Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I park on the street just outside the tattoo parlor, and the second I make my way inside, Harlow spots me and offers a wide grin. “Hey, Harper. I was starting to think something happened to you. We haven’t seen you in ages.”
“It’s been three months,” I laugh, recalling the exact moment I saw her last because I literally fell out the door and almost broke my nose on the pavement. One of her guys took a photo of me sprawled on my ass with an ice pack against my face. The picture now hangs on their wall of shame, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“And?” she prompts. “Three months to you is practically a lifetime.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So, whatcha doing here? You didn’t have an appointment, did you?” she asks, getting up from her station and checking her schedule, almost looking panicked that she might have accidentally double booked.
“No, no,” I rush out. “Just having a shitty day . . . Well, more like a shitty few weeks. I figured I could do with some needle therapy.”
“Ahh, gotcha,” she says. “That’s how I ended up with the exploding watermelon on my right ass cheek.”
I can’t help but laugh. I’ve seen that particular exploding watermelon, and I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty damn cute with its glasses and big bursty eyes. “Well, I’m not quite after an exploding watermelon,” I tell her. “More like a little voodoo doll, pin cushion thing with the little x’s for eyes, right behind my ear.”
She arches a brow and looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “A voodoo doll?”
I nod. “A voodoo doll, indeed.”
“That’s not really on brand for you,” she muses, making a point to glance at the rest of the tattoos covering my body, and I nod, understanding exactly where she’s coming from. Every single one of my tattoos are artistic masterpieces. Skulls hidden within butterflies and daggers and flowers surrounded by rosary beads. Every inch of me that’s been covered has been done so with thought and months of planning.
I don’t just get random little things on my body that don’t mean anything, and as I smile back at her, I know she gets it. “This one is sentimental.”
“A voodoo doll?” she confirms.
I nod. “Yep, a little gothic voodoo doll. But make her cute.”
Harlow grins, and I can already see the wheels turning in her mind. She glances at her watch before looking over her schedule again, and when she finally looks up at me, her brow is arched. “Fine line?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Alright. I can squeeze you in, but if you tell anyone I let you in without an appointment, I’m turning this doll into a moldy cock.”
Thank fuck.
Making my way back to her station, Harlow and I get to chatting, and forty-five minutes later, I stride out of her studio with the most badass voodoo doll chick I’ve ever seen. Harlow only knows how to hit home runs. Failing isn’t in her vocabulary.
Feeling good about myself, I make my way back to my car when somebody calls out from down the path. “Yo,” a sickeningly familiar tone calls out, dragging my attention away from my car. “I know you.”
I let out a heavy breath and glance up to find the new night janitor that for whatever reason has taken over for Vincent. He stands with a few friends, each of them picking up their pace as they move toward me.
“No, you don’t,” I mutter, reaching for my keys and trying to pick up my pace.
The guys crowd me, and from the stench coming off them, they’re drunk and high. “Don’t be such a little bitch,” the Vincent wannabe says. “Say hi to my friends. They love a pretty girl.”
I clench my jaw, trying to keep myself from saying what I really want to say and making this situation a million times worse. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Hey,” he snaps, getting in my face. “You think you’re fucking better than me?”
“I know I am.”
His hand flies toward me, and I dodge out of the way, but my natural instinct has my hand shooting straight up, slamming into his larynx, and dropping the fucker to his knees.
“The fuck?” one of his friends roars from behind me, gripping the back of my head, my hair knotted in his big hand.
“Get her,” the janitor says, and in the blink of an eye, the group of men are dragging me away from my car. I cry out, gripping onto the hand that pulls my hair, digging my nails into his flesh as I’m violently pulled, and dragged toward the alley beside the tattoo parlor.
“LET GO OF ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT,” I roar, feeling the blood vessels in my throat burst.
The pavement burns my legs as they drag me, scratching up every inch of my skin, and as I’m thrown to the dirty ground, five men come down over me. Fists slamming against my face, boots kicking into my ribs. They grope and grab my body, pull my hair, and spit on me.