Roosted

by Brooke May

  I just had to wear white today.

  Glancing up at the clock on the bland white wall, I find I have a few minutes to try to get the stain out before it has a chance to set in. Even without any real chance of it doing any good, I still have to try.

  Slamming the cup into the bin, I storm out and down the hallway to the restrooms while steering clear of any other people. The bathroom door slams against the wall as I enter and rush to the sink. Starting the water, I grab a massive wad of paper towels and flip my tie over my shoulder.

  After I get the towels wet, I try to work the stain out, but the wet paper is weak and cheap. Vigorously scrubbing the shirt while wearing it is not working, so I quickly undo the buttons, removing it and my tie to spread it out on the counter, and get the majority of the stain out. This leaves me shirtless, exposing every single inked part of me. No one here seems to appreciate the artwork on my skin. My ink tells my story and is a part of me just as much as my appendages.

  I’m sure if anyone were to walk in right now, they would think I was some thug in the wrong building.

  Those people can fuck off.

  Rubbing cold water and patting the fabric dry before doing it all over again, I pull a little more out at a time. It isn’t going to be as crisp or as clean as it was when I put it on this morning, but it will have to do.

  Unlike most men, I know how to do my damn washing properly. I paid attention to my mum growing up. She had given up on doing any of my washing, including my race clothes, around the time I was fourteen. I learned to treat, soak, and care for everything I owned.

  The bathroom has a slight chill that bites into my skin, causing it to bubble with gooseflesh, but I don’t pay attention. Getting the stain out is far more important than being at a comfortable temperature.

  Even the door opening and closing doesn’t pull my attention away from my shirt as I continue to pat it dry. I need to get it back on and get the hell in gear so I’m not late for my meeting.

  “Nice ink, bro.” I startle.

  Let me tell you this, boys and girls, that does not happen often. I usually pay attention to shit, but I’m just not at the moment. Looking up, I find a man around my age, someone I am sure does not work here. His dark blue skinny jeans and black leather jacket along with his tussled black hair and ink around his neck are the only indications I need to know.

  He is either a good girl’s wild attempt to settle a bad boy or he’s a client. I’m going with the former. He is smug, douche-like.

  How can I tell, you ask?

  Look how he stands, assessing my ink. Wearing what you women would call a shit-eating grin on his face, he has an air around him that smells strangely familiar to pompous prick.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, returning my focus back to my shirt. I have less than fifteen minutes to get my look together, get back to my desk, send my proposal, and get my arse upstairs.

  “Where did you get your work done?” His voice flows from my right ear to my left where the urinals are located.

  “Not here.” I don’t care to have pleasantries with a man who is taking a fucking leak and all while his hands are on his junk. I won’t do it with a friend; I’m sure as hell not doing it with a stranger.

  “That’s cool.” Silence aside from his steady stream of piss fills the room, and I’m hoping he’s finished talking.

  The stains aren’t coming out anymore, so I’ll have to wear my vest over it. Thankfully, my tie was spared.

  “You should check out Inked Boys downtown. They’ve done all my work.”

  Seriously?

  Shut up and take your piss.

  “That’s nice, but I’m not looking to expand.” Pissed, I shove my arms into the sleeves and button it back up before replacing my tie.

  “I didn’t think they hired people who had tats at a stuffy place like this. Good to see not everyone is an uptight asshole,” he quips, and I’m not sure—nor do I care—if he is being sarcastic.

  “I think I’m just a mercy employee.” With that, I straighten my appearance and get ready to leave the restroom. This guy doesn’t know me, and I don’t feel like being pleasant. He isn’t one of my clients; I won’t see him again.

  “You a racer? The pinup chick on your arm is kickass.” Finally finished with his piss, he comes over to the counter.

  Of course, he just had to see that one. Everyone who sees my tattoos asks me that. Only a few know the truth.

  That isn’t my life anymore.

  All my tattoos are related to my old life in one way or another. The pinup girl was an impulse, and the artist did a ripper job making her look like the knockout I wanted at the time. I still love having her on my arm even though I don’t race anymore. I could have easily saved up and had most of my work covered or removed, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. They remind me of the best times in my life, aside from the one in the middle of my chest.

  “No.” Turning, I stride out of the restroom without another word, not caring how insanely rude I am being. I make it back to my desk with enough time to send both the proposal and the PowerPoint up to the conference room, grab my vest, and head to the bank of lifts.

  The office is abuzz as I make my way to the lifts on the back wall and hit the button repeatedly in my rush. No one pays any attention to me, unless I’m somehow fucking something up. Thankfully, most of them pay enough attention to stay out of my way when I’m stomping around.

  Like I am today.

  Getting in, I take a deep breath to find the smell of coffee lingering in the air around me. I’ll take that over the bland, boring smells in the office.

  The soothing music floating through the air does nothing to take the edge off my already fucked-up day. What I really need is a night of taking shots off a woman who could keep me busy for the rest of the night.

  What you need more of is track time.

  I audibly growl at the wayward thought. I haven’t been on a bike in years, but I still can’t suppress the craving for speed and the thrill of riding.

  The slow jerk of the lift coming to a stop is the last jolt I get before I step into the conference room and hopefully keep my job. This floor is far quieter than the one I work on because it’s only administration and conference rooms for meetings like the one I’m about to enter.

  As I get closer to conference room B, the shrill sound of Candy’s fake laugh grinds on the last of my nerves.

  You can get through this.

  Whereas I’m a mercy employee, Candy was given her fucking job, and she keeps it all because of Daddy. She has the same education as I do, kind of, but her dad is one of the owners, which means when her modeling career didn’t pan out, he gave her the job. Not sure what kind of modeling she did, but I know it wasn’t fashion. I always thought it was possibly modeling for a new blow-up doll because she certainly looks like one.

  Steadying my nerves with a deep inhale, I pull the door open and step in. Candy perches on the edge of the long, polished black table. She has her long, toned, and tanned legs crossed at the ankles as she leans closer to the person standing at her side.

  I want to vomit or snort—something that expresses my disgust at the scene. I cannot believe I was a willing recipient of her so-called flirting. And worse of all is I fell for it, and it ruined me.

  Her giggling comes to a halt as the door clicks behind me and her neon blond hair whips around her face as she looks at me.

  Yes, I said neon. It glows in the dark with black lights. Believe me, I’ve been there.

  “Axle, you’re early.” Hopping off the table, she straightens her suit jacket, making a show out of accentuating certain features.

  “Hmph.” I’m not early, but I’m not late either. I’m that rare thing they like to call on time. Walking past her, I finally take note of the other person in the room. A grin plays across the face of the same man I just saw in the restroom. His green eyes are alight with mischief as he offers me his hand.

  “Parker Bartin.”

  Fuck my luck.
This makes perfect sense now.

  Parker Bartin, one-half of the Piston Motor Sports CEO twins, is the trick and freestyle rider of the duo. From what Jax has said, he is immature yet easy going, unlike his sister.

  “Axle Ryan.” I shake his hand firmly before releasing it. Striding past them , I head to the printer where, thankfully, my proposal sits and begin setting up my PowerPoint.

  “I thought you had an accent.” Candy is completely forgotten now with the rapture in his voice as he follows me to the end of the table where I’m working. I’m sure this doesn’t please her in the least.

  “Australian.” I mutter loud enough for him to hear while I get my shit together. Even though I don’t have an accent, it’s everyone else thinks I do. Women love it.

  “I’ll be right back, Mr. Bartin …”

  “Ah, please, love, call me Parker.” It’s a guy thing, I tell ya. I can smell a player, aka a douchebag, coming a mile away, and Parker definitely has the whole scent to him. This is why I roll my eyes when Candy giggles again. Why can’t women see how big of a tool some guys can be? This makes me grateful I taught Cilla how to pick them better than other women do.

  “Parker,” she corrects. “Is there anything I could bring you? Water? Coffee?”

  Hear that pause? That’s right; she is offering more than just a drink. She is always going above and beyond for the call of good service. Oh, what her dad doesn’t know. Probably a good thing; the man would keel over.

  “Water would be a pleasure, love.” I look up from the computer screen because it isn’t every day one gets to see Candy reduced to mush around a man. She makes them melt, not the other way around. And sure as shit, she is melting at his smile. “And one for my sister, too.”

  “Oh, of course.” Her breathy voice makes me flinch, and now, I have the sudden urge to dump sizzling coffee over my head. “Be right back.” Nix that, make it fuel and bring a match.

  I turn my attention back to the screen and bring up the PowerPoint on the wall behind me. I do my best to zone out and get into the mood for presenting the shit out of this.

  Maybe today will finally be the day.

  “So …” Parker takes a seat in one of the chairs closest to me. “Does she taste as good as her name does on my lips?”

  What do you really say to that? The guy has no game. I completely get why Jax called him childish now. Licking my lips, I lean back in the swivel chair, one that doesn’t sound like a dying animal under my weight, and shake my head. “No.”

  “Oh? You’ve had a taste?” He comes closer, wanting to know more of the juicy details.

  “Yes, and I regret it every day. That woman gets around far too much.”

  I’m not sure why I’m telling him any of this. Maybe it’s my need to push my own limits hereby talking badly about the boss’s daughter, or maybe it is just to see if Candy will finally get what is coming to her by Parker playing with her own game against her.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Because it is a very bad idea.” Standing, I push my chair back in and grab the controller to operate the PowerPoint. “Don’t waste your time on that one, mate.”

  “I’m not very good with warnings.” His smile grows as he leans back in his seat and folds his hands behind his head.

  Before I can warn him off any more, movement catches my eye, and I find Candy making her way back toward the room. I decide to change my mind. If the fucker won’t listen to me, then he’ll have to find out on his own.

  “Then I wish you the best of luck.” I wave in her general direction and turn away from the table to admire my PowerPoint masterpiece.

  Not as fun as rebuilding a motor but it will do.

  “Here you go, Parker.” Shivers rattle through my entire body at her purring, and as I turn back around, I find Candy’s fake tits pushed up even higher in her bra. She must have taken a moment in the break room to adjust her plastic balloons and undo an extra button.

  And her father is proud of the woman she has become.

  What does the man know? He is never here and is drunk half of the time.

  I grunt a laugh to myself. Candy eyes me before taking a seat across the table from Parker.

  “Should we just start?” She flips her wrist and tries not to wrinkle her nose at the time. Everyone is here on time aside from Parker’s sister.

  Parker glances at his phone while I don’t give a shit to check the time myself. I have an excellent internal clock; I know we are on time.

  “Sure, Paige is usually late. I can get us started until she shows.”

  Briefly bowing her head to him, Candy’s blue-green eyes shoot to me with a look saying, “Get the show on the road.”

  Dance monkey. Dance!

  That’s what I see in her gaze because I’m the smartarse monkey who makes her look good.

  “Right.” Clearing my throat, I start my presentation. Diving in, I discuss the benefits of going with Havre and Bell; it’s the same thing we con our clients into at the beginning of meetings like this one. I discuss the enormous amount of errors we discovered when going through the book work.

  And when I say we, I mean me.

  After discovering errors on the first couple of spreadsheets, I realized that was before their former accountant started to embezzle from them.

  I’m just getting into the projected results we, as a company, could make and help with as their accountants when shouts and banging from the hallway startle the three of us, pausing my presentation.

  “I can get there myself, jackass!” The muffled voice sounds distinctly female. It is a sultry, smoky voice that muddles my thoughts and rampages through my body.

  “Miss, please—”

  “Don’t you fucking dare Miss me!”

  “I’m sorry, but if you can’t control—”

  “Back the fuck off; I know where I’m going, fuck face.”

  “Please, I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “See. Conference room B. I told you I would find it.”

  Parker’s head drops to the table with a thud followed by a sigh of defeat. “That would be Paige.”

  The door swings violently open, causing it to slam into the wall with a loud and unnecessary bang. When I finally focus on the woman who is Paige Bartin, I find I’m not expecting the angle of death who is standing in the doorway.

  Chapter Two

  I’m floored, at a complete loss for words by the woman standing in the doorway. Black dominates her entire look. From her knee-high biker boots to the tight-as-fucking-shit dress to the leather jacket hanging off her bare shoulders and ending at her jet black hair, the woman is her own magnum opus.

  She’s crossed her arms, yet they still reveal some skin, and I find only one of her shoulders and upper arms covered in ink. The grayscale collage moves under the thin strap of her dress to her neck and disappears into her hairline.

  My mouth has gone dry. Every shitty thing that has hit me today vanishes with the storm behind this woman’s eyes.

  Her vibrant sea green eyes scan the room, looking at each of us in turn before she settles on me. One side of her full, bright red lips quirks as she makes her way into the room, unzipping the rest of her jacket before taking a seat next to her brother. The whole time, her eyes remain locked on me. Her gaze is expressionless aside from the slightest grin playing on her lips.

  Ink decorates her left arm, starting at her fingers. Most of it is black and white with small splashes of red. It has a vibe to it that I have never experienced before when I look at the work on others’ bodies.

  An old English font spells RIDE on her knuckles; slightly faded from the wear they take in everyday life. She has two Old West pistols crossed above the letters on the back of her hand with smoke coming out of both barrels. Going up her arm is a scroll with words I can’t quite make out from my distance, and I crave to read them. Above the scroll, is a shock on her elbow drawn to look like a cyborg part of her.

  I find it strangely similar
to the work on my own forearm, but in a different style and with no color on it. Attached to the top of the shock is a melting skull. It’s violent for a woman’s beautiful, flawless skin but feels so perfect. Her sleeve work ends at her shoulder with a deteriorating compass that takes up most of the space. Ivy fills all the bare skin between the tattoos, and something else starts on her shoulder and disappears behind her.

  I ache to discover what it is.

  “About damn time you got here.” Parker nudges his sister, but it doesn’t break the spell this siren has me under. She breaks it herself when her heavily darkened eyes narrow and turn on her brother. Her dark makeup causes her eyes to look alien on her face.

  “You said nine; it’s fucking nine, asshat.” Leaning back, she kicks her boots up, and they knock on the wood table as she crosses them and makes herself comfortable. It’s then I find more ink as my eyes take in her lovely legs, landing me on the grayscale canvas on her right leg.

  Snake skin, another scroll, and a heart are all I can make out. My hand tightening around the clicker forces me out of my blatant staring of my perspective client’s legs.

  Wonder what other parts of her have tats?

  Looking back at her heart-shape face, I wait as Parker introduces her to Candy. She has a soft face with an olive skin tone. Her bright red lips and her dark eye makeup make her far sexier and the opposite of the Barbie—Candy—seated across from her.

  Her sleek black hair hangs well past the middle of her back. Her dark bangs do nothing to hide her beauty; they only intensify her green eyes and pull me in more.

  Paige is a natural beauty, comfortable in her skin, and doesn’t try to make herself stand out, at least I hope so. Candy has always gone above and beyond to make herself look good.

  “And this is Axle Ryan from Australia.” Parker’s piss-poor attempt at my accent pulls me from my ogling of his breathtaking sister. I don’t even acknowledge his shitty attempt at something I would normally snarl at.

  “Hey.” Stumbling forward to offer my hand, I feel like a fucking teenager trying to play it cool around the girl he likes.

  I’m a fucking dipshit.