Falling In Love With You

Chapter 11

Kayla

The air in The Rusty Anchor was a thick soup of sweat, cheap hops, and the kind of bass that vibrates in your molars. It’s my kind of place. It’s loud enough that you don’t have to talk and dark enough that you can disappear if you want to. Or, at least, I usually can.

"I’m telling you, Kay, the shading on that sleeve is some of your best work," Sam shouted over the music, gesturing with his beer bottle. "You’re getting faster, too."

"I’m not getting faster, I’m getting bored," I grunted, shrugging out of my jacket. I felt the humid draft from the door hit the sweat on the back of my neck. I scanned the room out of habit, looking for a corner where we could grab a stool and be left alone.

That’s when I saw the silhouette.

Standing at the bar, flanked by a girl in a slip dress who looked like she’d been vibrating on a different frequency since birth, was the Princess.

My brain stalled for a second. She wasn't in the lavender suit today. She was wearing a leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh, showing off legs that seemed to go on for miles, and a sheer top that was definitely not corporate-approved. She looked like a different person, but the posture gave her away—shoulders back, chin tilted, that "I’m better than this" aura radiating off her like heat from a radiator.

"No way," Sam muttered, following my gaze. "Is that...?"

"The trespasser," I said, my voice dropping into a low growl.

I couldn't help it. I let my eyes wander. I’m a tattoo artist; I’m paid to notice lines and silhouettes, and hers were... frustratingly perfect. But it was the way she was trying to blend in that really got under my skin. It felt like an insult. Like she was wearing my world as a costume for a Friday night thrill.

She was looking right at me. Her face went through a flicker of shock before settling into a hard, defiant glare. She didn't look like a "Cupcake" anymore; she looked like someone who had been practicing her "I hate you" face in the mirror all morning.

"She’s staring, Kay," Sam chuckled, nudging me. "And not the 'I want a tattoo' kind of staring. More like the 'I want to key your bike' kind."

"Good," I said, pushing off the doorframe. "I like a girl with a hobby."

I didn't think about it. I just started walking toward the bar. Every step felt intentional. I saw her grip her glass tighter as I approached, her knuckles turning white. She was trying to look unbothered, but I could see the way her chest was rising and falling just a little too fast.

I stopped about two feet away, leaning one elbow on the sticky bar top. I didn't say anything at first. I just let the silence stretch out, letting the heavy, distorted guitar from the speakers fill the gap between us. I let my eyes trail down her outfit again—slowly, deliberately—before meeting her gaze.

"Nice skirt," I said, my voice cutting through the noise like a dull blade. "What’s the matter? Did the country club run out of gin?"

Her friend made a small, stifled sound of amusement, but the Princess didn't blink. Up close, I could see the flecks of amber in her eyes, reflecting the red neon of the bar sign. She looked like she wanted to slap me and run away at the same time.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion on my wardrobe," she replied. Her voice was steady, but I could hear the slight tremor of adrenaline underneath it. "And for the record, I’m allowed to be here."

"Sure you are," I said, tilting my head. I leaned in just an inch closer, enough to catch that jasmine scent again. It was driving me crazy. "But you’re sticking out like a sore thumb, Sera. You can wear the leather, but you can’t hide the fact that you’re terrified of getting a little dirt on those boots."

The way I said her name—Sera—seemed to catch her off guard. It was the first time I’d used it, and it felt heavier than I expected.

"I am not terrified of anything," she snapped, stepping toward me until we were almost chest-to-chest. "Especially not someone like you."

I felt the heat radiating off her. It was a challenge, pure and simple. I felt a familiar, dangerous itch in my hands—the one I get when I’m about to start a piece of work I know is going to be difficult.

"Careful, Cupcake," I whispered, my eyes dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto hers. "You keep talking like that, and someone might actually believe you."