“Jake cut my hours,” I finally divulge. Forehead still in my hands, I swivel my head to face him. “I really fucking needed those hours.”
“Prick.”
“It’s not his fault. But yeah.”
“He’s still a prick.”
“Henry’s lease is up, too.” I don’t elaborate. He can put two and two together.
We’re quiet again, and if I wasn’t so worried about coming up with cash, it might be awkward to be around him. We haven’t spoken since Halloween. Haven’t so much as exchanged a single text. But I’m too preoccupied to care right now.
“Work for me,” Dare surprises me by saying.
“What?”
“Work. For. Me,” he says again. “I need an assistant, and someone who can man the front desk. You need the money. It’s a win-win.”
“Pretty sure I already tried to work for you and you made it clear that you weren’t hiring.”
“Well, I know you’re a local now. We locals gotta stick together, right?”
I want to ask him why he’s helping me, because I don’t buy that for a second. I don’t want pity. And I definitely don’t want this to turn into another situation where my boss thinks he can throw money at me and expect me to be his fuck toy at his disposal.
“What happened the other night…it won’t happen again.” If I’m going to take this job, it has to be said. No matter how much I want to feel his mouth between my legs and his hands on my waist again.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “If it happens, it happens. But anything that does or does not happen won’t affect your job. You have my word on that.”
“Not happening,” I reiterate, raising a brow.
“Do you want the fuckin’ job or not?” he asks, exasperated. I do. Of course, I do. But this has the potential to get complicated. I make a promise to myself right here and now that I’ll bail before anything has a chance to get messy.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say sincerely, meeting his icy eyes.
Dare nods. “Meet me after your shift tomorrow. We’ll go over everything then.” He stands, and I crane my neck to see him as he runs a hand through his thick black hair.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, and then he turns and disappears inside Bad Intentions.
* * *
I STAND IN FRONT OF the mirror in the Bad Intentions bathroom and lift the front of my work shirt to my nose. Ugh. I smell like cheeseburgers and the beer that a drunk customer spilled all over their table…and me. I strip off my work shirt before digging around in my backpack, thankful that I had the forethought to bring an extra shirt for my first day. I toss my shirt onto the porcelain sink and notice a framed cross-stitch photo that reads Please don’t do cocaine in our bathroom. Surrounded by flowers, it looks like something someone’s grandmother would have hanging on their wall. I laugh out loud and take a picture with my phone to show Jess before I pull my plain black V-neck over my head.
I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surprised at how clean everything is here. I’ve only been inside a couple of times—the last time it was dark, and I was drunk on Dare, so I didn’t pay too much attention. I guess a tattoo parlor would need to be a sterile work environment, so it makes sense.
I tie my red and black flannel around my waist before I pull the hair tie from my ponytail. I let my hair fall around my shoulders and shake it out with my fingers. Good enough.
I leave the bathroom and go back to the front desk, where Dare is waiting for me. I’m not boy crazy. I don’t swoon or lose my mind when an attractive guy comes along. Looks don’t matter much to me—I know firsthand that some of the most beautiful people are ugly on the inside—but Dare is on another level. His inky black hair is perfectly disheveled like it was on Halloween, and I have the urge to run my fingers through it. He’s tall, probably a good eight inches taller than my five foot three. His eyes seem impossibly blue, his jaw sharp. Thick, black eyebrows. Full bottom lip, the top one slightly thinner.
But the sexiest thing about Dare isn’t physical. It’s in the way he carries himself. His intensity. His give-no-fucks attitude. I may not be drawn to a pretty face, but like a typical girl, I am drawn to a challenge. He’s closed off and mysterious and kind of cranky, so why do I want to be the one to crack the shell and get under his skin?
He gives me an appraising look, his eyes lingering on my cleavage for half a second, then clears his throat. I get a sick sense of satisfaction to know he’s affected by me, too, if only a little.
“I’m going to warn you now. Your title as a receptionist? It’s a little misleading. What I need you for goes way beyond that.”
I arch a brow at him.
“Not that far, smart ass.”
I laugh and move behind the counter next to him.
“You’ll be in charge of scheduling, answering phones, greeting customers, payments, and all that shit. But what we really need help with is keeping everything clean, sterilizing our stations, setting up and breaking down stations, cleaning, offering the clients water or reading material, cleaning, taking photos for our albums, cleaning, grabbing stuff for the artists when we need it, cleaning…”
“A lot of cleaning. Got it.”
“A clean shop is a happy shop. No one wants to get tattooed in some haggard ass tattoo parlor.”
“Not really a good look,” I agree.
“Exactly.”
Dare clicks around on the computer.
“This is called InkBook. It’s what you’ll use for scheduling, client records, online bookings and confirmations, payroll, everything.”
He walks me through the program, step by step, telling me it’s “just like QuickBooks,” whatever that is. I should be writing this down. I’m going to forget every single thing he says in approximately seven seconds. I’m halfway tempted to pull out my phone and record the whole thing, but somehow, I don’t think he’d appreciate that.
I can’t help but stare at his colorful arms, and his big veiny hand as he grips the mouse, and the way his long, thick finger clicks it, his eyebrows cinched together in deep concentration, the inky black strand of hair that fell in front of his eye, and the tattoo that peeks out from the collar of his T-shirt. Get it together, Lo. Have I not learned my lesson? Eric was the last person to affect me and look how that ended up.
After he finishes teaching me how to use the software, he shows me how to set a station up. There are covers for every goddamn thing, and nearly everything is good for one use only. Then, he introduces me to the guys.
“Guys, this is Lo. Lo, this is Alec and Matty. You know Cam and Cordell.” Dare points to each one. They’re standing around the pool table, not a client in sight.
“Wait, are you…?” I trail off, looking at the one with blond hair that reminds me of the guy from Sons of Anarchy, tattoos clear up to his jaw.
“Another fan girl?” the one with the golden-brown skin and backwards fitted hat asks—Matty, I think, and I look to Dare in confusion.
“Nah.” Dare chuckles, looking down at me. “Not even on her radar.”
“Fan girl? I was going to ask if they were brothers.” They look alike, but I didn’t realize how similar until they stood next to each other.