Rebel Ink Page 3

  “Shit,” Rush breathes, shaking his head.

  “You are a sick bastard with no morals, V,” Janie calls out from behind the reception desk.

  Rush points at her. “What she said.”

  “So that a yes?” I ask.

  His eyes roll. But he’s interested. I can see it. Maybe not for the dipping his pen in another inkpot idea, but hanging out. It’s been a long time. Before the BC we used to have a fucking great time. I miss those days. It can get lonely…even in a threesome.

  “I’ll go out with you,” Rush says after a minute. “But it ain’t like that,” he continues. “I got a girl, my one and only, love of my fucking life—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Let’s not encourage the puke to rise up any higher in my throat, okay?”

  Janie glances up from the computer. “You’re vile.”

  I ignore her. “So…what are we doing then, Andy Griffith?”

  “You ever crash a bachelorette party before?”

  “Yup.” I know right where he’s going, and I’m already shaking my head. “But I don’t want to crash this one.”

  “Come on,” Rush implores me.

  “No way.”

  “I gotta see my baby in her slutty outfit, man.”

  I laugh. Sometimes the dude is funny.

  “And you like Lisa,” he continues. “Or did.”

  “No,” I correct. “I wanted to fuck Lisa. While we both pussy-snacked a couple of other chicks.”

  “Jesus Christ on a cracker, Vincent!” Janie says.

  It’s Rush’s turn to shake his head at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’ve gotten worse,” he says. “Right, J?”

  “Like, beyond, Boss. Heavy duty, counseling-in-Utah or somewhere kinda thing.”

  I grin at them both. Their oh-so-lovable insults have pretty much retooled my mood. Shoved some shit back—shit I’ve been trying to pretend doesn’t exist. And I’m real grateful.

  “Listen,” Rush says, checking his phone. “I’m done for the day. I’m going home to clean myself up, make my ass presentable. You in, meet me there at nine. You out, don’t be late tomorrow.”

  Without another word, he heads back into his room to pack his shit up.

  “I second that,” Janie pipes up from behind the desk.

  I turn around and loom over the desk. “What are you going on about?”

  “The don’t-be-late thing. We’re doing a piece together tomorrow, remember?”

  “Course I remember.” My eyebrows go up and down. “Five eleven, never wears a bra—”

  “She’s married, V. To the lead singer of Interbreed.”

  I shrug. “Point?”

  She glares up at me, her red lips all pouty as she contemplates explaining things to me. Finally she just gives up, exhales loudly and returns to the computer. “Just be here, my beloved manwhore friend, okay?”

  I push away from the desk. “Well, when you sweet-talk me like that…”

  Shaking her head, she laughs, and I make a break into the back for coffee. On the way my ass starts buzzing. I yank it out.

  My place. 9:00p.m. Be there or you’re fired – Your dickhead boss

  I chuckle and flip him off, then stick the thing back in my pocket and grab my ACDC mug. Coffee’s hot and thick. I’m gonna get wired, yo. Need to. Both to perfectly paint my client, and drive that Lisa chick out of my head.

  Again.

  I down half the brown goodness and burn my tongue.

  Fuck.

  Blondie.

  Leave it to her to make me injure one of my most prized assets. Whoever is having the misfortune of shacking up with that train wreck in a track suit—okay, sweats, but give it five years—has my condolences. Forget the sarcasm and California princess routine—she’s probably one of those back-to-the-mattress, legs-spread, bra-on, zero alerts that she’s coming, making-the-guy-work nightmares.

  You dodged a bullet, my friend.

  Mug in hand, I head out of the break room. Once again, my ass buzzes. I shake my head and grab the phone from my pocket. Pushy asshole. Probably wants to wear matching outfits or some shit. And just to be a team player, I might oblige him.

  But the text’s not from him.

  I am devastated that you refuse to speak to me. Shall I beg? Is that what you want? Please, Vincent. I need you here. Tomorrow night at—

  I don’t read any more. Delete. Delete. Delete.

  Jaw tight, I stalk into my dungeon and slam the door. Forget the coffee now—I’m wired in a whole other way now. In a way that ain’t good for my art.

  I need to chill.

  Let this pass—forget about it.

  I have a customer coming in five, and he’s going to get my best work, whatever the fuck it takes.

  I turn my phone off and toss it on the couch.

  No more calls, texts or emails tonight.

  From anyone.

  Dressed like two Vegas call girls—the high-class ones, of course—Addy and I are sitting side by side in the back of a black stretch limo she rented. Love her! We’re moving down the Strip easy peasy because traffic is a bitch and a half. But that’s okay by me. Because, first of all, it’s fun to people- and places-watch at night. And second, I need a few more seconds to finish this text.

  “Please put that away,” Addy begs.

  Again.

  I know. It’s a total asshole move. And I’ve been at it for five minutes straight. But I kinda don’t have a choice.

  I glance up from the screen of my iPhone and give her a sheepish look. “They want to know where I am.”

  “So tell them,” she says.

  Sure, that’s one option, I suppose.

  Addison knows me too damn well. “What? You’re not going to tell them you’re in Las Vegas?”

  Oh…complicated!! “The thing is,” I begin. “They would sort of like it if I stayed away from here.” Addy cocks her head to one side and narrows her eyes. This means she’s about to go the fuck off—which I totally get—but I stop her with a quick, “It’s not you. It’s…sort of…well, the company you keep.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Bad influence on you, huh?”

  “It’s their opinion,” I clarify. “And I don’t want to deal with the fallout, okay? I just want to have fun.” She’s staring at me. Like she’s never really seen me before. Or maybe like I’m a bug she’s inspecting. I don’t like it. I look down at my phone and finish the text. Send it. “There. I’ve told them I’m at a spa.”

  “Where?”

  I look up again. “Napa.”

  “Perfect.” And with that dash of irritated-slash-disappointed sarcasm, she turns to face the lights of the Luxor Hotel.

  “Addy.”

  She doesn’t look at me.

  “I know you think I’ve sold out, and that Kevin isn’t right for me—and I’m allowing my parents to make choices for me…” I inhale and release it. It’s as heavy as my heart right now. “But it’s really the right thing. The best thing.” The only thing. “I’ve come to understand that over these past months.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then she turns to look at me. “I don’t think you’ve sold out, bestie. I think you’ve given up. And way too fast. I mean, how long were you in L.A.? Like, a hot minute?”

  “Try six months.”

  “That’s nothing. A job just doesn’t fall into someone’s lap right out of college—”

  “I did have a job. I could barely pay my rent.”

  “I’m talking about the right job.”

  She’s said this all before. I didn’t want to hear it then either. “Look I couldn’t do it, okay Addy? Six months of company brass telling me I didn’t have what it takes—for the mailroom or an internship. Six months of dodging my landlord and eating ramen noodles. It wasn’t for me. I’m too…soft.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t need to. All you need to do is be my friend.” I force a smile as the limo pull
s up to the club and stops. “Can you do that?”

  Her eyes, one blue and one green, lined expertly in black and silver, study me. Then she reaches out and takes my hand. “Let’s go get drunk and dance with hot men at the spa, shall we?”

  I laugh and nod. We scramble out of the limo, thank our driver and make a beeline for the crowd gathered in front of the club.

  Seizure, which is located in the Carlisle Hotel, just opened last month and Addison told me it was the perfect place to start our adventure. After we flash our I.D.’s and walk through the door I instantly feel the SB start to peel off me like cheap—or not so cheap—paint. A year ago, there was nothing I loved more than getting dressed up and going to a party. Unless it was snagging the attention of every dude in the room. Now I have company, or competition, in what had always been an unusual place. Although gorgeous, Addy had always been a chill, understated dresser. But not anymore. With her hair long and curled into a sexy/messy style, three-inch black Louboutins, and a few tattoos peeking out of her black, strapless mini dress, she’s stunning. Every guy—and a few girls—are checking her out. Me, on the other hand? I’m not getting much attention. I’m wearing red and my breasts are barely covered. My heels are shockingly high and my white-blond hair is swept across my face in a deep part. I realize I’m wearing my engagement ring and take it off, put it in my purse. Let’s see what that does.

  “Should we head to the bar first?” Addy asks. “Get a little drinkie-poo?”

  “Absolutely.” Frankly, I haven’t had any real drinks in months. My parents are big fans of either champagne or wine spritzers, and Kevin is a Merlot Man.

  We sidle up to the bar. I’m incredibly gifted at sidling, and when I catch a man looking at me with appreciation, I grin. “Hello there.”

  He grins too. He’s tall, tan and gorgeous. Clearly, the ring off is the answer.

  “I love your shoes,” he says in a very affected voice that instantly makes my shoulders drop. “What size?”

  “Umm, eight?”

  He turns to the man sitting beside him, who is not as tall, but equally as gorgeous. “Would my feet look enormous in those, Steven?”

  The man laughs. “Honey, you’re an eleven. Own it.” He winks. “And prove it to me tonight.”

  I think I’m frowning, which is terrible for the facial muscles. No matter what my mother advises I don’t want to start Botox until thirty.

  “Lis!” Addy calls, motioning me over to a free spot she’s managed to score at the bar.

  I give the hot, gay boys a smile and head over to my friend. “I want to go home,” I say immediately.

  She laughs. “Don’t be insane.”

  “I’m pretty sure I look…uncute.”

  She scrunches up her face. “What are you talking about, whore? You’re the most beautiful girl in here.”

  “Well, the second,” comes a sexy, masculine voice behind us.

  Recognizing it instantly, Addy whirls around and lights up like a Christmas tree. “Rush!”

  Perfect. Addy’s insanely hot, tatted-up man is here. Another dude to admire her, while I attract more undesirables. Aka no one.

  I turn back to face the bar. I need a margarita with salt like…fifteen minutes ago.

  “What are you doing here?” Addy asks him. “You know this is females only.”

  “I know, baby. And I swear I’m not about to get all in your business. But fuck, you look hot.”

  She giggles. “Seriously. You need to go.”

  “Can’t. We’re here for my bachelor party.”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be the night before you get married?”

  “Sure. You wanna get hitched tomorrow?”

  She laughs. “You idiot.”

  “Damn, your rejection is like a knife to my heart. Not to mention certain other parts of my anatomy.”

  “I promise to kiss them all and make them feel better,” Addy says. “Later. Now go. Wait—who’s the ‘we’ celebrating your potential marriage to me?”

  My heart plummets because I know. I soooo know. Jesus, where the hell is my drink? No. Where’s the bartender so I can order? Please, can we pretend this isn’t happening?

  But it happens anyway. In a blaze of glory and asshole.

  “Evenin’, fuckers,” comes the voice that once upon a time sort of rocked both my dreams and my nightmares.

  Vincent strides up to the bar in tight black jeans, a nice gray long-sleeved t-shirt and combat boots. He ignores me completely, and orders a shot from one of the bartenders, who, I swear to god, hasn’t even once looked my way or come over to ask me what I want.

  What the hell is going on with me tonight?

  And…is it just tonight?

  “You just killed my buzz, Rush,” I say as the owner of Wicked Ink leans against the bit of bar to my left.

  He smirks. “He won’t bother you. I promise.”

  “That’s right, sweet tits.” Vincent turns to regard me with a lift of the brows. “I’m here to score tail, not go after some Rolex-wearing, white bread, ‘money so fat it can’t fit into the Prada wallet his mommy bought him last Christmas’ dude’s old lady.”

  “That was a mouthful,” I say dryly. DRINK!!

  His black eyes flash. “That’s what she said.”

  I recoil. “Gross.”

  “Actually, what they said,” he corrects.

  As if he needs to. We get it—you think you’re a walking, talking, bullshit-spewing stud farm. And just like that—to prove it to me—two women come sauntering up to the bar, clearly on stud patrol. I would know, because I’ve done the exact same thing a time or two. Hungry eyes, lustful grins, booty shake with each stride. Used to be a bit of a master, really. I watch with admiration as they order drinks—WTF? Where is mine?!?—then turn to admire the gorgeous, six-foot-two, fauxhawk-wearing, tatted-up dickhead.

  “You two here to party?” he asks.

  They giggle. I roll my eyes.

  Then I kind of wonder if that used to be me. I recognize the hair flipping move. And the lip pout. God, I used to be so on point.

  “Absolutely,” says the one on the right. She almost could pass for Vincent’s sister. Same coloring, same black eyes and sharp-angled face. He’s so perverted he probably likes that.

  I turn to face Addy. “What are we doing?” Cause I know we aren’t drinking.

  She gives Rush a look, then reaches for my hand. “Whatever you want, Bride-to-Be.”

  “Let’s dance,” I say. “I need to get my sweat on.”

  She whoops. “Fuck, yeah!” She tosses Rush a goodbye wink and drags me onward. “I thought you’d never ask, beeyotch.”

  I can’t touch. Him or her. I promised Alan. He said if I got with any more people before the wedding, he’d call it off. And that’s not happening. We just bought the house in Vail.

  But I can watch.

  This guy, this absolutely deliciously terrifying specimen, led us into a club bathroom and locked the door. Frankly, I don’t know how he did it. And why no one is banging the thing down. I imagine there are security cameras in here. But he doesn’t seem to care. Neither does Michelle.

  Bitch.

  I’m so jealous of her right now I can barely breathe. Her skirt is up around her waist and she’s straddling The Tatted One. He’s holding her up against the marble wall, his mouth on her right tit while he’s fucking the shit out of her. Every now and then she opens her eyes and looks at me. Grinning through her ecstasy.

  Bitch.

  My panties are so wet I think I’ll have to go up and change them before we head to the Bellagio. We’re seeing “O” later tonight. The irony is not lost on me.

  Michelle’s moans are getting louder. She’s not looking at me anymore. The Tatted One’s head is up and he’s watching her. Even as she comes, he just watches her.

  I wish Alan would do that to me.

  I wish Alan would make me come once in awhile.

  He should rub that gold card against my clit.

  That m
ight do it.

  As I stare, my nipples hard against the cups of my push-up bra, Michelle comes. The Tatted One slams into her a couple more times, then pulls out. And like he’s done this a million times, pulls off his condom, drops it in the trash—all without a word.

  “Wait,” Michelle says, breathless, her eyes glassy. “You didn’t—”

  He gives her a look that would make my fiancé piss his pants.

  “You’re still hard.” Smiling coyly, she drops to her knees. “Let me take care of that.”

  He zips his fly as he turns around and walks out. And as the door clicks shut, I realize the only thing he said to us was, “You two here to party?”

  I’m done.

  This club is bullshit.

  The chicks here are bullshit too.

  She wanted to suck your dick, fool. What’s bullshit about that?

  I ignore myself. Myself is pretty much bullshit too. Myself is kinda losing it. Like, one day at a time. Like, sinking into the abyss kind of losing it.

  Those fucking phone calls and texts. Why can’t she leave me be? Better yet, forget I exist? It’d been promised. Once upon a fucking time. I hate people who go back on their word. Especially when the words are¸ “You’re dead to me.”

  Pussies.

  I drop back another shot. Where the fuck is Rush? I mean, I’m gone for what…? Twenty minutes and he skates? I swivel in my seat and run my gaze over the dance floor. Those two chicks are nutters—and not the ones I was holed up in the bathroom with. Addison and Blondie. Blondie cuz she’s about to say I do to some Santa Barbara blue-blood douchenozzle, and she’s rubbing up and down some stranger, and Addison cuz she ain’t doing anything to stop it. My lips twitch. That Lisa chick is hot and all, but she’s…I don’t know—off—since the last time I saw her. At that graduation Rush forced me to go to in Santa Barbara Cali. Dude paid for that in so many ways. She seems uncomfortable in her skin, maybe. Doesn’t know how to use it anymore.

  Whatevs. I turn back and order another drink. This was a mistake. Coming here, trying to hang out with a friend. I’m not good at that anymore. Like Blondie, my shit ain’t working right.

  “Where are all your lovely dates?”

  That voice is like nails down…well, in an alternate universe, my back. I grin into my third shot of whisky and turn just in time to see Lisa of Santa Barbara drop onto the barstool beside me.