BOSSY BROTHERS: TONY Page 7

  We have.

  I have always loved fucking her outside.

  A moment later I’m inside her. Pressing my chest against her breasts and grinding against her hips. Her fingers thread into my hair. She fists it when I thrust into her, going deep. Deep enough to make her cry out. I pause our kiss to bite her lip, silencing her cries, but increasing her moans.

  Her knees squeeze me, holding me close to her, locking us in place as we fuck.

  We are short breaths and long sighs.

  We are lovers, but not friends.

  We are animals and this is nothing but instinct.

  She comes, clenching the muscles of her pussy around my cock, squeezing it tight the way she did with her hand a few moments ago.

  I want to come inside her, but I won’t. I won’t lose that much control. So when she’s done, when she is slick with the cream of her release, I pull out and spill all over the inside of her leg.

  We freeze the moment, neither of us daring to move as our hearts race and our breaths come out in gasps. I lean in to her neck, smiling.

  And then… the doubt creeps in and I begin wondering if I just made a mistake.

  I don’t love her. She is just a planet orbiting in my zone. I pull her towards me and she responds because she has no choice.

  Because these are the laws of physics.

  We’re not here in this alley, sweaty and calm, because we’re meant to be together.

  We’re here because we’re meant to be apart.

  “Put me down,” she says, pushing me back with a grip on the shoulders of my jacket.

  I don’t move for a moment.

  “Tony.” She growls my name and squirms in my arms, already regretting our desperate act. “Put me down.”

  I drop her legs and take a step back, tucking my dick away as I create distance. She sighs and looks down at her leg, then up at me, eyes flashing with anger.

  I grin at her, the need gone now, my sanity firmly in place. But I’m not an animal. I slip my hoodie over my head and throw it at her. “Use that.”

  She catches it, wipes my come off the inside of her thigh, and throws it back. Then she points her finger at me. “Go home. You got what you came for and now you need to go home.”

  Then she picks up her bag of forgotten food, opens the back door to Sick Boyz Ink, and slips inside.

  CHAPTER EIGHT - BELINDA

  I go inside, close the door, and lean against it.

  What the hell did I just do?

  “Oh, my God!” I whisper. What the fuck is wrong with me? I know better! I know better.

  It took me so long to get over him. So many months of crying myself to sleep. So many months of that sick, gutted feeling in my stomach. So many months of utter despair and sadness.

  And the worst of it wasn’t that he got away—it was that I knew he was the wrong man for me. And yet I couldn’t stop those feelings. I could not control my emotions.

  He took me.

  He took me, and he used me, and he threw me away.

  And I knew he was doing it. He didn’t even lie about it.

  Just like he’s not lying about it now. He came here to fuck me and throw me away once again.

  And I just… let him.

  I walk over to the breakroom table, set the food down, and then grip the edge and lean over, still breathing hard from the sex, my heart still hammering inside my chest from the lust.

  I am sick. All over again. Because I already want him again.

  And if he doesn’t go home… if he doesn’t leave town… we’re going to do this forever. We will be stuck in this sick rut of obsession. We will use each other up until there’s nothing left of either of us.

  He will ruin me, and I will ruin him, and… and…

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I turn to see Vic Vaughn looming in the doorway, his massive six-foot-plus frame completely blocking the light from the hallway like some dark monster coming to expose my secrets.

  “I…” I look at the door, then quickly avert my eyes and find the food on the table. “I got dinner.” I point to the bag. “For Vonn and Vinn. They wanted meatballs from Anna Ameci’s.”

  I can still feel the stickiness from Tony’s come lingering on my inner thigh like evidence and I want nothing more than to go into the bathroom and wash it off.

  Wash Tony Dumas off like the filth he is.

  Vic just stares at me, his expression hard, like always, his blue eyes dark, like always. His tatted-up arms crossed over his chest and his expectations unclear, like always.

  The random laughter and chatter of people fills the shop filtering in from the front. I hear all sorts of things in the moments of silence as I wait for Vic to say something.

  The squeaking of wheeled stools as his brothers work. The buzzing of the tat machines as they ink art on skin. The low hum of the autoclave behind me. And the sick music of long-forgotten rockabilly coming from the sound system.

  Vic. His real name is actually Vicious. Yes. His crazy tattoo-artist father and whoever their mother was actually named their baby boy Vicious.

  When I first found that out, I imagined his parents having a Sex Pistol fascination, but knowing what I do now of good old Vic here, I seriously doubt that’s where his name came from.

  He is vicious.

  Not at all good-natured and charming like Vann. Not at all fun and entertaining like the twins.

  Vic Vaughn is serious to the nth degree. He is a cold man with an assassin’s heart. An assassin who just happens to make art.

  “What?” I say, unable to bear the silence another moment.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Get back to work, Belinda.” And then he turns and walks back to his studio near the front of the shop.

  I head for the breakroom bathroom reserved for employees. And I’m just about to pull the door open when I hear, “I said, get back to work.”

  I look over my shoulder and find Vic back in the doorway. For a moment I consider arguing with him. But then I just nod.

  He turns away again and I follow him.

  The hallway leading to the front is long and narrow. The right side, as I travel back to front, is just a wall filled with pictures of the ink this shop has created over the years. Those years add up to decades. This place has been a staple in the old Fort Collins downtown since the Fifties.

  And on the left side of the hallway are the studios. Four in total. Each of them has a pocket door. Vic has the studio closest to the front, then Vonn, then Vinn, then Vann in the last one closest to the break room. When I first came to work here the father had the front studio and the twins shared one. Their sister used to work here too, but she has since retired to do face painting for kids. Didn’t care for the blood. Has some weird obsession with germs or some shit.

  Vic turns into his studio, satisfied that he’s going to get his money’s worth out of me tonight, and I slowly walk to the front. I pass Vann’s room—his pocket door pulled closed now—and I’m just about to open Vonn’s door to let him know his food is here when I hear laughter burble out from Vann’s studio.

  What the hell is going on in there?

  I pause, curious. Because… that laugh.

  Oh, no. It can’t be. Vann doesn’t let Soshee Ameci anywhere near his studio. He knows damn well she’s in lust with him and he has insisted to me for more than six months now that it’s over between them and he doesn’t want to lead her on.

  So that cannot be her.

  I backtrack a little until I’m standing in front of Vann’s door.

  And then I hear more than just laughter. I hear fucking. I’m talking grunting, and moaning, and sighing, and skin slapping. God.

  I quietly pull the door open a crack and immediately wish I hadn’t. Because it is her.

  Soshee Ameci is sitting on the counter, just to the left of Vann’s neatly stacked and custom-curated ink assortment, with her legs open. Vann’s hips are between those legs. He’s thrusting into her with force.

 
; She’s got her eyes closed, her hands wrapped around his neck, fingertips playing with a curl of wild blond hair that is just long enough to touch his shoulders, mouth open as she pants out her lust. And he’s got his hands flat against the upper cupboards on either side of her body like he needs the support, the muscles of his back clearly defined under the tight Sick Boyz t-shirt he’s wearing.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I understand what I should do.

  I should close the door just as quietly as I opened it, walk up front, sit down on my fucking stool behind the glass counter filled with after-care products and piercing options, and mind my own fucking business.

  And that’s my plan when suddenly Soshee opens her eyes and our gazes lock.

  She smiles at me. And then she starts moaning.

  Not loud. Not loud enough to carry into other rooms over the din and clatter of people in the shop or the music coming from the ceiling.

  Just loud enough for me to hear it.

  “Oh, Vann,” she says. “Oh, yes. You feel so good. Do I feel good?”

  “Fucking A,” Vann grumbles. “Your pussy is hot, Sosh. Squeeze my dick. Squeeze it hard, baby. I want to come—”

  “Oh, Vann,” Soshee says. “I’m coming, I’m coming—”

  “Goddammit, Belinda!” Vic’s voice booms down the hallway at me.

  I glance at Vic, barreling towards me, fierce anger in his eyes. But then I look back at the spectacle of fucking in the studio and find Vann looking over his shoulder at me.

  I blush. He backs away from Soshee, hurriedly tucking his dick away in his pants.

  And then I bolt.

  I run to the breakroom bathroom, fling open the door, slip inside, and then slam it closed behind me, locking it with a satisfying and much-needed click.

  And then I hear Vic again, the anger in his voice very clear and apparent. “What the motherfucking fuck is going on in here, Vann?”

  I plug my ears. I want to wash my eyes out with soap. I need to get that image of him fucking her out of my head.

  But I can’t.

  I just see it. Over and over again.

  His dick swinging out of her as he turned. Wet with her…

  “Gross! Oh, my God, that’s just so gross!” I lean against the wall and cover my eyes. Like either of these things will help erase the trembling in my legs and the image burned into my memory.

  There is a fight going on in the breakroom. I hear Vann. I hear Soshee. I hear Vic. Something about dicks, and pussies, and professional behavior. But the music is extra loud in this bathroom. Men. This is really their bathroom. I normally use the one up front reserved for clients because… well, porn mags are everywhere in this one. “Gross, gross—”

  Someone bangs on the door. “Belinda!”

  It’s Vann.

  I just shake my head. I’m going to need to quit. I… I… there is no going back from this. I don’t even understand why I’m so upset. I don’t even like the guy. I literally just got fucked by my ex in the disgusting back alley.

  But the next thing I know, I’m on my knees on the scuffed floor covered in muddy boot marks, leaning over the toilet, retching.

  More pounding on the door. “Belinda!” It’s still Vann.

  “Go away,” I say, wiping spit from my mouth. “Just… forget it. I quit. I’m done. I can’t—”

  But I stop. Because I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m just… confused, and sad, and broken, and ashamed. And almost none of that has anything to do with Vann.

  And yet he’s the one I can’t face right now.

  Who cares if he’s fucking Soshee? Not me. I do not like that boy. I do not want him. I have never wanted him.

  But that kiss…

  He kissed me across the street just twenty minutes ago. A kiss so passionate and filled with longing, I couldn’t think straight.

  Maybe that’s all he needed? Maybe he’s just like Tony? He got it out of his system and now he’s moving on. To Soshee!

  “Belinda!” Vann pounds on the door. “It’s not what it looked like!”

  “Oh, really!” I laugh. Loudly. And get to my feet. I start grabbing paper towels from the dispenser—one, two, six, ten—until I have a whole wad of them. I get them wet under the tap and start wiping the dried come off the inside of my thigh.

  And then I stop. Because I have a revelation.

  I don’t know who I am anymore. I seriously do not understand what just happened.

  But here’s what I do know: I need to get the fuck out of this town. Right now.

  “Belinda.” A calmer voice now. Deeper. More authoritative. Vic. He knocks, doesn’t pound. “Open the door.” He says it quietly because he is a man who almost never needs to raise his voice to make a point.

  “No,” I say, sucking in a deep breath. “I… I quit. Just… go back to work and I’ll get my things and—”

  “You do not quit. I don’t hire quitters, Belinda. Now open the motherfucking door. Or I will break it down and come in anyway.”

  Again, all this comes out in a low, soft voice. Which is scarier than a yell, if I’m being honest. I prefer the bellow. The bellow says he’s frustrated, not angry. The whisper says he’s serious.

  He rattles the knob and the whole door shakes as he makes his point.

  I sigh, then reluctantly walk over to it, flip the lock, and step back.

  Vic opens the door and I get a brief look of Vann peeking over his shoulder, trying to see past him. Vic steps in and closes the door behind him.

  Suddenly this room is way too small. He towers over me. Like—this man is seriously big. A good foot taller than I am, for sure.

  “Look,” I say.

  “No. You look,” Vic says, cutting me off. “I didn’t hire you because you’re cute and fun to look at. I didn’t hire you because you have pink hair and wear flirty skirts with cowboy boots. And I most certainly didn’t hire you so Vann could weasel his way into your life and have fun flirting with you at work. I hired you because I think you have talent. I hired you because you show up every day without exception.”

  I hold up a finger. “Except for that time I disappeared to Key West.”

  He glares at me. I shut up. “I hired you because I think you’re going to be an amazing tattoo artist one day.”

  I huff. “One day, huh?”

  “Starting tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I need some help with my client. He’s in the army and he’s shipping out on Monday. He needs a lot of filler to get this back piece done and a new design on his shoulder. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back and he wants it done before he leaves.”

  “So you want me to… what, do filler?”

  He cocks his head at me. “Are you too good for filler?”

  “No. I’m just confused. Why now?”

  “Because Vann is stupid and young. He has a crush on you. And you, obviously, do not feel the same way. And…” Vic sighs. “I get it.”

  I squint my eyes at him. “You get… what?”

  “It’s a game, Belinda. I’ve played it myself a million times.”

  I try to picture Vic Vaughn having a crush on a girl who doesn’t feel the same way back, and find I do not possess the kind of imagination this scenario requires.

  “He’s hurt. Your ex is in town—”

  “He told you that?”

  “I overheard him telling Vinn. Not the point. He’s jealous so he figured he’d pay you back a little.”

  “First of all,” I say, holding up a finger, “he didn’t pay me back. I don’t care who he fucks.”

  “Right.”

  “Second, you’ve been stringing me along for years, Vic. I can count the number of actual tattoos I’ve done here at this shop on my fingers and toes. And suddenly you want me to help you with a client? Why?”

  “I’m not stringing you along. When you first got here the old man was still working. There are only four studios, Belinda. It’s a numbers game. Then the old man left, Vann
got his studio, and still there are only so many to go around. Vinn and Vonn shared a studio for years. They’re not going to do it again. But… if you can find your own clients, and do some walk-ins, I’ll let you use my studio on my days off.”

  I squint at him. “Because I have promise.”

  “Because you have talent. I’ve seen your sketches. And I’m not going to beg, OK? Do you have any idea how many applications I get a day for artists looking to do an apprenticeship? A lot. A dozen, at least. This isn’t pity, this isn’t me being nice. This is practical. This is business. Now do you want to fucking help me tonight or not?”

  I don’t want to smile. I really wish I could stop the smile. I even try biting my lip to make it go away.

  But there is no hope of that at all.

  I legit grin from ear to ear.

  And then I giggle.

  “I’ll take that as a yes?”

  I nod. “OK.”

  “Great. Now get your fucking ass out of the bathroom and help me.” He opens the door. It swings wide too fast, banging against the wall. He steps out, passes Vann, who hovers near the table where Vinn and Vonn are now eating their meatballs.

  “Belinda!” Vann says.

  Vic turns on him. Points his finger in his little brother’s face. “Shut the fuck up, Vann. No one wants to hear your pathetic excuses.”

  Then he looks at me and nods his head towards the door.

  I walk down the hallway.

  And massive, tatted-up Vic Vaughn follows me like he’s my brand-new bodyguard.

  CHAPTER NINE - TONY

  I stick my hands in my pockets as I make my way back up the alley to College Avenue. I don’t smile. Not outwardly, anyway. But I can’t help but feel satisfied that I got what I came for and now I can go home.

  It wasn’t an amazing fuck, as far as fucks go. But my goal has been met. And, for the moment, at least, I’m content.

  Soshee is still inside the shop and I don’t want to go home without talking with her, so I linger in the alley between Anna Ameci’s and a candle shop and wait for her to appear.

  It doesn’t take long. And I wonder if she had as much luck with Vann as I did with Belinda.