by Tina Donahue
This time, Lauren kept her big mouth shut.
Dante smiled. “No reason. Just making conversation.” He led the way to the back.
Van Gogh went into a side room, presumably for his shirt. Lauren followed Dante and Jasmina until the obvious hit her. She stopped. “Shouldn’t someone wait up front in case a customer comes in?”
Dante halted. So did Jasmina.
“I could do that,” Lauren said. “I don’t mind. You guys go ahead and enjoy your meal.” Without her hanging around and intruding, they’d be certain to do that. Van Gogh could curse her or cry. Shit, she felt like a jerk, especially as he came back out fully clothed and looking glum.
“It’s early,” Dante said. “This place doesn’t start hopping until four or so.”
So they did have some busy times here. That was a relief and a good selling point. Even so, Lauren didn’t budge. No way would she intrude. “What if someone comes in and steals one of the tees or something else while we’re all in the back?”
Dante didn’t answer. He regarded her. Not like an employee or coworker would.
As a man.
His attention lingered on her mouth before raking over her boobs and legs, as though he and she were alone and he had the right.
That might have disturbed Lauren if she hadn’t been so suddenly dizzy and aroused. Her pussy ached with need, while her thoughts had turned to mush. Although she was technically the boss, Dante was clearly keeping command and letting her know it.
“It’s only stuff,” he murmured. “Come on, before your food gets cold.”
She didn’t know what to say, how to argue. He’d included her so easily, making Lauren a part of a team of people she already liked and would probably tear apart, sending each on their own way. Never seeing any of them again.
Especially him.
Dante scooped half his lunch onto a clean plate, placed it in front of Lauren then sat across from her.
Although the backroom was snug, it had an open, airy quality about it thanks to Van Gogh’s wall-to-wall murals. He hadn’t left one surface untouched. At first, he’d wanted to paint his rendition of the real Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Sunflowers here. Dante, Frank and Jasmina had nixed that, suggesting something less weird and more pleasant.
Van Gogh had grumbled but finally conceded and truly outdid himself.
Above them, his work created an illusion of a high stone ceiling pitted with age. He’d designed the walls to give the effect of sitting in the center of a stone terrace, its graceful arches laden with flowering vines, the purple, pink and white petals seeming to dance in an invisible breeze. The three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view showed the sea stretching endlessly in all directions to mountains in the distance.
Lauren kept turning in her chair to take all of it in, her lips parted in obvious wonder, naked delight on her face.
Finally, she was behaving like the person Dante sensed she was. A good woman capable of deep feelings, possibly willing to take a risk and have a good time…once she ditched the corporate clothes and loosened up.
He sensed there wasn’t anything put on about her. He liked that. She certainly wasn’t an outrageous flirt like most of the women he’d met. He enjoyed that even more. She had the kind of looks he favored. The mole on the side of her mouth, the curve of her cheek, her pale throat continued to fascinate him as though he’d never seen another female before.
When it came to women, Dante wasn’t a deprived man by any means. Sex had been his for the taking since his early years in high school when more than one girl had thrown herself at him. Back then, exploring a female’s body, all that softness, their outstanding curves had been a new adventure and pissing fun. Over the years, he’d indulged himself without regret. Burying his cock in a woman’s heated cunt, filling her eager mouth with his tongue was as natural as breathing and definitely not something he’d ever questioned and wouldn’t start now.
He took a bite of his enchilada, barely tasting what he knew was buttery beef, cheese and spicy sauce. Instead, he imagined a welcoming smile from Lauren, her warmth that would offer more than excitement. It would give a man the comfort he truly needed.
She turned again and finally caught him watching her.
He smiled.
Blushing quickly, she glanced down at her plate. Given her pained expression, the food didn’t seem to please her.
“You don’t like enchiladas?” he asked.
“I love anything Mexican, but you gave me too much.”
Dante hadn’t given her anything at all, at least what he sensed they’d both really enjoy.
“This is your lunch.” She pushed the plate toward him. “I can’t accept all of this.”
“It’s only food. I can always get more.” He eased it right back then ordered, “Quit making excuses and eat.”
Her brows drew together in a slight frown.
“Or don’t you know how?” he asked innocently.
Her indignation turned to quick embarrassment. She pulled in her shoulders.
As if that would make her smaller? She was ashamed that she wasn’t built like a stick?
Dante held back a frustrated sigh at Lauren’s reaction. He wanted to haul her to his station, turn her to the mirror and show her how glorious her curves were. How fucking feminine no matter what advertisers claimed men wanted. He was a damn man and he liked meat on a woman. Maybe it was a part of his cultural heritage, but ample boobs, hips and a plush ass made his blood sing. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to get into that. “Watch him,” he told her, inclining his head to Van Gogh. “Do what he’s doing.”
Oblivious to everything except his lunch, Van Gogh shoveled forkfuls of his monster burrito, rice and refried beans into his mouth. His thin cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s. A string of cheese hung over his bottom lip.
“Scratch that,” Dante said to Lauren and grinned. “Don’t mimic everything he’s doing.” He tossed Van Gogh a napkin.
Ignoring it, the young man kept his face down and concentrated on his meal as though it were his last before Lauren liquidated him.
Jasmina was blissfully unaware of the dynamics going on. With her pink smartphone snuggled against her ear, she stabbed a forkful of lettuce and chicken from her tostada, laughed until she was breathless then spoke baby talk to her boyfriend. A guy she’d met at the community college. Brad had big dreams about being a McDonald’s franchisee someday. With Jasmina’s enthusiasm behind him, there was little doubt the kid would make it.
Dante put down his fork and stood.
Lauren stopped mid-chew and looked up at him. “You’re leaving?”
He liked how bummed she seemed to be by that. “Only for a sec.”
Her attention shot to the door. “There’s a customer?”
She really thought about money too fucking much. “Nope. Don’t worry, there will be.” Before she could comment, Dante left the room and went into the business end of the parlor where the magic really happened.
When he returned, he placed a thick binder next to Lauren. “Go on, open it.”
She stared as though the contents of the binder might disappoint her. “The financials are in there? You don’t have them on a computer?”
“We have everything on our computers, thanks to Jasmina. You remember, the brains of this place?”
Nodding to whatever her boyfriend was saying, Jasmina blew Dante a kiss, thanking him for his compliment.
He winked. Lauren regarded the exchange between them then opened the binder.
Her sense of wonder returned, her eyes sparkling, breath catching.
Photo after photo showed Van Gogh’s incredible work. One man’s back boasted a series of star-shaped designs. Not the typical flat, cartoony type, but ones that appeared three-dimensional. Van Gogh had inked the customer’s skin to look as though it were made of stone with parts of the rock falling away to show the universe beneath, an expanse of blue—dark at the corners, the color fainter in the middle—that was studded with bright po
ints of white light, depicting the planets and stars.
Lauren kept touching them.
Another picture showed a guy’s torso inked with ten female mouths, all of them identical. Again, the art was three-dimensional, the teeth and lips so real the effect was downright creepy.
She paused at the photo of a woman who had a frilly garter belt inked on her. The garters seemed to be holding up her skin rather than stockings, her flesh creased slightly beneath the clips.
One guy had a humongous eye smack between his shoulders, the orb nearly as large as his head.
Lauren made a face at that and the next pictures. “What’s this?”
“Fluorescent tattoos,” Dante said. “You can’t see them until you use black light then—”
“They glow in the dark,” she interrupted. “Wow. Cool.”
“You want something like that?” Van Gogh mumbled.
Dante prayed she wouldn’t say “Absolutely not”, depressing the kid further.
“Not my style,” she said gently. “I’m more into flowers and butterflies, or other stuff like that. These are freaking amazing. Is there nothing you can’t do?”
Van Gogh guzzled the last of his Dr. Pepper, crushed the can then lobbed it into the corner wastebasket. “I don’t do black eye or corneal tattoos.”
She curled her upper lip. “You mean people actually have their eyes tattooed?”
“Not by me,” Van Gogh said. “That’s some weird shit.”
Dante grabbed a tattoo magazine from the counter, paged to what he wanted then gave the periodical to Lauren.
She stared at the photos of men who’d had the whites of their eyes tattooed black or in various colors. One guy’s right sclera was bright pink, while his left was neon green.
Lauren made a face. “I’d ask why anyone would do something like that to himself, but I figure you’d only say, ‘why not?’.”
Dante murmured, “No, I wouldn’t.”
The corners of her luscious mouth turned up in a smile that said sure.
Already, she knew him too well. How he liked to tease.
Van Gogh totally missed it. “I’ll do tongues, balls and cocks, but not that. Or this.” He turned the page and showed her a human eyeball with thick black lines bleeding from the pupil like a spider’s legs.
Lauren leaned away from the photo and smiled weakly. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a good guy.”
Van Gogh looked to Dante as though he wanted an interpretation of what she’d said. That maybe his job was safe. Dante lifted his shoulders.
Van Gogh’s slumped again. He dumped his Styrofoam container in the waste can and left. Finished with her tostada, Jasmina got rid of her trash without interrupting her now serious conversation with her boyfriend.
“No,” she told him, though her tone was mild. “I think we should scope out Burger King and Dairy Queen too. You need to learn what the competition is doing if you want your franchise to be a success.” She paused and listened, then shook her head at whatever he’d said. “You can’t count on corporate to do your thinking for you. Now listen to me…” Still talking, she wiggled her fingers at Dante and Lauren then headed to the front of the shop.
Dante settled back in his seat, his long legs stretched out next to Lauren’s. Her left hand stalled on the magazine, her right halted with the fork still inches from her mouth. She adjusted herself in the chair but didn’t move her legs away from his. After taking a tiny bite of the refried beans, she flipped a page.
What she saw caused her chews to slow then stop. Dante didn’t bother to look at the magazine photo. He kept his attention on her as he ate, chewing mechanically, not tasting much of it. His other senses had kicked in. He smelled her perfume again, heard the gentle clearing of her throat. A peppy salsa tune pulsed from the sound system, the hum of the air-conditioning joining it. Jasmina’s voice floated back here, still friendly, but businesslike, the way she behaved with customers.
A soft pink tint flushed Lauren’s cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her heightened color could have been from the spicy food or her emotions. Dante bet on the latter.
At last, she looked at him, almost as though she couldn’t help herself. He didn’t glance away. His cock thickened at how adorable she was. All dressed up to play boss, her clothes severe to the extreme, her expression feminine and wanting.
Lauren lowered her fork. “You keep staring at me. Why?”
He could have said “why not?” but thought better of it. He might also have told her how attractive he thought she was and decided against it. Most likely she wouldn’t believe him. She’d probably think he was trying to save his job. “You have sauce on your mouth,” Dante said at last, pointing to his own to show her where.
She swiped at it with a napkin.
He teased, “Warned you not to mimic Van Gogh too much.”
“Don’t worry. No way am I getting a tattoo on my chest.”
His attention slipped to what little he could see of her boobs. “I would hope not.”
She pressed back in her chair, which hid her rack from him even more. Dante fought a sigh and decided to ignore his attraction to her. Time to get down to business while he had the chance. “You seem to like Jasmina.”
“Of course. She’s great.” Lauren seemed surprised he’d think anything else.
Dante knew how the world turned. He’d been in the real part of it before coming to Wicked Brand, which was more like play than work. Leaning up in his chair, he kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear. “I don’t want you firing her.”
Lauren’s face turned bright red. However, she didn’t say he was nuts or dead wrong.
“I know what you’ve been thinking,” Dante continued. “You need the dough. You can either take what your dad paid himself or what Jasmina gets paid. Frank put more money into this place than what he took out, so that’s not an option. You certainly can’t get rid of Van Gogh, he’s what makes the parlor special. You need me because I can also ink. Van Gogh’s a genuis, but he can’t handle the volume by himself. Given what Jasmina does around here, you could easily take over her responsibilities and use what she makes to help meet your obligations. Am I right?”
Lauren glanced away, looking ashamed then met his gaze once more. “I have to survive.”
“I hear you. But you need to understand something. Jasmina brings a lot of business in here. She has tons of friends from high school and at the local colleges. One of the cheerleading teams is coming in this afternoon. That’s twelve girls who want at least one tat each. All because of Jasmina. I don’t think there’s a person alive who would find it hard to love her. She’s the best salesperson this place ever had. That’s why Frank hired her, not because she’s pretty or knows how to answer a phone. She’s been great for this place. So that leaves me as the weakest link.”
Lauren frowned. “You want me to fire you? No way. You said you do tattoos. Van Gogh can’t do all of them.”
“He not going to have to, because you’re not firing me and I’m sure as hell not quitting. Decide what you need salary-wise to get through your financial situation until you can sell this place. Take it from my pay, not Van Gogh’s or Jasmina’s. They need it. Van Gogh has student loans. Jasmina has her heart set on getting through her program.”
Lauren stared at him as though he were an alien life form.
Dante sensed why. “It’s only money. Someday, I hope you understand that. Until then, you really should try to relax. Have a little fun. Lose the suit. Enjoy your time here. Trust me, it’s not that bad.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Yo, Dante,” Jasmina called from the front. “Your appointments are here.”
A chorus of female giggles drifted down the hall.
Dante didn’t take his focus off Lauren. “Jasmina can show you where the books are.” He stood. “Do we understand each other?”
“Hey, Dante,” a young female voice called from what he guessed was his station. “Where are you?”
“Hurry,” she purred. More giggles followed.
“Welcome to Wicked Brand,” he said to Lauren then gave her a wink and left.
Chapter Three
Lauren couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.
You have to.
Ugh. She propped her elbows on the desk in Frank’s office and buried her face in her hands. For two weeks, she’d gone through the books, looking for stuff that wasn’t there. Mainly a fat profit she could borrow from to meet her most basic expenses, like food.
The business was barely making it, which wouldn’t entice anyone to buy the damn thing. Not even a hedge fund manager who didn’t know what to do with his billions. Raising prices was out of the question. The market simply wouldn’t bear it in this crappy economy. People would grudgingly pay more for a gallon of milk or gas, not for a tat.
Cutting overhead was Lauren’s only choice if she expected this place to support her until she found real work. Not that reducing expenses was a viable option.
Jasmina was already making minimum wage when she deserved far more. Van Gogh’s salary wasn’t on a par with his astonishing talent. Both of them deserved huge raises. Besides, Dante had warned Lauren not to mess with Jasmina or Van Gogh’s pay, offering part of his own salary instead.
Lauren couldn’t take a penny of it. She wouldn’t.
Hell, he wasn’t making much more than Van Gogh, which was nuts. Dante handled the endless paperwork the state and Feds insisted upon. Stuff that went beyond the regulatory nightmare a human resources professional had to deal with. He negotiated with the building’s owner and vendors, his laid-back manner masking his iron will and tenacity.
The man always got what he wanted.
He was really something.
On more than a few nights, Lauren had imagined him making demands of her, his hunger insistent and unrelenting. She had the scenario all worked out in her mind and squirmed as she thought about it now.
Don’t go there.
It was a stupid dream. A useless one.
Too overpowering to resist.
