4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

LEWIS

After the blowjob of a lifetime last night and some solid sleep, I've decided that maybe I acted like a little bit of a dick before. Obviously, that unhinged neon goblin twink next door has his own issues to sort out, but we're neighbors now, and I need to make an effort to get along.

I stop on my way to the shop and pick up a couple of iced coffees and pastries from Row's favorite bakery. Then I spend the ten-minute drive practicing my apology and working on my most friendly, contrite smile. When I pull into the parking lot of the strip mall my little flower shop now calls home, I'm surprised to see several people milling around outside of my door. I glance at the dashboard clock in my car and frown. Nope, I'm not running late. Well, if these people are so desperate for flower arrangements that they're lining up for them before eight in the morning, I'm definitely not going to complain.

I grab the tray of coffees and the pastry bag and get out of my car. Which, for the record, is a new-to-me 2015 Civic that I bought after that dramatic bitch fucked off to car heaven. I can't be too mad at her though, since her last earthly act was to land me the hottest hookup of my life. RIP, you beautiful drama queen.

As I climb out of my car and give my queuing customers a big grin to reassure them that I'm going to be right with them, it strikes me that the handful of people lined up aren't my usual clientele. From the look of it, they're mostly teenage girls. Prom isn't for months still, and even then, it's usually moms who come in to buy the corsages. Are pretty flower arrangements the latest TikTok trend? If so, halle-fucking-lujah, it's about time my special talent became cool. Honestly, the universe owes me after a lifetime of mocking.

I hustle up to the door and balance my breakfast in one arm while I fish the keys out of my pockets to unlock the shop.

"Morning, Ladies," I greet them cheerfully. "Are you all here for something special this morning? Maybe a lively sunflower arrangement or an elegant lily bouquet?"

They exchange confused looks and then one of the girls gives me a hopeful look while her friends nudge her from behind, prodding her into being the spokesperson for their little group.

"We heard you had Tay Tay tickets you were giving away, like, as a promotion or something? None of us have, like, any money to buy flowers, but we could Snap your shop and stuff if you just please, please, please give us the tickets?" She bounces on her toes as she unleashes the plea and I furrow my brow.

"Uh… sorry, but there must be some mistake. I don't have tickets for anything, let alone a sold-out Taylor Swift concert." I give them an apologetic shrug and watch as they all shuffle away in disappointment. "That was fucking weird," I mutter to myself once they're gone.

Where in the world they got the idea that I would have T-Swift tickets is beyond me, but whatever. Teenagers are weird, and one of their friends was probably fucking with them. I put it out of my mind and set about opening things up for the day, checking on my premade arrangements and pulling the ones that are starting to wilt. The bell over the door jingles and I look over my shoulder to see Rowan with his apron slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face.

"Are we in a better mood this morning?" he asks with a pointed look in my direction. I roll my eyes and gesture to the coffee and Danish on the counter.

"Yes, bestie. And by taking my offered treat, you are tacitly agreeing to not look smug when I slink next door later with my tail between my legs to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot."

He picks up the Danish and takes a massive bite, flakes of the pastry crust clinging to his ginger beard before he brushes them off and smirks at me. "Deal," he mumbles through a full mouth.

While he sips his coffee, he turns the phone on and then heads to the back to grab a broom. Before he even reaches the back room, the phone starts to ring. I wave him off and scurry over to answer it.

"Thank you for calling Little Shop of Flowers—"

"Are you the guy with the Taylor Swift tickets?" the person on the other end asks breathlessly.

I frown and pull the phone away from my ear, looking at it as if it's going to hold the answer to what exactly in the fuck is happening right now. I bring it back to my ear and shake my head even though I know they can't see me through the phone.

"I'm sorry, there's some mistake, I don't have any tickets. Have a beautiful day," I say as cheerfully as I can manage. The abruptness of the dial tone in response makes me blink and then huff. "Well fuck you too then, spoiled child," I mutter under my breath as I set the phone back down.

Rowan returns from the back with the broom and starts on the floors.

"I've decided that Pedro Pascal is my soulmate," I say wistfully.

He snorts and opens his mouth, no doubt to rib me mercilessly as is his right as my best friend, but before he can get a word out, the phone rings again.

"Thank you for calling Little—"

"Oh my god, please tell me you still have the Tay tickets. Please, please, please, I'll do anything," the breathless voice of someone who sounds like a gay man in their twenties begs through my phone.

"Okay, what the fuck is happening right now?"

Rowan's eyebrows shoot up at my use of the f-bomb on the phone with a customer and I flap my hand wildly in his direction, mouthing that I'll explain later.

"Does that mean you don't have the tickets?" the poor guy sounds crestfallen.

"No. Can I ask where you heard that I did?" I ask in my best syrupy sweet customer service voice.

"Some guy called in to K97 this morning and said you were running a promotion and giving away tickets."

My mind spins for a second over how the hell a mix-up like this could have happened, and then it clicks. I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw so quickly my teeth audibly click. That petty bitch.

"I'm sorry, but that's not correct. Have a good day," I grit out, then slam the phone down before he can hang up on me like the last one did.

"I feel like I missed something," Rowan says with a half chuckle.

"That mother f—" The phone rings again and I let out a screech through my clenched teeth, huff out a breath, and pick it up. "If you're calling about Taylor Swift tickets, I don't have them."

"Shit," the person on the other end whines.

I slam the phone down again but the second it hits the charging base it rings again.

"Do me a favor and look up what time Ink Slingers opens," I growl before answering the phone again and delivering disappointment to yet another Swiftie.

It's going to be a long fucking morning.

*****

I swear to fuck, I'm going to be hearing the phone ringing in my sleep tonight. My eardrums are permanently altered, and I'll be hearing it the rest of my fucking life, even if I give in to the urge to ram something sharp into my ears. I slam the phone down for the millionth time and check the clock.

Ink Slingers is finally open, and that asshole is about to get a piece of my mind.

"I'll be back in five," I shout to Row before storming outside.

I'm seething. I'm shaking. Never in all my life has anyone been this immature, this rage inducing. My eye is twitching as I practically kick open the door to the tattoo shop and storm inside.

Unlike the last time, the psycho gremlin isn't alone. The shop is bustling with other tattoo artists and customers. I shouldn't be surprised that the Barbie soundtrack is still playing, albeit at a more reasonable level this time. I don't even hate this song—the enraging twink was right, it does slap—but he's ruined it for me. Dua Lipa's catchy dance beat just makes me want to punch something now.

"Hey, asshole," I shout. The chatter in the shop suddenly dies down, all of the artists and customers suddenly turning to look at me.

I would love to feel embarrassed about throwing a fit in front of paying customers, but all shame has left the building, replaced by a level of pissed off that can probably be seen from space. The twink spins around in his chair, tattoo needle held high as he tilts his head and grins at me.

"Oh, hey, neighbor," he says sweetly.

"Is there some kind of medication you should be on? Because I'd hate to go off about your fucking unhinged behavior if it's the result of a disorder and not just the charming way you were born and raised."

A titter of laughter ripples through the shop, but my nemesis doesn't even flinch.

"I'm sorry, should I know what you're referring to?" He feigns innocence and I drag in a few steadying breaths, trying to convince myself that he's not worth an assault charge.

"My phone has been ringing off the hook all morning with rabid Swifties who think I have tickets to her sold-out concert," I say through gritted teeth, trying like hell to turn myself into the bigger person in this situation. "I'm trying to run a business, you realize that, right?"

"Well, it sounds like that could have been a good opportunity for you to turn disappointment into sales, did you ever think of that?" One of the other artists with a dark beard and a series of rainbow-colored bracelets on one wrist says helpfully, rolling up his sleeves and leaning over the railing to flash a smile.

I narrow my eyes at him. Oh, so that's how it is. The feral twink isn't working alone. Everyone in the shop is in on the fun of hazing the new neighbor. All this over the volume of his music? Maybe they're just a bunch of bullies and they figure the owner of a flower shop won't stand up to them.

Fine. We'll see who has the last laugh.

I hold up two middle fingers and then storm out of the shop without a backward glance.

Fuck Ink Slingers and everyone who works there.

ARROW

The same smile that's been etched onto my lips since last night is still in place as I roll into the alley behind Ink Slingers late, still smelling like the bar and a little bit like Lewis. Gregory yips happily as I swing my leg over my bike and unstrap him from my chest. I take my helmet off and shake my hair out to unflatten it from the top of my head.

"Come on, Greg." I whistle and open the back door. The little fluffball darts inside and I'm right behind him. As the door swings closed behind me, I hear the metallic creak of another door opening. Probably the flower shop owner next door who made Jag's shit list.

I set my helmet down and shrug out of my jacket. There's an excited buzz in the air as I step out of the back room into the main part of the shop. Jag is cackling, and there's a low hum of conversation that seems to be coming from everyone at once.

"Did I miss something exciting?" I ask.

"Your alarm," Piston teases, glancing up from the tattoo he's working on to smirk at me.

"A shower?" Jag adds helpfully, looking me up and down with blatant judgment.

Their ribbing doesn't land though, not with last night still fresh in my mind. Before I can fall into another fantasy about Lewis, the door swings open and all the guys stop what they're doing to swivel towards it like they're expecting some kind of ambush. Tex lets out a visible sigh when my client, Paul, walks in.

Weird vibes in here this morning.

I don't have time to wonder what they're all up to right now though. I greet Paul and wave him up so we can get started.

There's nothing quite as relaxing as the buzz of a tattoo machine humming away steadily, the perfect undertone to the friendly chatter and occasional laughter that echoes through the shop. The smell of antiseptic and ink is as imprinted on my soul as motor oil and leather is. It's meditative, bleeding all the tension from my body and washing it away. The two greatest loves of my life—tattooing and Harleys. If there's anything more to the meaning of life, I'm not even interested in hearing about it.

Time slips away while I work on putting something lasting on Paul's arm.

"What's that tattoo about?" He nods at the lotus tattoo on my bicep while I work on shading the feathers on the owl I'm inking into his skin.

I pause the strokes of my needle and crane my neck to look down at the flower and the words tattooed underneath it.

"Violent delights have violent ends." I read it off for him, even though I'm sure he's perfectly capable of that himself. "It's a quote from Romeo and Juliet . And lotus flowers are a symbol of inner peace." I hunch back over and return to focusing on the finer details of my work.

"So, what, you're a Buddhist or something?"

I grunt, and Tex covers a laugh with a cough from his spot a few feet away, his ever-present cowboy hat perched on his head. Piston got it for him as a gag gift a couple of years ago for our yearly Secret Santa exchange, and the big oaf has worn it every damn day since just so he can have the last laugh.

"Something like that," I murmur.

Thankfully, he doesn't pry any more. I'm not ashamed of who I am or who I've been in my life, but laying it all out for a stranger isn't really my aesthetic, as Jag would say.

"Dude, you have to put on a different playlist before I lose my goddamn mind. I was singing that fucking ‘Choose Your Fighter' song while I took my morning shit," Hero calls over to Jaguar on the other side of the shop.

"Seconded," Piston chimes in while he organizes his own workstation.

"Shop rules. Whoever gets here first picks the music for the day," Jag singsongs, sticking out his tongue.

"I think we might need a new vote on that one," Piston mutters.

I chuckle under my breath and lift the needle away from Paul's skin again. I swivel halfway around in my chair so I can see the guys.

"All in favor of a rotating system to choose the music for the day," I say, holding my hand up in the air.

Piston and Hero's hands shoot up immediately, and the curtains behind Hero's station flutter as Brick, our piercer, pops his head and an arm out to cast his vote.

"All who think we should stick with the system we already have that's been working great for years ," Jag snarks, holding up his hand. Tex hesitates and then reluctantly raises his hand too.

"What the hell, dude? You really want to keep listening to the Barbie soundtrack until we beg for the sweet release of death?" Hero scoffs.

Tex shrugs, then nods towards Jag. "You've already got the votes to change things, I figure this way I can stay on Jaguar's good side. We all know that boy's cornbread isn't quite done in the middle, and I'm happy to stay off his shit list for the week."

Rather than being offended, Jag throws his head back and laughs. "Smart man." He puts his hand down and sighs in resignation. "Fine, whatever. Put on your nineties grunge already."

I chuckle and turn back to my client. I might protest being pigeonholed like that if I weren't wearing my favorite vintage, faded Alice in Chains t-shirt.

Luckily, Piston is the first one to get up and swap out Jag's phone for his own on the dock. The Pixies replace the upbeat tones from the Barbie soundtrack, and I breathe a little sigh of relief to finally have some good tunes on again. It's no coincidence that Piston and I share the same taste in music. We were in the mosh pits together, throwing elbows and headbanging back when our knees didn't pop anytime we stood up and there weren't any gray hairs in our pubes… or in my case, every-damn-where on my body. I bob my head along to the beat of "Debaser" and mouth along with the lyrics while I work.

Days like this, it doesn't hit so hard that I can't seem to find a guy who's half as into me as I am into him. I have my art and I have my crew, what more do I need?

A twinge in my chest disagrees though, and a little voice in the back of my head wonders again whether Lewis will use my number this time. Fuck, I hope he does. I can do casual as long as it means getting my hands on him again. I'll learn how to do casual if I have to.