up from Inked. Only a princess would apply for a minimum-wage job with a chariot idling at the curb.

  “There is a tattoo shop two streets over called Gunned. I’m sure its owner Tommy would love to hire a woman of your caliber to count his money.” I continue to play along with the little ruse she’s running.

  Tommy is a great tattoo artist—his shop is Inked’s number one rival—but he is a fucking sleaze and an even bigger idiot. If anyone on this side of Ravenshoe will be fooled by Clara’s sudden desire to get dirt under her French-tipped nails, it would be Tommy.

  Clara’s eyes bounce between mine. She appears to be considering citing an objection on my request for her to leave, so I'm somewhat surprised when she releases a quiet huff before stepping onto the concrete sidewalk. After securing the deadbolt, I check that everything has been shut down in the shop, grab my jacket off the coatrack, then head out the back entrance of Inked.

  With it being February, a nippy wind prickles my torso with goosebumps when I enter the poorly lit parking lot. I throw my arms into my jacket before locking the chained security door.

  Happy everything is secure, I spin on my heels and walk to my custom Harley Davidson Fat Boy parked three spaces up. My eyes roll skywards when clicking heels on concrete jingles through my ears. I don’t need to shift my eyes to know who is shadowing me. The smell of expensive floral perfume and the way the hairs on my nape prickled is all the indication I need to know who is tailing me. The bitch is back.

  “I can keep things in the shop running, freeing up your precious time so you can. . . doodle on more people.”

  I stop walking to inhale a lung-filling breath of air. After calming down the mad beat of my heart, I turn around to face my newly acquired stalker.

  “Doodle?” I arch my brow high as I glare into Clara’s stormy eyes. “You think I doodle on people?”

  Even though a pinch of fear clouds her impressively stern eyes, she ignores the grim expression on my face and nods.

  “It’s called art, Princess. It’s not fucking doodling.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snaps, glaring at me with her well-worn bitch façade firmly in place.

  “Why? Don’t you like your name, Princess?”

  She crosses her arms under her chest, hoisting her mouthwatering breasts higher in her tight, fitted shirt. “I’m not a princess, so why call me one?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “It’s either princess or stuck-up bitch. The choice is yours.”

  The veins in her neck thrum as anger lines her face. “My name is Clara. Why don’t you just refer to me as Clara?”

  “I gave you your choices.” My tone warns of my wavering constraint. I'm close to blowing my top.

  Her mouth gapes, no doubt shell-shocked at my bluntness. Scraping my hand over the stubble on my chin, I fight to rein in my anger. Although I’ve reached my quota of dealing with idiotic people for one week, Clara doesn’t deserve to solely cop the wrath of my fury. She may have an icy personality, but my poor mood was lingering hours before she arrived on the doorstep of Inked.

  “Look, you’ve had your fun, so can we please cut the shit? It’s been a long ass week, and I’m too fucking beat to be dealing with more crap right now.” I try to keep my tone sincere, but when her eyes slit into thin lines, I realize she isn’t buying my attempts at sincerity.

  Deciding I’ll never win a battle of words against a woman with a fierce tongue like Clara’s, I issue my farewell with an emotionless smirk before continuing with my original endeavor.

  I make it halfway to my bike before I hear, “What time do you want me to arrive on Monday?”

  Fuck me, this woman is worse than a leech.

  I don’t bother turning around. “I’m not hiring you.”

  I massage my throbbing temples when she asks, “Isn’t it illegal to advertise under false pretenses?”

  After exhaling a large puff, I spin around to face her. “What have I falsely advertised?”

  “Your sign said you needed help.” She stares into my eyes while running her hand down the front of her body. Even in my irate mood, I can’t miss her budded nipples braced against her fitted shirt. “I'm here, willing to help, but you're refusing to hire me. I’m not a lawyer, but that sounds illegal to me.”

  Dragging my eyes away from her chest, I clench my fists into tight balls. It’s the only defense I have to fight the urge to scream my frustration into the street. “You're not qualified for the position advertised. If you were, I'd hire you,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “Then give me a chance to prove I'm qualified.”

 
I arch my brow. “And how exactly can I do that?”

  “Put me on a trial basis. Day by day agreement. No contracts. No paperwork.” She impresses me with her on-the-spot negotiation skills.

  I nearly take a minute to contemplate her recommendation before reality smacks into me. I don’t owe her a damn thing. She should feel lucky I didn’t have her ass thrown to the curb the instant she stepped foot into my shop after the less-than-stellar rant she unleashed during her last visit.

  I lock my eyes with hers. “You're not qualified to work at Inked, but we thank you for taking the time to submit your application,” I quote, giving her the same saying I’ve given every unqualified applicant before her.

  She cocks her hip out and glares into my eyes. “You either hire me now or I’ll show up every day until you do.”

  Straddling my bike, I drift my eyes back to the teeming-with-sass blonde. “So no matter what I say, you’re gonna rock up here Monday, ready to work?”

  When she smiles and nods, I inwardly chuckle. “Alright. Good luck on Monday.”

  When her plump lips lift into a broad grin, I realize my attempt at sarcasm was lost on her. “We aren’t open on Mondays. If you had done your research on Inked before applying for the position we have advertised, you would have realized that.”

  She balks for the quickest second before stuttering, “Tuesday, then.”

  I scrub my hand over the top of my clipped hair. “I get it, alright. You’re on some soul-searching mission, hoping a few good deeds to those less fortunate will fix some of the fucked-up things you’ve done in your life, but you're barking up the wrong tree.” I twist my body to the side and point down the street. “There is a women’s shelter three blocks over. Go and offer them your charity.”

  Clara mumbles something under her breath, but she's so quiet, I missed what she said.

  Rolling her shoulders, she fixes her icy-blue eyes with my dark brown gaze. “I’m sorry for wasting your precious time. I hope you have a pleasant evening,” she says before spinning on her heels and stalking back to the street.