myself. If I sleep with a guy just to satisfy an itch, it won’t mean anything.
“If anything,” Katie continues while I’m lost in thought, “Zach’s betrayal should make you want to use guys and leave them.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I won’t stoop to his level.”
“That’s not stooping to his level; it’s called empowering yourself.”
“How is becoming the village slut empowering?”
Katie laughs. “Hey, guys do it all the time, and they're rewarded for it. We do it, and we’re sluts. How is that fair?”
“You know I know it’s not, but it just doesn’t interest me.”
“Won’t you even consider the possibility?”
“Nope. I’m only here because you made me come… and because I want free cosmopolitans.”
Katie giggles. “Don’t we all? But seriously, if a smoking hot guy comes up to you and wants to have a little fun, are you really going to turn him down?”
“Yep.”
“Liar.”
“Just watch me.”
I have every intention of keeping my word. I don’t care if some guy buys me a dozen free drinks or is a clone of Charlie Hunnam and Channing Tatum put together, I am not going home with anyone.
We get through the line and into the club and the whole time I’m thinking, a few drinks, a flirt here and there, and then I’m going home.
No screwing whatsoever.
And then I see him.
Chapter 2
Zane
I down the third shot of whiskey and relish the burn. It feels good to unwind after a long, hard day of work. Not that I didn’t love it. I slam the glass down and lean back, cracking my neck.
I had a great day at the shop. Time flew by, and I loved every minute of it. I only had one client all day, but he was so fucking grateful and happy for the portrait piece I gave him. I used to love the challenge of tattooing portraits, but it got old real quick. It's so draining. Not physically, but emotionally.
When someone comes in to get a portrait tattooed, more times than not it’s because they lost someone close to them. They cry when they come in, and then I have to hear all about it. I don’t mind being a shoulder to cry on, but damn. Fucking sucks.
Some days I feel more like a therapist than a tattoo artist.
If it’s not a person who’s passed away, it’s their boyfriend or girlfriend.
A few times I’ve even turned down requests. Yeah, I lose out on money when that happens, but I’m not going to tattoo a portrait of some chick’s ex on her. Not gonna happen. Once a girl came in, only eighteen years old, wanting to get a profile of her “soulmate” on her shoulder. I asked her how long they'd been together. One month. Yeah, I’m not fucking doing that.
I know where to draw the line.
Not today though. A proud pop wanted his son on his bicep, and I was fucking thrilled to make it happen.
I smile to myself and wave at Tony, the bartender closest to me, for another beer.
Jackson’s sitting next to me enjoying the club atmosphere. This is a normal night for the two of us. Usually we’re surrounded by more of the guys, but tonight the club's packed, and they’re on the prowl. He’s had a cocky grin on his face ever since we got here, and for good reason.
Jackson’s a playboy and every chick knows it, yet they fall right into his lap every night. He’s got a classically handsome thing going for him, and he knows how to let charm and alcohol convince any woman to spread her legs for him. He’s young and stupid, and going to knock up one of these broads one day.
He likes his reputation though. I don’t get it. He’s had more than one woman come up and slap him for fucking her in the back room and then leaving to go make out with someone else. He’s a fucking asshole. Every time, he just takes the hit and smiles. Like I said. Playboy. Asshole.
I’d prefer it if Needles were sitting next to me, but he had shit to do tonight. So I’m left with Jackson.
He drums his fingers on the bartop and looks at me as he asks, “Hard day?” He’s asking 'cause of the shots I’m knocking back, I'm sure. I’m not usually a heavy drinker. And if I’m being honest with myself, these shots aren’t because of the pride I have from today’s work. But I’d rather not think about the shit that’s eating at me. It’s not like