by C. Shell
I start back across campus in a sprint, rushing to my next before I’m locked out. My mind is a mangled mess and my heart is sliced in two, but I’ll endure this, and I’ll come out the other side stronger than before I started.
I am a survivor.
It’s what I do best.
Chapter Nine
Conner
I can’t get Emma out of my mind. Her anger was like an aphrodisiac, making my dick hard enough to cut through steel. The brunette in my bed did little to numb the irritation that’s been eating at me since Emma moved out. I don’t know what bothers me more; her leaving me, or her thinking she can move on. Neither of us has the luxury of choosing how this story ends. My father has already decided that for us.
At first, I thought Emma was bluffing. She gets hot-headed now and then, but always calms down after a day or two. It’s been weeks now, and she’s showing no signs of coming back. Her reckless behavior is messing everything up. I’ve tried giving her space, but time isn’t on my side. I’m running out of options and I have no clue how to bring her back without making her hate me more.
Mindlessly, I stroke the girl's arm while I contemplate my next move. I can’t for the life of me remember her name, not that it matters. She moves to cuddle closer to me, but I push her off. She’s here for one thing, and one thing only. No need to give her the wrong idea. Like all the others, she’s nothing but a warm hole to get my dick wet.
I don’t feel bad about it. These bitches are using me as much as I am them. They only like me for my status and the money in my bank account. They don’t give two shits about me.
The phone beside my bed goes off and I roll over to check the screen. Seeing my father’s name lite up has me jumping to attention. Pulling it off the charger, I swipe my thumb over the screen and answer it before it can go to voicemail.
“Hello, father,” I said, tipping my head back and letting it rest on the headboard.
“What’s going on with you and that girl of yours?” The venom in his voice is unmistakable. Dad never liked Emma, but he understood why I chose her. Why I would still choose her over every beautiful, pedigreed girl thrown at me.
Emma is a rare unicorn.
From day one, she stood by my side, not because of what I could give her, but because she loved me. Loyalty isn’t easy to come by. She grew up with nothing, and instead of her circumstance turning her into a hardened leech, she worked her ass off, got good grades, and earned a full scholarship to an ivy league University. Most of the kids attending here wouldn’t have made it in without their daddy’s big wallets. Emma is the exception to every rule.
And now, thanks to my stupidity, I’m on the cusp of losing her. And so much more.
I hate to see how she reacts when she finds out about the legal papers she must sign before we can say I do. My father leaves nothing to chance. Emma must agree to an NDA, a prenup, and a contract that secures that she stays married to me for a certain amount of years. The prenup isn’t a concern. Emma doesn’t care about my money, but the other papers will bother her on principle alone.
The crazy bitch loves me beyond reason. Or maybe I should say loved, as in past tense. Fuck me!
Finding another wife isn’t a problem, but getting one that will keep their hands off my money is a joke. Father condemned Emma’s poor background from the beginning. He believes her momma will stain the family name. Emma ignored him, expressing to him how she loved me for me and not for what I had. If anything, she hates that I’m rich.
The arguing stopped the day we made the deal.
My father agreed to pay for Bella’s schooling as long as Emma promised to keep her mother away from the wedding and to never let her darken our doorstep. Emma laughed, knowing that would never be a problem. Ms. Jameson loathes Emma. Every time she looks at Emma, she sees the life she could’ve had had she not of turned to drugs and liquor for comfort when her husband walked out the door.
Emma is not her mother. My girl has balls of steel and a backbone that won’t bend. It’s what first drew me to her. A woman who can stand on her own and think for herself is sexy as fuck.
“Conner!”
My dad barking out my name pulls me out of my head. Clearing my throat, I answer him. “I don’t know what you mean.” I don’t exactly what he’s heard, and I have no intention of giving him more information than needed. Someone is running their mouth about our break-up, but that doesn’t mean he knows everything. “Please elaborate?”
I can hear ice hitting a glass in the background. I can imagine my father sitting at his big desk working late with a tumbler of bourbon within reach. Some things never change. “Is the wedding off?”
The raw anger in his tone squeezes at my chest, making each inhale difficult. My heart rate spikes with worry. “Not at all. Things between us are as they should be.” It’s a small lie. Technically, it’s on pause because despite what Emma thinks, she will become my wife come next fall. One way or another, she is walking down that damn isle.
“I’m hearing different,” he fires back. “Word is that she has moved back to the dorms. Do I need to remind you what’s at stake?”
“No, sir,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “You remind me of that every time we talk. That and how I’m to do as told so I don’t embarrass the family name.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Pissing my father off isn’t smart. He might be pushing sixty, but he’s a vindictive son-of-a-bitch. Until I pass the bar and can stand on my own two feet, he holds all the cards which include my large inheritance from my grandfather.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” he shouts back. “I don’t know what the hell you did to screw up this arrangement, but you better get your head out of your ass and fix it. If the rumors are reaching me that your engagement is off, then you can rest assured the partners are hearing the same thing”
Fuck, this is bad.
I swallow hard, my Adam’s apple jumping with the movement. I’ve come too far to lose it all over some cheap pussy. Pushing my pride aside, I confide in the man who’s responsible for half my DNA. “Emma’s upset with me,” I tell him, feeling like a chump. I hate going to him for help, but I don’t know what else to do. “I’m fixing the problem, but I could use your help with keeping the rumors down at the firm until I have it worked out.”
There is a long pause before my dad speaks. “Will you be attending your mother’s dinner party this weekend? An appearance would help calm the board.”
I run a hand through my hair and glance over at the sleeping girl beside me. Thank fuck she hadn’t woken or made a sound. That would be the proverbial nail in my coffin. Standing, I walk into the other room just in case she does. “Doubtful,” I tell him, my voice detached. “I will need another week to get everything back on track.”
My dad might be a sadistic prick, but the little boy in me still wants to please him. The disappointment in his tone flays me in half. “Get that girl of yours in line,” he demands “I understand more than most the thrill of taming a filly, son, but Emma and her family has been nothing but trouble from the start. You have one week and not a day more to fix this mess before I wash my hands of the entire situation.”
I don’t have time to defend myself before the line goes dead. When he says situation, what he really means is me. My entire future and relationship with my father are riding on Emma not being a cunt. The more I think about the hell she’s putting me through, the angrier I get. I’m fuming by the time I make it back to my bedroom.
Reaching over, I slap the sleeping brunette on the ass. “Get up,” I bark. “It’s time for you to go.” She moans her protests and rolls over, showing off her tits and freshly waxed pussy as if that will entice me to keep her around. Not happening. She was a good fuck, but I’m not interested in going back for seconds. I give her all of three minutes to get dressed before throwing her ass out the door.
With no more distractions around, I make myself a strong drink, grab my phone off the table, and get
to work.
I told her I didn’t want to be the bad guy, but with my back against the wall, I’m not left with many other options. I’ve got a few aces up my sleeve.
By the time I’m done with Emma, she will be begging me to take her back.
Chapter Ten
Emma
My stomach swirls with unease the closer we get to our destination. “I don’t know if I can do this. Marking my body for eternity is a big deal.”
“It’s no worse than climbing a mountain or jumping out of a plane,” she argues. “People do scarier things all the time. You need to chill out.”
“What if the tattoo artist messes up? He could sneeze and stab me with his gun. I would have a large unrecognizable ink spot on my skin for the rest of my life,” I whine.
Becca laughs. “Stop being a baby. No one is making you do this,” she argues. “This was your idea,” she reminds me. “Tattoos come in all sizes. You can get one as large or small as you like.”
“Definitely small,” I mumble. “I can do small.” I think about that for a bit, liking the idea more and more. “What if I get something little on my finger? People would think that it is a birthmark or maybe they would assume that my pen leaked. Only you and I would know the truth. That could be fun.”
Becca bursts out laughing, her whole body shaking with the motion. “I’ll give you an A for creativity, but no, you’re not doing that. That’s crazy, even for you.” Becca turns to me, excitement making her eyes shine. “You have no clue how lucky you are that I was able to get you an appointment with Ashton Gibson. I’ve done my research on him, and he’s the best of the best.”
I wring my hands together in my lap as my nerves spiral. If these damn butterflies in my stomach don’t die down, I’m going to be sick. Taking a deep breath, I concentrate on our conversation. “If he’s so great, why didn’t you make the appointment for yourself?”
“Because,” she says, drawing out the word. “I wanted your first tattoo experience to be a good one. Mistakes aren’t common, but they can happen. It’s always best to be diligent in who you pick to do your ink.”
The idea of someone misspelling a word or putting the wrong image permanently on my skin has me breaking out in a cold sweat. That would be my luck. I can just see it now, the word your instead of you’re plastered on my back until the day I die.
My mind continues imagining all the bad things that could go down when we pull up to a quaint two-story brick building with a big striped awning on the front. Lit up in the front window is a blue neon sign that reads Ink Slingers.
I shift in my seat, antsy and ready to get this over with. I watched videos on the web last night on the aftercare of a tattoo and what to do should something go wrong. I’m prepared as I’ll ever be.
Walking on wobbly legs, I get out of the car and follow Becca through the front door. From what I’ve seen on television shows, I expected the inside of the shop to be dark with music blaring and colorful photos covering the walls of inked body parts. This place is nothing like that.
I glance around, my mouth agape. The entrance reminds me of an upscale office building with red walls accented with black trim, two large sleek leather couches, and a modern coffee table made from metal. I focus on the professionally framed photos of tattoo designs strategically placed on the walls so you can see them no matter what part of the room you’re in.
Everything is clean and in order. I expected there to be a harsh astringent smell like you find in hospitals, but we’re greeted with a pleasing citrus scent like fresh oranges. It’s nice.
A pretty girl sitting behind an industrial type desk calls to us with a warm smile. “Welcome to Ink Slingers. Do you have an appointment?”
Becca speaks up for us both, and I happily let her take the lead. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I might throw up. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. I can handle some pain and although I don’t enjoy needles, they don’t scare me. What freaks me out is putting all my faith in a stranger.
“My name is Becca Lewis and my friend here is Emma Jameson. She has a one o’clock appointment with Mr. Gibson for a tattoo and I have an appointment with Freddy to get another piercing done.”
“Wonderful,” the girl replies. She’s got on a strapless top which showcases her chest piece. I’m not talking about her boobs, although those look nice and perky, I’m talking about the tattoo etched on her chest. I don’t want to appear creepy, but I can’t stop staring at it. The tattoo is an intricate design of colorful wild roses interweaved with gnarly looking jagged thorns. The lines are clean and crisp, and the detail is complex. It’s incredible. The receptionist notices my unfiltered gawking and smiles. “You like my piece?
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her. “I can’t imagine the number of hours it took to create something like that.”
“Six in total,” she sighs as if remembering the moment fondly. “It should have only taken four, but I kept needing a break. Ashton was so patient with me. A true Saint. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch this skin.”
A hundred thoughts hit me at once. The most prominent one is that this girl has a massive crush on her boss. It is wrong of me to pass judgment on her, but come on! Talk about a cliché. Falling for your boss is just asking for trouble. Nothing good ever comes from that kind of situation.
My amused gaze darts back to Becca. “I’m going to go look at the art on the walls. I need inspiration for what I want to get done.”
The receptionist flashes me smile, but it doesn’t look as genuine as it did when we first arrived. “I didn’t realize this was your first time,” she says. “We have several portfolios on the table for you to look through. You’re all checked in now, so relax and I’ll let you when they’re ready for you.”
Yanking Becca down beside me on one of the plush leather couches, I give her a questioning look. “This place is fancy as fuck. How did you get me an appointment with the head artist so easily?”
She waves off my concern. “I wish I could take all the credit, but it wasn’t me,” she confesses. “Patrick is the one you should be thanking. He knows this Ashton guy through one of his frat brothers. Ashton owed him a favor after losing his ass in one of their monthly poker games. Long story short, Patrick cashed in on that favor and here we are.”
Grabbing one of the throw pillows, I place it in my lap and hold on to it tightly to keep my fingers from fidgeting. “What do you think this will cost me?” There is nothing worse than having to admit that you’re a broke bitch, but with Conner’s father threatening to withhold my sister’s tuition money, I can’t afford to splurge on myself right now. “Judging by the looks of this place, the owner must charge a pretty penny for this work.”
Becca leans closer as if to tell me a secret. “Already taken care of. I was so excited when you agreed to come with me, I paid ahead for both of us. It’s my gift to you.” Her head tilts in thought. “I wouldn’t try getting anything that takes over two hours of work. I didn’t pay enough to cover something that big.”
If this were coming from anyone else, I might feel like a charity case. Luckily, I know Becca means well. She’s a giver. I’m always finding random gift cards in my purse for food and shopping that she sneaks in when I’m not looking. An objection is on the tip of my tongue, but one look at Becca’s face has me snapping my mouth closed.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling her into a side hug. “And no worries about the size. I told you it had to be small. Anything over half an hour might put me into shock. I’ll be choosing something simple and easy.”
I don’t add that I’m still internally freaking out about getting something etched on me for life. It might not seem like it, but I love tattoos. At least on other people. For whatever reason, I never saw myself with one. The aftercare part and keeping it clean so it doesn’t get infected worries me. When I was in junior high school, my boyfriend got a homemade tattoo of a skull on his back. It became red and got infected. He ignored it and ended up in the hospital for a we
ek. It left an impression on me. I think that’s where my main fear stems from.
“What are you planning on getting?” Becca inquires. “You’ve never said.” Picking up the spiral portfolio from the table beside her, she flips through it.
The portfolio is filled with drawings of dragons, kittens, geometric designs, snakes, and even an old lady that I swear could be my grandmother. From color to size, each design is unique. Whoever drew these has a steady hand and an eye for detail.
“You’ll see,” I tell her, a smirk teasing my lips. “It’s a surprise.”
I’ve racked my brain for the last few days trying to come up with something that I’ll still be proud of fifty years from now. I’ve narrowed my list to either a butterfly emerging from a cocoon or a cardinal soaring through the sky. To me, they both represent independence and breaking free from restraints.
Becca claps her hands in glee. “I love surprises,” she coos. “Will you give me at least one hint?”
“Nope,” I answer, popping the P.
Becca narrows her eyes and but never gets the chance to give me a hard time because the pretty receptionist returns just in time to announce that Mr. Gibson is ready for me. With my heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I stand and move over to where the girl is waiting.
With forced enthusiasm, I glance back at Becca one last time. “Wish me luck?” I tell her.
Becca’s brows raise, a little smile dancing on her lips. “You don’t need, luck babe. You’ve got the best tattoo artist this side of the Mississippi. Stop worrying and go get something sexy inked on that pretty skin of yours.”
I follow the receptionist down a long hall that has several closed doors jutting off it from each side. Halls like this normally have me feeling claustrophobic, but the décor is so tastefully done with beautiful artwork, cream-colored walls trimmed in gray, with a high ceiling boasting bright chandeliers that I don’t mind it. My ears pick up as heavy base dances in the air, the sound becoming louder the further we go.
