INK

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Don’t call me Yvette! And don’t pretend like you’ve been going without,” she hissed. “I know exactly what your appetite is.”

  “I do not cheat on my girlfriends.” And he’d had blue balls for months because of it. Ginger would wind him up, turn him on, and then piss him off. He didn’t know what she got out of it, but he was finished trying to figure it out. She was a bad habit. One he’d been needing to break for months.

  “I am not your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ox stood straight. “Bullshit relationship definitions and all that. We’ve been living together for a year. Get the fuck over yourself. I didn’t cheat on you. Frankly, being your man is too exhausting. I don’t have time for anything but you and work.”

  “And your precious mommy, don’t forget about—”

  “Are you talking shit about my mom?” Ox bent down and got in Ginger’s face. He’d had it with the drama. “My mother? Who tried to treat you like a part of my life until you pissed her off one too many times? You do not talk shit about my mom, Yvette.”

  “Stop calling me Yvette.” Her beautiful mouth was twisted and mean. “I should never have told you that.”

  “Don’t worry. After today, I’m going to forget all your names.”

  She smirked. “You wish.”

  Ox folded his arms over his chest. At any moment, she was going to bat her eyes and remind him of those times over a year ago when she’d been hilarious and fun and easy to laugh with. That Ginger had lasted as long as it had taken him to move in. Though it had been her suggestion they share the apartment over the shop when the lease on his apartment had been up, she’d changed completely once they were in the same space.

  She let a touch of hurt creep into her eyes. “Ox—”

  “Don’t. I’m done. I’m fucking done. We are not right for each other. I admire the hell out of your talent, and I hope you get your shit together and figure out whatever hang-ups are messing with your head, but I do not want to be in a relationship of any kind with you. I don’t want to work for you. I don’t want to know you.”

  Cut her off. Keep her out. She’d figured out his buttons, and he was tired of feeling guilty about leaving her.

  What he needed was a nice quiet girl like the one across the street. Book Girl was probably steady and dependable. She’d have a smile on her face in the morning and make him coffee just to be nice. She might even have a sense of humor. She’d like his mom and his mom would like her. He might be bored to death, but at least he wouldn’t worry about his bodily safety after he fell asleep at night.

  Of course, that was never the kind of girl he went for. Because he was an idiot.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Book Girl. Poor thing was staring out the window just like she had the week before when Ginger had started another fight. She was probably wondering what kind of lunatic neighbors from 7th Avenue she’d been stuck with when she’d bought Betsy’s nice shop on Main Street.

  “I’ll leave your stuff by the front door,” Ginger said. “I want you out.”

  “Fine.” He was still staring at the bookstore. He’d seen people moving in and out all week. He’d been curious. Of course, watching them had spun Ginger into another jealous tirade. “Leave it by the front door and I’ll get it.”

  “Good!” Ginger whirled around and stomped back into Bombshell.

  A few minutes later, Russ walked out. The man was a friend; he was also Ginger’s employee. He was an artist who also ran the office, and he was clearly conflicted. His hooded eyes had a hangdog expression and there was sweat on his forehead.

  “Hey—”

  “Don’t.” Ox held up a hand before Russ could say anything else. “I’m not gonna make a big deal about it. I’m relieved more than pissed.”

  “What are you gonna do? Go back to the ranch?”

  “I don’t know.” He bent and picked up a pair of jeans. “For now. I’m sure my mom and Melissa could use the help. But I don’t want to live in my sister’s house forever. I’ll find a place.”

  “You think your clients will come with you?”

  Ox had already grabbed the small book where he kept his client list. “Most of ’em, but I gotta find a place to set up, you know? Anyone have space right now?”

  Russ scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I don’t know, man. I think everyone’s pretty full. Jolie’s has four guys. I think Sacred Heart is full too, but I’ll ask around.”

  “Thanks.” Ox picked up a shirt and took an undershirt from the helpful—and amused—pedestrian crossing the sidewalk. “Let me know. For now I gotta go get some boxes from Book Girl over there.”

  “The girl in the bookshop?” Russ narrowed his eyes. “You’re moving up.”

  “She offered me some boxes,” Ox said. “That’s all. Ginger’s imagining things.” Not that he hadn’t been looking, but everyone looked, right?

  “Book Girl looks sweet, man.” Russ blew kisses at him. “I know what kinda sweet tooth you got.”

  “Shut up, Russ.”

  “Sweet tastes extra good after you’ve had that much sour.”

  Ginger opened a window upstairs and yelled, “Russ, am I paying you to talk to unemployed deadbeats?”

  Russ rolled his eyes and walked back in the shop while Ox raised his hand to Ginger in a one-fingered salute.

  Moving on, Miles Oxford. Moving on and moving up.

  Hopefully.

  Chapter Five

  A few minutes after Ginger and Ox walked across the street, Ox walked back carrying a bundle of clothes. His expression was weary. And annoyed. This time when he opened the door, he poked his head in politely. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  “I’m sorry about the scene earlier.”

  “Not your fault.” Emmie waved him in from the stool behind the counter she’d set up when she moved the desk back to the office. “I put a couple of boxes by the door.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” He dumped the armful of clothes in one then walked outside again and began picking up the clothes that Ginger had flung on the sidewalk.

  “Things look a little calmer over there,” Emmie called.

  “For now.” He walked back in. “You know the thing about artists being temperamental?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ginger likes to play into that.”

  Emmie smiled. “You called her Yvette.”

  “That’s her real name, but don’t use it. She told me in confidence and I shouldn’t have called her that in front of other people.”

  Emmie leaned her chin on her hand. “You know, for an ex-boyfriend whose clothes are currently being thrown out a window, you seem awfully considerate.”

  Ox’s head spun around. “The fuck?”

  He stormed out the door and nearly walked into traffic before he made it across and started catching his stuff. After a few more shouts, he walked back to the store.

  Emmie was trying really hard not to laugh. “So, I’m guessing this will not be another break up and make up, huh?”

  “No.” He let out a rueful laugh and tossed a sweatshirt in a box. “I am not cut out for that level of drama… Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Emmie.”

  “I'm Ox. Miles Oxford, but everyone calls me Ox. You’re a friend of Daisy’s, right?”

  “I am.”

  “She’s a sweetheart. Spider’s a lucky guy.”

  “You know Spider?”

  “Everyone knows Spider. How many guys have a giant spider inked on their head?”

  “Only one, as far as I know.”

  “Exactly.” Ox narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised you know Spider.”

  Emmie raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I…” He motioned vaguely to her. “You just don’t seem like…”

  …the type to know a quiet legend in the tattoo world.

  Emmie didn’t say it. It was none of Ox’s business that Spider had been her tattoo artist for seven years and Emmie was the reason that Spide
r and Daisy had met. “Daisy and her family have rented Café Maya from my grandma for years.”

  “You’re Betsy’s granddaughter!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Of course you know Daisy and Spider.”

  “You knew my grandma?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her another half smile. “Betsy was friends with my mom. She’s a big reader.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She taught middle school out in Oakville.” Ox wandered over to the bookshelves to peruse the books Emmie had been sorting. He picked up a battered copy of Hatchet. “Man, I loved this book hard. First book I really got hooked on.”

  Emmie was silently shocked and delighted. “You’re a reader?”

  Ox glanced down at his jeans and undershirt, then back up to Emmie. “Don’t I look like one?”

  “Everyone looks like a reader to someone who sells books.” Emmie wondered why she was completely comfortable with this giant guy who had barged into her shop and brought so much chaos. His clothes were still flying out the window on the second floor across the street, but he was calmly perusing her books. “I try not to make assumptions.”

  He scratched the top of his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve read anything other than trade magazines. When I was a kid, I lived in the country, so there wasn’t much to do other than read.” He tapped the paperback in his hand. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been hooked on anything like I was hooked on this book. I got so into it I forgot to eat. I stayed up all night—”

  “You were in another world,” Emmie said. “Who wants to leave an adventure like that?”

  Ox smiled slowly. “Exactly.”

  His smile did things to her stomach, and Emmie’s nerves decided to reappear. “Sounds like you need to start reading again.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Clothes were still flying out the window. “Since I don’t have a girlfriend anymore and I’m unemployed, I’ll probably have the time.”

  “I bet I could find something you’ll love as much as Hatchet.”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, probably not. I mean”—she gestured to the paperback—“you never forget your first love. But there are some pretty great modern survival stories. Is that what you liked?”

  “Yeah, I read ’em all. Hatchet. Island of the Blue Dolphins. My Side of the Mountain.” He tapped the book and stared at the bookshelves. “Man, I wanted a pet hawk. But who doesn’t want a pet hawk, right?”

  Emmie was shocked and charmed. Who was this guy? He looked like the last person on earth who would reminisce about childhood reading, but he seemed just as comfortable talking about books as he did joking with the bikers who parked in front of Bombshell.

  “It looks like she might be winding down,” Ox said, glancing out the window. “I didn’t keep that much stuff at her place. Let me go grab the rest and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  You can stay in my hair.

  “Sure.” She waved her hand. “I’m just here. Sorting stuff. And cleaning. I needed some excitement.”

  “Yeah, there’s no lack of excitement over at Bombshell. That’s probably why I stuck it out for so long.”

  Emmie sighed as she watched her excitement walk out the door.

  That’s why she couldn’t find a guy who kissed her the way Ox kissed Ginger. Emmie was the opposite of exciting. She was sensible and dependable. She was the comfy sweater on a rainy day, not the glamorous cocktail dress or the sexy shoes that looked so amazing you wore them even when they pinched your toes.

  She watched Ox picking up the last of his clothes, chatting and laughing with people who passed him on the street, and wondered what it would be like to have just a little of that excitement in her life. Would it be invigorating or exhausting?

  By the time he returned, Emmie’s nerves had calmed down because she was resigned to never seeing Miles Oxford again. He’d move on and find some other exciting person to kiss, and Main Street would be much less scenic, if a little quieter.

  “So I was thinking,” Ox said as he dropped the rest of his clothes in the boxes. “Would you mind if I left these overnight? I have a truck out at my sister’s ranch, but I rode my bike here this morning.”

  “Oh sure, that’s cool. What kind of bike do you have? I sold my car, so I was thinking about getting one of those cruisers they sell down at Valley Cycle.”

  He grinned. “Mine’s a Harley type of bike.”

  “Oh.” Her face heated up. “Of course.” Of course he drove a motorcycle. Because guys who were tattooed muscle gods like Miles Oxford drove rumbly motorcycles with lots of chrome. Probably.

  “I also need to box up my gear over at Bombshell. Can I bring it over here to store until I can get my truck? If it’s a pain in the ass—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Emmie said. “Like I said, I’m just cleaning and stuff. I’ll be here.”

  He pulled out his phone. “Let me get your number. That way if I get delayed at the ranch, I can let you know so you’re not waiting around.”

  “Who said I was going to wait around for you?”

  Ox’s eyebrows went up. “Fair enough. I’d still prefer to get your number. That way I can make sure you’re here when I come back.”

  She walked over, took his phone, punched in her number, then waited while he dialed her phone to grab his. “There.” She held up his digits on the screen. “We’re connected.”

  “So we are.” He took his phone and started typing. “And I am saving your number as… Emmie. Last name… Book Girl.”

  Her face went hot again. “For future reference, I prefer texting to calling unless it’s an important conversation, and then you probably shouldn’t be talking on the phone anyway because face-to-face conversations are better.”

  He looked down. “Are they?”

  “A lot of nuance is lost over the phone.”

  “But not in texts?”

  “That’s what emojis are for.” Emmie suddenly realized how close they were standing. She could feel the heat from his body.

  Ox’s voice was quiet. “You’re kind of a little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I was going to say you’re overgrown.” Her face was on fire, but she couldn’t stop her mouth. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder. If he lifted his arm, he could probably rest his elbow on Emmie’s head.

  “I need to go pack up my gear,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any tattoos? Do you want any?”

  Emmie backed away and went behind the counter. “None of your business.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I texted you the question, would you answer?”

  “No, it’s not…” Her nerves had come back with a vengeance. “If I got a tattoo, I’d get it from Spider. So it’s really none of your business.”

  Ox gave her another half smile. “Fair enough. Who wouldn’t go to Spider?”

  “He’s family.” Emmie flipped open the impossible espresso machine catalog and sighed. There was an old-fashioned copper machine she desperately wanted, but it was two grand, even on sale. It would match the shop perfectly, but she just couldn’t afford to spend that kind of money on coffee, especially when she wasn’t charging for it.

  She heard the doorbell chime behind Ox as he walked back to the tattoo shop. She glanced up and watched his back as he walked away, half expecting Ginger to make her amends with Ox before he could pack up his gear. After all, Ginger might have been pissed at him, but even the most exciting girl didn’t have a guy like Ox walk into her life that often.

  Emmie looked back at the worn catalog and imagined the tall copper espresso machine polished and shining on the bookshop counter.

  Why did she always want impossible things?

  The pain lanced through her as the needle crossed her spine. She tried not to wince, but Spider sensed the movement.

  “You better keep your ass still. If you mess up my design, I’m gonna be pissed.”

  “Isn’t this my back?”

  “Yeah, but it’s
my design. So keep still.”

  “Fine.”

  “I told you color was going to be the hardest part.”

  “I thought you were full of shit because the outline hurt so much.”

  Spider chuckled. It was his low, evil chuckle. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right, Mimi. Don’t forget it.”

  Spider Villalobos was the closest thing Emmie had to a big brother even though they were polar opposite in looks. She was a pale gringa and Spider had been born in the heart of Sinaloa. His copper-brown skin tanned dark in the valley sun while Emmie’s burned. His hair—when he didn’t shave his head—was thick and black while hers was a weird brown color that was reddish sometimes. With black tattoos covering most of his body—including his neck and head—Spider looked fierce to nearly everyone while Emmie was often overlooked by her own friends if she didn’t wave at them in a crowd.

  But they were family.

  Spider had immigrated to LA when he was a baby named Manuel. When his dad passed away, he was thirteen. A tough age for anyone, it was even worse for a smart, bored kid in East LA. Within a few years, he’d fallen into gang life where he’d become the most skilled tattoo artist in a very specialized form of ink.

  Then his mom had been killed in a drive-by shooting, and Spider ran.

  Emmie didn’t know the details like her grandmother had, but she knew twenty years later Spider still didn’t go to Los Angeles. Ever. And he said he never would. He also wouldn’t go to parts of Oakland and was wary in San Francisco.

  He’d fled north, grown his hair out and covered his ink, living on the margins as an agricultural worker until he’d wandered into Emmie’s grandmother’s store asking about work in the winter.

  Within weeks, Betsy had managed to set him up with a permanent job on a friend’s ranch. He spent every holiday with Betsy, Emmie, and her mom, becoming part of the family. To ten-year-old Emmie, Spider was the coolest.

  It was Emmie who’d seen his drawings first, but it was Betsy who loaned him the money to start his own tattoo business. Spider built a steady and discreet clientele over the years and even started shaving his head again, revealing the tattoo that had given him his nickname. Eventually clients started coming to Spider, some of them from a very long way away.