Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  That had Bailey looking up. Oh, yeah. Frowning, she asked, “You do?”

  “Ah…”

  “Yep,” Gem confirmed gleefully. “He only drinks it black. Why he has to go to some artisanal place for a cup of black coffee is beyond me—”

  “Black?” Bailey echoed. “Seriously? You only drink black coffee?”

  Jay blinked, looking from Cash to Bailey with a frown. And then, all of a sudden, he remembered. Cash saw it. He saw the precise moment that Jay placed the woman before them. The precise moment that he realised Bailey was the girl littered throughout Cash’s sketchbooks.

  The younger man straightened, taking a subtle step back from the desk. “No worries,” he said casually. “First-day admin. I get it. You want me to pick anything up, boss?”

  Cash caught his friend’s eyes, and relief flooded him as he saw understanding and surrender in their depths.

  “No,” he said gruffly. “I’m good.”

  “Alright. I’ll be off, then. Gem; the usual?”

  “Cheers love” Gem smiled sunnily. “You’re a star.”

  As Jay left the shop, Charlene came sauntering out from the studio, her coat slung over her shoulder. Despite the cold weather, she wore a tight T-shirt that rode up to reveal her taut, tanned belly. She swished her hips as she came closer to the desk, the smile on her face growing with each step. She was lovely. And he didn’t give a fuck.

  “Thanks for sorting me out, Cash,” she murmured.

  “No problem,” he replied. But the weight of her questioning gaze wouldn’t leave him alone. He pushed his hair out of his face, his fingers twitching with the nervous urge to pick up a pen—to put a whole world of creativity between himself and human contact.

  No dice.

  So, his mind racing, he reached instinctively for the closest thing to freedom.

  “Bailey,” he said, already turning towards the stairs. “Step into my office, will you?”

  “Alright.” Her voice was low, subdued. He didn’t like that. But then, it was really none of his concern, was it?

  “Cash,” Charlene called after him. “You’re going? I thought we could have lunch.”

  “Sorry.” He mounted the first step. “Duty calls.”

  And then he hurried up the staircase before she could say anything else. Because while Charlene was pretty—gorgeous, really, with her red hair and doll-like features—and sweet and fun, she was also the past. He didn’t return to old conquests; not ever. She knew that.

  See, keeping someone around for too long meant becoming attached—and Cash didn’t do attached.

  He simply couldn’t. Attachment was dangerous.

  ∞∞∞

  For the second time in one day, Bailey found herself watching Cash from across a desk.

  The situation wasn’t quite as uncomfortable this time, though. Now that she’d found her confidence, she’d dragged another chair up rather than standing like a child waiting to be scolded.

  His auburn hair fell forward, hiding his face in shadow as he bent over the documents in front of him. Then he looked up, and her heart almost stopped at the sudden sight of those lush, green eyes. Damn. Warn a girl, would you?

  “Here you go,” he said gruffly, pushing the papers towards her. “You got a P45?”

  “No. And I’m not going back there to get one, either.” She bit her lip. “Michael’s like a gremlin. A very angry gremlin with a shiny head. I don’t think I can face him.”

  He chuckled as he handed her a pen—though she noticed that he didn’t let his skin touch hers. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said. “They’ll probably post it, anyway.”

  “Maybe.” She began filling out the form, the act familiar to her. She’d spent her life following her mother, who’d spent hers following men. Starting a new job was nothing new.

  Of course, her new boss was the definition of uncharted territory. But the job itself? At least she could handle that.

  “So,” she said as she signed and dated the form. “Black coffee, hm?” She looked up to find him… Blushing?

  Holy shit. Her big, tatted biker boss was blushing. It was an adorably faint flush that tinged his high cheekbones. Perils of being a red-head, she supposed. Add it to the list of things about him that made absolutely no sense—right next to his apparent love of Christmas decorations.

  “About that…” He began.

  “Yeah?” She raised her brows, trying not to smile.

  “I was just trying to broaden my horizons.”

  “Ah. Hence the Surprise me?”

  “Yep.”

  He looked stiff as a board. His fingers flexed, and somehow she knew that he was searching for a pen. But she had his pen. Let him try to hide without it.

  Perhaps it was the sound of All I Want For Christmas Is You floating up from downstairs, but Bailey felt mischievous. She leaned forward, a teasing smile on her face, and asked, “Did you finish any of the coffee I made you?”

  “Ah…”

  “Oh my Lord.” She gasped, her smile widening. “You didn’t, did you?”

  He muttered something she couldn’t quite hear.

  “What?”

  “I said I—” with a sigh, he broke off, raking a hand through his hair. She caught a glimpse of the dark ink swirling up to his knuckles, identifying the image for the first time; a cloudy night, the stylised moon hanging amidst stars and darkness.

  “Go on,” she prompted, barely hiding her smirk. There was something about seeing a bad boy blush that made her desperate to keep the moment going.

  His eyes flashed as he finally blurted out his answer. “I like watching you make all those drinks. It’s like a little dance you do, and you look so happy, and you like mixing shit up…”

  Bailey paused, unexpectedly shocked by his response. He waited, clearly uncomfortable, as the implications of that statement filtered through her mind.

  “Wow,” she said slowly. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

  He crossed his arms. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that… I have no idea why you act like such an arse sometimes, but it’s not real. You’re actually a nice guy.”

  “Nice guys finish last,” he muttered. But he was blushing again. And something about the set of his lips beneath all that stubble made her think that he was… Pleased.

  “Boring guys finish last,” she corrected, pushing the completed forms back to him. “Nice guys finish anywhere they want. Especially when they look like you.”

  And then, before she could say anything else wildly inappropriate, she got up and left the room.

  But she let her hips sway, just a little, as she went—because God damn it, Hot Coffee Guy was the real deal. And she was absolutely sure that he’d be looking.

  Chapter Six

  Nice guys finish anywhere they want.

  That phrase rung through Cash’s mind like a church bell as he sat in the office, frantically sketching on the back of… An order form for fresh needles? Whatever. His sketchbook was somewhere around the shop—probably at his workstation—but inspiration had him by the balls. If he got up to look for the right materials, he’d lose the magic.

  His hands worked frantically, marking out the concept with harsh, black lines. Once upon a time, an art teacher had told him he should only ever sketch in pencil. But biro was Cash’s medium of choice; let the mistakes sit there for everyone to see. He’d recreate again and again until it was just right, and then he’d put it into someone’s skin and every flaw would have been worth it.

  But whose body would this latest fantasy adorn? He had no idea.

  What the hell had she meant, finish anywhere they want? Surely not the filthy interpretation that his mind immediately latched on to. She was too sweet for that.

  But then, she’d called him sweet, hadn’t she? And here he was, dreaming of the pretty patterns his come would paint against her dark skin. Ah, fuck. He still couldn’t decide who and what she was—dream or reality? White silk o
r red latex?

  Maybe she was both.

  Didn’t matter. He’d never fucking know. Because if he let himself get close to a girl like that, he wouldn’t be able to stick to his own rules. Adoration would set in, obsession would follow—and then he would finally become his father. Whether he liked it or not. Whether he wanted it or not. He—

  No.

  Cash’s hand moved frantically, scarring the paper. He pressed harder, worked faster, as though he could carve away the twisted voices in his head.

  He knew what they were, of course. Intrusive thoughts, his therapist had called them. They didn’t come from him; they came from his monster. He also knew that he was supposed to ignore them, but it was pretty fucking hard to ignore something that went on inside your own mind.

  Still; he’d try his best. That was all he could ever do.

  “What you working on there, mate?”

  Cash looked up to find Steve entering the office, his own sketchbook tucked under his brawny arm.

  “Uh…” The order form now bore the image of a woman, her long hair swirling about her shoulders like living wind, pointed little horns atop her head. The woman’s face was wickedly gleeful as she brought her fingers up to her mouth, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. Tiny fangs peeked out from full lips, and her tongue was in the act of sliding out to taste the droplets on her fingertips.

  Fuck. He’d drawn Bailey.

  Again.

  “Nothing,” he lied.

  “Really?” Steve ambled over to his own desk, his slow movement and gentle tone deceptive as always, hiding the sharp intellect beneath. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like Bailey.”

  Cursing, Cash flipped over the page. He was acting like a fucking teenager, and he knew it. But he wasn’t about to back down in his own shop.

  “It’s nothing,” he repeated tersely.

  Steve gave him a level look. “You know, in my time I’ve learned that you should grab a good thing with both hands. Before it disappears.”

  Cash arched a brow. “Yeah? So when were you planning on grabbing Gem?”

  The temperature of the office dropped until it almost matched the icy street below. Steve’s mouth twisted into a grim line and he folded his arms, leaning back in his seat.

  “You know I can’t do a thing for Gem,” he said, his voice a brick wall.

  “What I know is that you’re as much of a coward as I am. So you can hold the inspiring speech.”

  For a moment, the men stared each other down, the atmosphere tense. But then Steve let out a grudging chuckle, shaking his head.

  “Right pair of twats we both are,” he said gruffly.

  Relieved, Cash rolled his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”

  “You done for the day?”

  “Nah. My next client’s in at—” Cash glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, shit.”

  Steve smirked. “Lose track of time?”

  Snorting, Cash ignored the other man’s words. Somehow, his lunch hour had dwindled away to nothing, and now he had less than ten minutes to call John. Cursing himself, he pulled up the hotel’s website and dialled their number, keeping one eye on the clock.

  “Hi,” he said, after an exceptionally cheerful man greeted him. “Could I speak to, ah… John, please? Room 302?”

  “Mr Halliday? Certainly, Sir. I’ll put you through now.”

  “Thank you.”

  There were a few, long beeps. A few too many, maybe. Cash started to wonder where John was. Started to hope the young man hadn’t done anything stupid, the way Cash might’ve done once.

  But then the beeps disappeared, and a familiar voice said, “Hello?”

  “John,” he replied, relieved. “It’s Cash.”

  “Oh, hi!”

  “I’m really sorry, but I have to make this quick. I’ve got a client coming in soon. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to my friend about you last night, and he wants to meet you to discuss a job.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. He’s the director of a non-profit for disadvantaged groups in the area. He wants to talk to you about an administrative role and maybe some kind of mentoring position.”

  John was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was suspiciously hoarse. “Thank you. This is fucking unbelievable. I—I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. I…” Cash looked over at Steve, who was bent busily over his own desk, pencil in hand. “Let’s just say I’ve been where you are right now. But listen, I need to go. And we need to get you a mobile, too, so you’re not waiting around in the hotel room for me to call you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Bailey rang me earlier, and she’s coming over tomorrow night with a spare phone of hers.”

  Cash swallowed the lump that suddenly materialised in his throat. His eyes fell towards the drawing in front of him as he traced its stark lines, the slight indent his pen strokes had made in the paper. “Yeah? That’s nice of her.”

  “She’s a great girl. And she mentioned that you gave her a job?”

  “Yeah, well. We needed a receptionist at my studio.”

  “Did you? Because the way she was talking, it seems the job’s pretty light.” John’s tone became playful. “She didn’t say anything, but it made me wonder if you had some other motivation for hiring her?”

  “What? No.” Cash ran his hands through his hair, pushing the strands back irritably. He should get it cut soon. It was fucking annoying.

  “You sure? Because women aren’t really my cup of tea, but even I can see Bailey’s appeal.”

  Yeah. Cash bet he could. Bailey’s appeal was probably visible from halfway across the planet.

  “Listen, John, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch. You’ve got my number?”

  “Yep,” the other man said, his voice rich with amusement.

  “Alright. Uh… Talk soon.”

  “Bye. And thanks again, Cash. Seriously.”

  “Stop thanking me.” He put the phone down.

  Then he wasted a few precious minutes staring down at the picture he’d drawn of Bailey. Tracing the contours of her face with a practiced eye. He’d got the nose slightly off—it was broader, flatter on the bridge. Her brows were higher, more finely arched. But he’d got the plump cheeks just right, along with the soft lips that could go from sweet to sensual in five minutes flat. And most importantly, he thought, he’d captured that gleam in her eyes; the one that spoke of whole-hearted enthusiasm, of the adorable way she threw herself into everything and thoroughly enjoyed it, even if she became embarrassed a moment later. He knew her face well. He’d drawn her often.

  Too fucking often.

  Attachment was a dangerous thing.

  Cash tore the picture in two.

  Chapter Seven

  “What are you doing tonight?” Gem asked, throwing a lilac rucksack over one shoulder. It was covered in bright, bold pins; from torn-up teddy bears to declarations of a femme revolution. And there was a little Slytherin badge on the corner, too.

  Bailey smiled at the sight as she packed up her own boring bag and threw on her coat. “Going to the library, I think. I need to get started on my January assignments.”

  “Ugh. Kill me now.” Gem rolled her eyes as she switched off the Christmas tree’s lights for the night. “You couldn’t pay me to go back to school.”

  “Sadly, I’m paying them.”

  “More fool you, chick.” She threw a cheeky smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door, strutting away in her pink Doc Martens. “Look, it’s the weekend. If you change your mind, I’m meeting some mates for a drink tonight. Text me, yeah?”

  “Maybe,” Bailey smiled. She wasn’t exactly in the habit of going out; saving money was a serious business. Or maybe the few years spent waiting in the backroom of a nightclub while her mother bartended had put her off the idea for life.

  Whatever. She tried not to
examine those kinds of thoughts too closely.

  The music was gone and the Christmas lights were dark. Still, the tinsel pinned to the front desk rustled at her cheerfully as she brushed past it, heading towards the studio. The lights in there had been left on. She’d just sort them out, she thought, before leaving for the day…

  The studio at Fallen Tattoos was as professional and sterile as the front of the shop was quirky. Jay had explained that Cash took trust seriously: the customers needed to know that their bodies weren’t about to be defaced, or worse, actually harmed. And so, the studio maintained an almost hospital-like aura, ensuring customers felt utterly safe there. It was an interesting approach, one that made her wonder what Cash had seen and experienced while touring the world. And maybe if he’d ever had a negative experience of his own when it came to his countless tattoos. She’d like to ask him about the ink covering his body—or at least, what she’d seen of it.

  And maybe now was her chance. Because here he was, sitting at his workstation, leaning over one of the huge, electric chairs that clients lay or sat on while being inked. His hand worked busily, darting back and forth over a page in his sketchbook, the strokes bold and aggressive. She’d assumed that he was upstairs, in the office.

  “Hey,” she said. He didn’t seem to hear her, hadn’t even noticed her come in. And she’d certainly had no inkling that he was there; he was utterly silent, focused, as though his art took him far away from this little shop tucked into the grey city streets.

  “Cash,” she said, louder this time. The sound jolted him out of his trance, and he looked up at her with unfocused eyes. The usually harsh lines of his face were soft, the way they might be in sleep, and there was no cruel curl to his mouth.

  She might have imagined seeing him this way—utterly relaxed, unaware—once. Or twice. Hey; most guys fell asleep after sex, right? And Bailey strove for accuracy in all of her masturbation fantasies.

  A girl had to have creative standards.

  “Bailey,” he murmured, his eyes finally focusing on her.