I slump down into the cool black leather of my client chair, knees bent to prop up my drawing tablet. After queuing up a playlist on my phone, I recline the seat slightly and angle myself away from the aisle that runs the length of the shop. Hopefully the headphones snug over my ears will deter anyone from talking to me. My knuckles pale as I grip the stylus firmer than I should, so I take a deep breath and relax my hold until it’s comfortable in my hand.
Thoughts wander as I make the first few strokes of a face. Realism has been my main priority lately; it’s one of the hardest styles to master. There’s so much precision and attention to detail required, not to mention a profound understanding of light and shadow, demanding daily practice.
Feminist anthems belt through the headphones, but the songs fade into the background as my concentration settles in, softening my anger. The crushed roses near the front door might as well have been a confession. They weren’t a sign of Jason’s remorse, they were bait. His apology should have been as loud as his disrespect, and there’s no florist in town with enough stock to make up for cheating. However, my current attitude is aimed toward Logan and the way he seemingly revels in stirring up trouble in my life lately— starting with Sunday night’s photo shoot.
What the hell was that?
Was he fucking with me? Was he simply creating a sexy atmosphere for our shoot? Whatever it was, it was . . . new. Until recently, he’s never given me any reason to suspect he harbors feelings. We’re close friends, for sure, but never more than that.
Oh fuck. Have I misjudged his intentions this entire time? The stylus slips from my fingers and into my lap. No. There’s no way. He would have said something by now. I pick up my pen and keep working while I overanalyze every interaction we’ve had over the last two weeks. If it were anyone else, I’d think there was a likelihood—but this is Logan. He can’t be held to the same standards.
My chest tightens and I swallow the lump in my throat. I should ask if Frankie wants to grab drinks after work; I could use some girl time—I need to step away from all of this so I can gain some perspective. My own feelings have made this already confusing situation even more disorienting.
Dad’s letter was filled with relationship advice, but I’m done with fragile egos and bullshit. Logan can do whatever the hell he wants, it’s his life. I’m not going to wait around with bated breath for him to open up to me and explain himself. It’s an exercise in futility. I have enough on my plate, like getting my career off the ground and making a name for myself, and the Bozeman Tattoo Festival.
My pen glides across the screen as I add more detail and structure to the man I’m drawing, sketching out glasses over the smoldering eyes that stare back at me. Damn it. I’m drawing Logan.
Groaning, I tap the corner of my screen to erase the canvas.
I throw my head back against the headrest and inhale a renewing breath.
Glancing down at the blank screen, I start over, this time drawing my mom.
I’ve practiced her figure numerous times before. I only know her from photos, but I’ve memorized her face. She’s a beauty. I wonder if she ever dealt with any of this shit with Dad. Probably not, Dad worshipped the ground she walked on. Which is the only thing I’ll accept going forward.
I sigh, adding the high cheekbones I inherited from her.
Yeah, this calls for drinks. Normally, Logan is the person I talk things out with, but not this time. I need a break from him to determine how I feel before we hash out what happened—because he owes me an explanation.
He’s not sweeping that fight under the rug.
Climbing out of the chair, I make my way toward the front desk, where
Frankie is scheduling an appointment over the phone. I move around the desk and fold my hands together. She smiles at me while finishing her call.
When she hangs up, Frankie tucks her black textured curls behind her pierced ears and angles her chair toward me. “How may I help you?” she asks sweetly, drumming her fingers on the desk. I wonder if she’d ever let me draw her. Her warm sienna skin tone is beautiful, and matches her bright brown eyes.
“Hey, what are you doing after work?” I ask.
“Nothing, why?”
“Wanna go out for drinks?”
She gives a delayed blink. “Oh my God. Yes!” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened earlier?”
I match her hushed volume. “With Jason? I didn’t see the whole thing.
I’m still trying to figure out what the hell went down between them.” I roll my eyes. “I need to vent.”
Frankie checks the computer screen. “I’m done at six, but I’m all caught up on emails, so I’ll see if I can head out in twenty. Let’s go to that new place that just opened on Quail Street. I hear they have a solid happy hour, we might be able to catch the tail end of it.”
My smile grows. “Excellent. I’m going to wrap up my work and then meet you over there.”
As quickly as I can, I clean up my space, wiping down the countertops and chair with sanitizer, making sure everything is in its rightful place for tomorrow. By the time I’m done, I have a few minutes left, so I open Instagram while waiting for Frankie.
After some mindless scrolling, I check my DMs, which mostly consist of people haggling on prices or asking about commissions. Then I check my message requests folder: only one.
WhiteShirtBlackSkirt762: You will never replace me.
My brow furrows and I click their user name. Zero followers and zero following. Rolling my eyes at the fake profile, I block the account. After grabbing my purse from inside the cabinet, I hook it over my shoulder and get ready to walk out. That’s when I catch my reflection in the large mirror— my outfit: white shirt, black skirt. What the fuck?
“Hey, ready to go?” Frankie asks, peeking her head into my station.
I startle, tearing my eyes away from the mirror. “Yeah, for sure. Just heading out.”
The new restaurant has a modern sleek look, with living vines climbing the walls. Chic lighting fixtures illuminate the wooden tables with cozy seating— we managed to snag one just in time because a line is forming at the host stand. Tajin rims the edge of my glass, where a delightful mango margarita fills it to the brim. It’s dangerously delicious, pairing perfectly with the chips, salsa flight, queso, and Mexican street corn we ordered from the happy hour menu.
“Who do you think sent it?” Frankie asks.
I scoff. “Probably Jason, if the events of today are any indicator.”
“Yeah, can we please talk about that? I still can’t believe Logan punched him!” Frankie gushes. “The man who barely says two words to anybody suddenly decides he’s going to square up?”
He’s never once shown aggression the way he did today.
“I can’t make sense of it,” I reply. “I’ve never seen him go off like that.
And why won’t he tell me what they were fighting about?” The way he looked earlier is burned into my memory. The fire in his eyes was savage— and completely foreign. He’s the calm one, the unshakable zen artist. Before today, he could have told me he was a pacifist and I wouldn’t have blinked.
So what the hell happened between him and Jason that led to fists being thrown?
Frankie lets out a dry laugh and plucks a chip from the basket, scooping up a dollop of guacamole. “Oh gee. I wonder.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. He’s just always been there. We get each other —”
“Yeah, and now he wants to get more.” She cocks a brow, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. “With Jason out of the picture, he’s making sure it stays that way.”
“He’s protective by nature, Logan guards everything my dad built,” I say, pushing my finger through the ring of condensation on the table. “He steps in to make sure things are taken care of now that I’m on my own. He helps me
out in the attic. He’s my mentor. He cares about the shop, tattooing, and Dad’s wishes.”
Frankie rolls her lips together, nodding at me with raised brows while she holds back a smirk.
“We accept each other the way we are and offer support when the other
needs it. Besides . . .”
“Besides?”
“I lend a shoulder if he needs to talk, but that’s the thing—he doesn’t share his life or feelings with me the same way I share mine with him. I don’t know what’s going on in his mind, and I never will.” My voice softens. His silence hurts. “All this time, it felt like we shared some sacred connection, forged through our shared passion of art and tattooing, but almost everything I know about Logan I’ve learned through observation . . . Maybe I don’t know him at all.”
“You know him. You know him better than anyone. He even invites you to spend the holidays with him and his family.”
“Yeah, because he knows I don’t have anywhere to go.”
She pauses, nailing me with a blank expression before brushing the salt
off her fingers. “Oh come on, Kel.”
“What?”
“Are you serious right now? Have you seen the way he looks at you?”
I blink at her. It’s like she’s not listening to a word I’m saying.
We stare at each other for a beat. Her eyes relax and she cocks her head to the side. I startle when she slaps both palms on the table. “Wait, do you seriously not realize he’s into you?”
“Did he say something to somebody?” I sip the cold, sweet margarita.
She scrunches up her nose, heaping salsa onto a chip. “Please, Logan doesn’t say anything to anybody. He’s practically mute . . . unless he’s talking to you. Which should have been your first clue. Think about it. He punched your ex for bringing you roses. I’m tellin’ ya, he’s not going to let another man near you.” She pops the chip in her mouth.
I consider her argument, his words still echoing in my mind . . . Recalling the set of his jaw when he said he doesn’t like thinking about me with other men. Our photo shoot, and the way his strong thighs bracketed my hips— hell, that alone has had me crossing and uncrossing my legs all week. And those piercing hazel eyes didn’t give off “friends.” No, his stare pinned me to the floor, unrelenting and . . . ravenous.
The heavy air in the restaurant is suffocating. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the ambient noise around us. My gaze snaps to Frankie’s, and her face splits in a wide smile, like she just witnessed the realization slam
into me.
“What am I gonna do now?” I ask.
“Oh no. My super-hot best friend has a crush on me, whatever will I do?” she mocks, cupping her cheeks in faux shock.
I drop my face into my hands, mumbling “Thanks for your support,” before lifting my chin to see her finishing a bite.
She waves as if to clear the air. “You know what you need? A good book,” Frankie suggests, then takes a sip of her margarita.
“Like a self-help book?”
“Basically.” She nods. “Charge your vibe, read some smut, rub one out, and then get a good night’s rest.”
“Call the doctor in the morning?” I chuckle, swirling the straw in my drink. “I don’t think I can masturbate my way out of this problem.”
Ironically, Logan is essentially both my problem and my solution.
“No, but it’ll give you a clear mind so you can listen to your feelings without sexual tension influencing your decision. Because, whew, that man . .
.”
She makes a solid point.
“I can’t jump into a relationship the second I get out of one, that’s insanity.”
“Is it, though? In some ways, it’s like y’all were already dating. You hang out all the time, talk about everything, work together . . . You’re basically in a relationship without the sex. Which is a travesty if you ask me.”
I shake my head. “No way, that’s different. It was platonic. This would change everything. If it didn’t work out, it could put the shop at risk.”
“Sometimes change is good . . .” She spoons more of the street corn onto a small plate. “Do you think it would be for the better?”
“I don’t know.” My head falls back and I stare at the ceiling as if the answers are scrawled on the plaster above us. “I’m still trying to come to terms with the concept of it. I don’t know what to think about anything.”
When I look down, I snatch up my margarita, bringing it to my lips and taking a substantial gulp.
“I bet he’s good in bed. Controlled . . . calculating . . . firm —”
I choke on my drink. “Okay, okay, okay. That’s enough,” I sputter.
Forming a small circle with my lips, I blow out the matchstick after lighting the last candle. My Now That’s What I Call Fucking, Volume 6 playlist hums through the Bluetooth speakers in the background. With my e-reader in one hand and a vibrator in the other, I focus on releasing the pent-up sexual tension that’s been swelling since the photo shoot with Logan. He’s kept me in a steady state of arousal since our night together. It’s as irritating as it is erotic—provocative, in every sense of the word. Leaning back into my pillows, I take a deep cleansing breath to relax, returning to my “self-help.”
With the touch of a button, the silicone toy whirs to life; I drag it over my flesh, skating across my inner thighs, and climbing higher, where all my tension lies. My cheeks flush with heat as the words on the illuminated page play out in vivid detail. I lean into the sensation, focusing on the book, the characters, and nothing else. Letting my brain empty of questioning his intentions. My only goal is to relieve stress and let go of the events that occurred over the past week. My legs extend, heels pressing into the mattress as my back arches. Don’t think, just feel.
My pulse quickens and my breaths come faster as the vibrations hum over my clit. Heat curls inside me, my stomach tightening and ass clenching as I concentrate on the needy ache between my spread thighs. The need to come grows more urgent by the second. My jaw relaxes as I surrender to the thrum
of pleasure.
And then the buzzing ceases.
Dead air.
My battery-operated boyfriend dies.
“No!”
Frankie was right, I should have charged my toys ahead of time.
Frustrated, I toss the useless tool and e-reader aside, taking over manually. I resort to my go-to mental imagery with the highest success rate. A tall, faceless stranger stands before me. I’ve fucked him countless times in my fantasies—he’s top notch. Tosses me around like I weigh nothing, fucks with
abandon, and edges mercilessly.
He’s rough and obsessive. Demanding.
“Hands and knees, sweetheart. Let’s see how well you follow directions.”
He forces me onto all fours and spreads my cheeks, his fingers digging in— hard. He spanks my ass, like really spanks me, until it hurts. With each brutal strike of his palm to my sensitive flesh, my pussy contracts. “Aww, are you blushing, Chaos?”
My eyes shoot open. That voice. Fuck, all these years it’s been his voice.
It wasn’t until that nickname that I was able to place it. Realized. He’s not the faceless stranger anymore.
Fuck it. I’m too close. My conscience warns me this is a bad idea, I won’t be able to take it back, but I crash that train of thought before it gets too far down the track. My need to come is stronger, and what’s the harm in indulging in a little fantasy?
As soon as the voice of reason shuts up, my thoughts run wild— shameless and starved. He flips me on my back, teases, taunts, and marks me with handprints before devouring every inch. He’s the cruelest form of bliss.
My abs tighten and my thighs stretch wider as I approach the finish line.
Almost there . . .
Figments of him become clearer as I ride my hand; he gives that sinful smirk of his, amused by the power he holds over me. His mouth finds my neck and he licks and sucks while viciously fucking my body.
The pressure builds and builds, with the thrill slowly overtaking me. My back arches into the pillows cradling me and I moan, coming to the image of him braced above, working me over with a wicked grin. But it’s more than his masculine voice, appearance, and stellar imaginary performance I get off to who he is as a whole; his stoicism, his artistry, his natural dominance. I want it all.
The tension in my shoulders dissipates, and I lie there, soft and spent, gradually coming to terms with my own feelings toward Logan. If post-nut clarity exists, then pre-nut psychosis must also. This isn’t that. There’s no regret. I’m physically satisfied but could go another round with the same daydream.
This was supposed to stop me from thinking about him that way, clear the persistent hormones that hijacked my control panel. Somehow, I’ve gone and done the opposite, and I’m left even more confused than before.
Fuck . . .
Fuck!
