A CO-WORKER'S CRUSH (The Rooftop Crew #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jax

Psychologists have nothing on tattoo artists. We might not hold the fancy degree, but we hear people’s life stories all the time. The difference is that we brand them with ink to help them remember whatever lesson or experience they’re intent on carrying with them. It’s a lot of pressure. Take my most recent client—who’s a babbler to the nth degree.

“And then bam, headlights were shining right in my face.” The guy springs up as though I need a reenactment of his near-death experience.

“Sit down. Unless you want me to f**k up your tattoo,” I say, wiping the outline of the stencil off his skin since he moved.

He lies back down on my table. “So that’s why I’m here—to remember that feeling when I thought my life was over.” He flings his head to move his red hair that’s falling down over his eyes. “Have you ever had one of those experiences?”

I glance at Dylan and he smirks, wiping the skin of his client, who came in for a killer piece he had Dylan draw. Those are the best clients—the ones who let you ink their skin with your art.

“All the damn time.” I wipe the area I’m going to be working on.

Dylan chuckles, but I don’t look at him again. We grew up in a shitty neighborhood, and since we’re both foster kids, we never put much weight in the whole one life analogy.

“I’m sure. Look at you.” The kid stares at my full sleeve tatted arm. “You probably ride a motorcycle.”

I nod, and he groans.

“Without a helmet?”

I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth to say no. “Nope. There was a time I was stupid enough to do that, but I’ve seen too much s**t. People who don’t get up off the concrete.” I place the stencil on his skin, and he flinches. This is going to be torture for us both. “You gotta sit still.”

“And you’ve probably skipped school? Smoked and not just cigarettes, right?”

I glance over my shoulder at Dylan. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s gonna bleed.

“And girls? You probably had two chicks willing to do you at the same time.” The kid groans. “That’s never gonna happen for me.”

Frankie, my co-worker, gags. “He’s not an idol to look up to, kid.”

I give her a big toothy smile and she flips me off. We have a love-hate relationship, but it’s heavy on the hate. She’d never admit it, but her life would be boring without me in it. God knows the woman needs a few laughs in her life. Not that she finds much humor in what I say.

“You gotta understand where I’m coming from,” my client says. “I was captain of the chess team, valedictorian of my class, got one date to the prom—but that was with my neighbor who went to an all-girls’ school because she felt sorry for me. Went to my dad’s alma mater, majored in business just like him, pledged his fraternity. It wasn’t the cool keg party fraternity—mine held study sessions and quiz nights.”

The kid has no idea the life he was granted. I’m pretty sure he had Christmas presents every year, birthdays that were celebrated—not to mention parents who took pictures of him before he went to prom, who gushed over his graduation, and who paid for all his s**t. Long ago, I would have told this kid to be grateful for what he has, but I’m over it now.

“Sucks,” I agree with him because it’s just easier.

“I know, right? Tell me, how many chicks do you get?”

Dylan loses his fight and laughs. Frankie groans again. Lyle’s ears perk up. He’s an aspiring tattoo artist, and I’m one hundred percent sure he’s picked this profession to try to get girls.

I shrug. “Depends on the night.”

“Just so you know, kid, he isn’t getting any women in his bed at the moment.” Frankie lets out an evil laugh.

We’re still on that bet about how long I can go without getting laid. Was the bet stupid? Hell yes, but she started it. And I’m proud to say that though my balls are blue as a Smurf and my left palm is calloused beyond belief, I still haven’t had s*x yet.

“Why?” The kid flings his head back again to get the red strands out of his vision.

I point at him in warning. “I’m gonna put it in a ponytail if you don’t stop.”

“I have a clip.” Frankie waves Lyle over from the front desk. He does as she says because he’s so desperate he’d even try to nail Frankie. Hate to break it to the kid, but he could never handle Frankie. “Top drawer, it’s Jolie’s.”

Lyle brings the clip over and pushes the kid’s hair away before sticking a Paw Patrol barrette in his hair.

“This is embarrassing as hell,” my client mumbles.

“Either that or I mess up the tattoo.” I wait for him to argue, but he doesn’t.

So I prepare my ink and machine, ready to get this tattoo started. Hopefully with the first prick of the needle, the kid shuts up and I’ll get in my zone. If he passes out, I’m done.

“So why haven’t you had s*x?” he asks.

Frankie laughs. “Go ahead and tell your little wannabe mini-me why.”

“She bet me I couldn’t go a week.” I nod in Frankie’s direction.

“And what do you get if you win?” the kid asks.

I glance at Frankie, and she stops tattooing her girl to look at me. “Just the satisfaction that she was wrong.”

“So when is the week up?” he asks.

“It was over weeks ago,” Dylan interjects. “I tried to tell Frankie that Jax doesn’t mess around with bets. So now we all have to deal with his cranky-ass attitude.”

As embarrassing as it is, he’s right. I’m doing it to prove a point, but at this point, I’m not even sure who or what for. And I am on edge. More than I’m willing to admit. Not that I’m a womanizing w***e, but knowing all prospects are off the table does not make me a happy man.

“Why are you still doing it?” The kid tries to turn his head to see Frankie.

Her head is down, concentrating on the girl’s neck she’s tattooing. I’m going to have to decide when I’ll finally give in. But so far, it just hasn’t felt like the right time.

“Because Jax takes everything to the umpteenth degree,” Dylan says.

“We could wager again?” I offer.

Frankie looks at me from the corner of her eye as she dips her needle in the ink. “You like having blue balls, huh?”

“No blue balls,” I lie. “In fact, you star in my highlight reel every night.”

“Highlight would mean you’ve had s*x with her?” The kid tries again to look at Frankie as though he wants to picture the two of us.

“I assure you, kid, I would never be caught in bed with Jax.”

“That’s perfect because I’m not an ‘in bed’ kind of guy.” I grin at her.

She huffs and goes back to working on her client.

“Can we please stop talking about this? Lyle, turn up the music,” Dylan orders.

“Yeah, because you don’t know how to treat a woman with respect,” Frankie says.

I should leave this topic be, but if I did, I wouldn’t be Jax Owens. “No woman wants to be f****d in a respectable way.”

Her groan turns into a growl and I smile at my client, having gotten the exact reaction out of her that I wanted. Yes, might as well enroll me back in the seventh grade for how I love to antagonize her.

“Turn up the damn music, Lyle.” Dylan’s voice sounds pained.

I buzz the needle on my client’s skin—finally—and although he closes his eyes, he surprises me by taking the pain. If only I could get the idea of f*****g Frankie out of my head now. I swear I can almost feel her slim hips under my hands as I drill inside her, watching her hatred for me dissolve into lust. I wasn’t lying about her being in my reel. It might be imaginary, but she’s my go-to lately and I think it’s because of the bet. Which probably means I need to put an end to the bet, because I never screw my co-workers. Ever.

A half-hour later, I finish his tattoo. It’s binary code for “no risk no gain” which is a new one for me. He put it on the inside of his bicep, so I give him props for that. I’ve seen other men tear up when I tattoo that area.

Once I’m done, he walks to the mirror. This is my favorite part of my job—seeing the immediate reaction to the tattoo.

His eyes light up and I think he might be a little proud of himself too. “I love it.”

“Let’s go over care instructions.” I take off my gloves and throw them away.

He doesn’t turn away from the mirror. The kid is speechless for the first time since he walked in here. I lean back in my chair and find myself smiling at him like a proud father.

Still looking in the mirror, he says, “I know you don’t get it, but all my life, it’s like I’ve been stuck in this box. All my parents’ expectations, teacher expectations, peer expectations. After that truck almost ran me over, it was like bam, I thought I’m going to die, and I haven’t done one thing I truly wanted in this life.”

The tattoo needles behind me quiet. I’m sure if I looked back, I’d see Dylan and Frankie listening to his speech.

“This is the first step of my new life. So many things I’ve put on the back burner and thought ‘one day.’ Well, that day is now.” He looks at the floor for a second then looks back up. “I’m sure none of you understand because you’re the kind of people who have done what you wanted your entire life. You didn’t let anyone put you in a two-by-two box, shoving you back down every time you spoke up.”

I glance over my shoulder, and Dylan raises his eyebrows. The kid is right on one hand—no one was going to tell me what to do—but everyone has things they say they’re going to do one day and keep putting off.

“Not necessarily true,” I say.

He points at Dylan and me. “Look at you guys. You’re the epitome of tough guys.”

Frankie laughs. “I’m going to give you one piece of advice.” I hear the snap of her gloves being taken off, which means she must be done with her client as well.

Frankie and her client walk over to the kid, and Frankie holds the mirror in front of her client’s face so she can see the tattoo on the back of her neck. The kid stares at the girl and I already know how this is going to turn out.

Frankie interrupts before he can say anything. “Outward appearance has nothing to do with being tough. You think because they have tattoos and give off that ‘I don’t give a s**t’ attitude that they’re not afraid of things? They are. Being the only female working in this tattoo parlor, I’m here to tell you, it’s not muscle and tattoos that make someone tough. It’s perseverance, taking the s**t life throws at you and not letting it tear you down. Being a good person in spite of it all.”

He nods, but I’m not sure he understands what Frankie is saying. I heard her loud and clear though.

“Do you want to go out with me?” he asks the girl without any preamble.

I wince because though I love this kid’s “take life by the horns” outlook, his delivery could use some work. I don’t want to see his newfound attitude about life deteriorate.

“Sure. But.” She takes the clip out of his hair and hands it to Frankie.

“Thanks.” The kid’s cheeks grow redder than they already are.

“That’s better,” she says and smiles.

Even Frankie turns around and raises her eyebrows in surprise as they walk out of the parlor together after paying.

“Maybe we should start a board with love matches made here,” Lyle says.

No one says anything. I can’t speak for my co-workers, but the kid got me thinking about the one thing I’ve been putting on the back burner ever since I attended the testicular cancer awareness ball with my friends and heard them talk about how it can be genetic.

When I was younger, I never put too much thought into my future, but it’s time I face my biggest fear—finding my birth parents.