2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

ONE MONTH LATER

LEWIS

It's taken me countless hours of backbreaking labor over the past few weeks… I mean, not backbreaking for me , but the construction crew I hired to basically build the inside of my new shop the way I wanted it definitely looked like they were breaking a sweat. And watching those sweaty, shirtless hunks build shelves and lay new flooring had to count as cardio. That's my excuse for skipping the gym for the hundred and ninety-eighth week in a row, anyway. Everything looks absolutely perfect, from the layout to the row of display refrigerators humming away, full of colorful flower arrangements for customers who want to just grab something quick on their way home from work or out on a date. This new location is twice the size of my old one, and it's on a busier street, so hopefully that will mean more visibility.

I would love to be celebrating all of those wonderful things this morning. Unfortunately, my brain is throbbing painfully in time with the beat that's been blaring through the wall for an hour, and my eye twitches.

"This is so wrong. Who plays the same song on repeat at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning?" I groan, setting the last potted orchid on the display shelf before reaching up to rub my temples.

"It's ten a.m." Rowan chuckles, sweeping up the last of the construction dust from the tile floor so the shop will be presentable for our grand opening in an hour. The big ginger teddy bear looks adorable wearing the green apron that serves as the uniform for the shop.

"But it's the lord's day," I counter with a growl, which only makes my best friend slash employee laugh harder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot how seriously you take that kind of thing."

I snarl again and lay my head down on the cool glass checkout counter when I reach it. The chill gives me temporary relief, but then the song ends… and starts up again. I yowl like a cat.

"This is your fault. I'm hungover from your birthday celebration last night. Speaking of which, why aren't you more hungover?" I lift my head and glare at him accusingly. He just shakes his head and keeps sweeping, completely ignoring my bitchy mood. I sigh and push myself upright again. "Sorry. I'm just lashing out because I didn't get nearly enough sleep and the psychopath next door is clearly going out of his way to torture me personally."

"I'm sure it'll stop soon. They're going to start seeing customers at some point, right?" Rowan says, entirely too reasonable for how unhinged this situation is. Who the hell listens to the same damn song on repeat for over an hour?

"Why is someone even over there this early on a Sunday? It's a tattoo shop, for fuck's sake, shouldn't all the employees be asleep until noon?" I grumble. The song comes to an end again and I hold my breath. Please let it be over, for the love of all things holy .

There's a single beat of silence, just long enough for me to hope that I'll get an hour of peace for my hangover to fade before I have to put on a smiling face and celebrate my grand opening. But then the opening beats of the song start up again, and something inside me snaps.

"That's it," I hiss between my teeth. "It's time to meet my new neighbors."

"Why don't you go get some coffee instead? We don't want to start off on the wrong foot, right?" Again, so fucking reasonable.

"Nope. Sorry, Row, but this is happening."

I shove the door open forcefully and step out into the bright morning. I wince at the glare of the sun, but it only takes a second for me to stomp the few feet from my door to the next. Ink Slingers is plastered across the door in stylized letters, and there's an LGBTQ flag hanging in the window, which I would be thrilled to see if I weren't about to storm in there and rip whoever is inside a new asshole.

The door swings open easily, and the music that has been pounding through the shared wall all morning hits me like a tidal wave. It's an upbeat pop song about dancing the night away, I'm pretty sure it's from the Barbie movie, which makes it all the more surprising when my attention zeroes in on the person who's been listening to it for hours.

There's an elevated area that spans the back wall and down one side of the shop, which is where all of the tattoo chairs and supplies are set up. Hanging from a hook on the back wall is a leather jacket, a skull with rainbow horns emblazoned across the back of it. Something about the design tickles at the back of my mind, but I'm way too hungover and annoyed to think about it any harder than that.

There's only one man in the shop, a guy who's around my height and weight, except unlike me, both of his arms are covered in tattoos from shoulder to knuckles. He's dressed in a neon pink tank top straight out of the eighties and a pair of teal pants, with a studded belt and heavy black boots that are completely out of step with the rest of his outfit. He's too busy dancing to even hear me come in. He shakes his ass and claps in time with the punchy beats of the song, throwing in some high-pitched harmony during the chorus.

"Excuse me," I shout over the music to get his attention. Rowan isn't totally wrong; I don't want to piss off my new neighbors before my shop has even opened. I can be polite. My brain throbs in time with the beat of the song and I grit my teeth. "Excuse me!" I try a little louder when he doesn't respond.

But Neon Disco Barbie still doesn't hear a thing other than his own damn singing. I spot a phone docked on the counter and let out a sigh of relief. It must be synced to the speakers all around the shop. I beeline for it, praying that simply taking it off of the docking station will make the ungodly music stop already. Blessedly, the second I lift it off, silence falls.

Well… near silence. It takes a few seconds for the tattooed twink to realize the music has stopped, and he warbles the last few lines of the chorus again before stuttering to a stop.

"Hey, what the hell?" He spins around to finally face me, looking outraged as if he's the one who's been tortured all morning.

"Does this thing have like one other song on it?" I ask. "Or a volume control?" I drop his phone and rub my temples again.

"Excuse you, but that song slaps." He squares his shoulders and sizes me up. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"I'm the holy angel of shut the fuck up, here to deliver a very important message," I say blandly. "Shut the fuck up."

He scoffs and braces his hands on the railing that surrounds the raised platform, vaulting himself over and landing with a soft thud on both feet like he's done the maneuver a thousand times.

"Sweetie, cutie, babycakes," he says with a patronizing smirk as he approaches me. "Maybe you don't know how things work around here, but you're not going to come into this shop and tell anybody what to do. Are we clear?" He stops right in front of me, puts one hand under my chin, and leans in to peck a kiss to the tip of my nose.

Oh no he fucking didn't. I bare my teeth and let out a growl, giving him a hard shove in the chest to reclaim my space.

Something about the smell of this dickhead, a mixture of motor oil and lavender scented antiseptic, gives me a sudden flashback to that wild afternoon a month ago with Arrow in the back seat of my car. A twinge of embarrassment and guilt squeezes inside my chest. I can't believe how fucking needy I was, begging him to make me feel special. I cringe internally at the memory, then shake it off. I have more important things to focus on right now than the gorgeous biker I never bothered to call.

"Are you always this much of a cocky prick or is this just how you greet your new neighbors?" I seethe.

He chuckles and smooths his hands over his shirt like he's dusting himself off.

"Bit of both, honey. But wait, new neighbor? You must own Little Shop of Horrors?"

"Little Shop of Flowers." I correct him with a huff. If I wasn't so annoyed with this asshole, I might smile about the fact that he clearly got the reference I was going for with the name.

He hums, plucking his phone out of my hand. Holding my gaze the entire time, he leans past me and puts it right back on the dock, and in an instant, the music is back. "Nice to meet you, neighbor. Now—" He waves both hands dismissively. "—off you fuck."

Another yowl tears from my throat and I flip him the double bird. If this is how he wants it, fine. I can be a shitty neighbor too. It's fucking on.

ARROW

There's nothing quite like roaring down the street on my Harley, two of my best friends flanking me on either side. My brother loves to tease me about the motorcycle club, ragging on everything from our name—The Skins—to our matching jackets. He can tease all he wants; I know he'll never truly get it. These guys, this club, saved my fucking life. Henry is my blood, but my club is my family. They've picked me up and dusted me off at my worst, bailed me out when I was too young and too damn impulsive to channel my anger into anything productive, and somehow, they managed to turn me into a responsible, upstanding guy. Fucking miracle if you ask me. I'd be dead in a ditch or rotting in prison if it weren't for them, and that's a debt of gratitude that won't ever be paid.

I take the turn down the street towards Ink Slingers, Hero and Piston right behind me. Not like I need a two-man escort to our own shop to pick up the digital sketch pad I left on the counter last night, but I'm always happy to have the company. Without at least one of these loveable assholes up in my shit, I'm left alone with my thoughts, and we definitely can't have that. I'm bound to start brooding again about the pretty twink who never called.

I'm not sure why I'm even still thinking about him. There are plenty of men who are eager to climb onto the back of my Harley or crawl into my bed. But trying to figure out why my brain latches on to the shit it does is a pointless task, so I've stopped wasting my energy questioning it.

My little pal Gregory yaps excitedly from his spot strapped to my chest, the wind whipping through his fluffy white fur. He loves riding nearly as much as I do. The second he sees his custom-made goggles and helmet come out, he always spins in excited circles until he makes himself dizzy. He's a cute little idiot. He wiggles once I slow to a stop in the alley behind the shop.

"Keep your fur on, little dude." I laugh, unstrapping him from my chest and setting him down on the ground. He darts up and down the alley, then circles my feet as I dismount.

"That dog needs Adderall or something," Hero says with a chuckle, pulling off his helmet and dragging his fingers through his hair. As he swings his leg over his bike, his jeans ride up just enough that I catch a flash of the pink unicorn socks he has on under his shit-kicking boots.

"Don't listen to him, he's not a real doctor," Piston whispers conspiratorially to Gregory, scooping him up and laughing as my dog wiggles and squirms to be put back down.

I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the handlebar of my bike, and then the three of us, plus Gregory, head inside through the back door. It's a Sunday, which means Ink Slingers is appointment only. If I remember, Jaguar should be here working on a back piece. The sound of the Barbie soundtrack blaring through the speakers confirms that before I even step out of the back room to see my favorite chaos gremlin hard at work.

I stride over to where his phone is docked and tap the volume button to turn it down to a more reasonable level.

"Hey, fucker," Jag yelps, lifting his needle off the customer's skin and whipping around in his chair to glare at me. "Oh, it's just you."

I cock my head and smirk. "Who the fuck else would it be?"

"Oh, don't make Jag-off give you a full list of the people who might come around to fuck with him. That could take all day," Hero teases.

"People love me." Jag sniffs and all three of us laugh. "Fuck each and every one of you."

Piston snorts. "Harboring a gang bang fantasy?"

"Oh no, sweetness, I meant that I would be the one doing the fucking." Jag puckers up and sends a taunting kiss in our direction.

The topless woman straddling his chair barks out a laugh. "There's a reason I keep coming back to Ink Slingers again and again."

"Because we do the best ink in the Midwest?" Jag guesses, returning his attention to the colorful pair of wings he's spent three sessions on already.

"Well, yeah, but also the way you guys shit-talk each other. It makes me feel like I'm back home with my annoying siblings," she explains, and all three of us nod in understanding.

"So, seriously, who did you think was coming in to fuck with your music?" I ask again while I go in search of my misplaced sketch pad. I could have sworn I left it right on the counter, but someone must have tidied up and fucked up my entire system.

"Our new neighbor." He stops tattooing again to swivel around in his chair. "You would not believe this guy. He had the nerve to march in here this morning and yell at me."

His tone makes it clear that he's utterly scandalized by the turn of events, but even without knowing a single thing about the new neighbor, I'm positive he was justified.

"Why?" Piston asks, coming over to the counter to flip through the appointment book for the upcoming week.

Jaguar rolls his eyes. "Something about the music being too loud." He waves his hand dismissively. "If you ask me, he needs an immediate intervention to pry the stick out of his ass before it becomes a permanent fixture."

I grin and arch my eyebrow. "You planning to help him with that?"

"Hell no." He scoffs and spins back around to his customer again. "He's not my type. Nothing wrong with a little twink on twink action, but I prefer to take down bears. He looked like a sweet little china doll, which is way too breakable if you ask me."

I finally find my sketchpad under a stack of signed consent forms under the desk and tuck it under my arm. A pretty little china doll of a twink? Sounds a lot like Lewis. I bite back the wistful sigh that threatens to escape. It's not like this town is all that big—I'm sure I could track him down if I really set my mind to it. Hell, I could drive over to Big Bull right now and ask Henry about him. But I gave him my number and he didn't call. I know how to take a hint, even when the hint sucks balls.

"Speaking of which, how did your date go last night?" Hero asks, pulling up a chair right next to where Jag is working and spinning it around to straddle it.

Jaguar lets out a little hiss and bristles. "Dude, if I weren't working right now, I would kick you in the dick for setting me up with that asshole. I've never met anyone so fucking infuriating in my life. It's like he's going for the world record of putting his foot in his mouth every time he speaks. And I've met him before, by the way. So, more confirmation that the gay dating pool in this town is getting way too damn small."

"Well, shit." Hero scratches his bushy beard and shrugs. "I thought you'd be into him. You're on your own, I guess."

Jag grunts. "You know what we should do? We should do a little good old-fashioned hazing."

"Who? Your blind date?" Piston asks, furrowing his brow.

"No." Jag huffs. "The new neighbor."

"Jag," I growl his name.

"What? I'm not talking about anything illegal, just a harmless prank or two to welcome him to our friendly strip mall."

"Don't make me pull rank," I say, and Jag just laughs.

"Ooh, what are you going to do, spank me? I know you're Big Daddy when it comes to club business, but this is just a little fun. Come on, where's your sense of loyalty? I was disrespected, there have to be consequences for that."

Jag is all drama, and all I can do is huff a laugh and shake my head. When it's clear that I'm not going to pitch too much of a fit about the whole thing, Hero grins.

"Yeah, that sounds fun. Let's do it."

Piston shrugs. "Sure, but seriously, nothing illegal."

I sigh. Clearly, I'm not going to talk them out of this, but I'm staying the hell away from it. God knows that once Jag gets an idea like this, he's like a dog with a bone. Thoughts and prayers for the poor flower shop twink.