Hate You: Chapter 3

I’m fucking exhausted. The jet lag from my long-haul flight is kicking my arse, but my need to stop in the studio to make sure things are okay gets the better of me. I know D and the guys are more than capable, but that place is like my baby so the temptation to poke my head in is too much to deny.

I regret it the second I step inside and find her.

What the fuck does D think he’s playing at, employing a posh fucking princess to be the face of Rebel Ink? She’s not rebel fucking anything, and she’s everything I try to distance myself from on a daily basis. She looks just like the kids I was forced to spend time with as a child, the kind of woman my mother would probably say is the perfect match for me. She was dressed exactly like my sister does and talked like the posh kids I had no choice but to spend my days with at that pretentious private school my parents insisted on before I was old enough to get the hell away and live my own life.

She doesn’t belong here, and I don’t care how much stick I get from the guys or how good she is at her job. She’s not staying.

Am I an arsehole for making her leave? Yes, I can’t deny that, but it’s just the way it’s got to be.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Believe it,” I mutter, falling onto one of the sofas, propping my feet up on the coffee table and letting my head fall back as three pairs of eyes burn into me.

“She’s not right for this place,” I say without even opening my eyes.

“Who gives a fuck what she looks like? She whipped us right into shape.”

“And gave us coffee,” Titch says again.

“Who gives a fuck about the coffee? I’ll buy you all machines for your rooms if I have to. I refuse to have clients walk in and think they’ve entered a fucking spa not a studio. This isn’t up for discussion.”

D blows out a frustrated breath. I’ve listened to him almost all of my career. He’s had my back since the day I showed an interest in this life, but this is one thing we’re just going to have to agree to disagree about.

“So how was it?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Really good. The location is spot on, and Corey was fitting in like he lived all his life there by the time I left.” Corey is one of my best artists, not that I’m going to admit that to any of these guys. He’d previously been in charge of my Manchester studio, but when I mentioned to him that I wanted another US place he jumped at the chance to relocate. He helped out all the way with location and hiring staff. If it continues the way it has the past couple of weeks then I think it could be one of our most successful studios.

Having one tattoo studio where I could do my thing was a dream of mine since the day I drew my first design, but with everyone around me focused on the family antique business, I knew they wouldn’t understand. The only person who got me was my best friend, Jonathan. He shared my desire to break away from what was expected of us, to be rebellious and do our own thing. He’d be proud of all this. I lift my hand to the dog tag that’s hanging around my neck and run my fingertip over the cold metal.

“If anyone can make it happen then it’s Corey,” Spike adds.

“I’ve no doubts in him. So aside from your lapse in judgement on our new appointment, anything else I need to know about?”

“Err… We had new ink delivered. Our main supplier has changed name but the products are the same. We’ve pretty much been booked solid and been turning walk-ins away.”

“You think it’s time for a new artist?”

“Not if you’re planning on sticking around.”

“I’m here as long as the others are running smoothly.”

“Anyone want a coffee? I guess it’s down to us to make it again now,” Titch says.

“Do you care about anything other than coffee?” Spike barks.

“Um… yeah. Pussy.”

“Fucking hell,” I say, getting up and heading towards my room. “I’ll be here for a few minutes, but I’m heading to bed in a bit. I’m fucking dead.”

I walk into the room where I laid down my first ink aged fourteen and breathe in the familiar smell. This room is my home. I feel more at peace in here than I have anywhere in my life, and I crave it when I’m away too long.

Picking up my gun, I turn it on and let the buzz flow through my body. I’ve not inked anyone in what feels like forever, and I’m desperate to make my mark on someone. I love running my own business, but it takes me away from what I really love at times: creating art.

I turn it off before I’m tempted to drag one of the guys in here and demand they let me add to their growing collections. It’s only once I’ve placed it back down that I realise how tidy the place is.

“What the hell happened in there? It’s like my mum marched in and tidied my bedroom without permission.” We all know that’s not what happened because no one outside of my Rebel Ink family knows what I do on a daily basis. Do I feel guilty about keeping my growing empire from my family? Sometimes. I know they’d support me, they’re good people, but that doesn’t mean I need them in my business giving me their opinion and trying to help. I’ve been an outcast from the day I was born, I may as well keep it a tradition.

“She happened.” D nods towards the door that his new recruit stormed through not so long ago. “I told you, she’s good for the place. We didn’t even ask her to tidy up, she just took it upon herself to remove all the growing coffee mugs you’d abandoned in your room.” I think back to the state I know I left it in. I didn’t think anyone would care, seeing as my room is private. These guys know I don’t share. Not where my room is concerned, anyway.

“Try all you like, you’re not going to make me feel guilty about this. I’ll stand by my opinion that she’s not right.”

“Whatever. I’ve got work to do. Maybe you should do some admin before you hit the sack, seeing as we’re back to no one else doing it,” D suggests before disappearing into his room.

Frustration that he can’t see where I’m coming from on this has anger licking at my insides. We’re usually on the same page. He’s been my sounding board for almost everything since I was a kid, him and his nephew. We’ve never been so far apart as we apparently are on this particular subject.

Titch looks at me and opens his mouth. Knowing something I don’t want to hear is about to fall from his lips, I cut him off. “Enough. I’ve made my decision. End of. I’m going to bed.” Turning my back on the two of them, I walk through the small kitchen and out the back door that leads me to the flat above.

I could easily afford to move out of this place and have a decent sized flat, or house for that matter, but why would I when I basically live downstairs or at one of my other studios?

The small space smells musty as I push the front door open. Kicking my boots off, I open every window I walk past.

Pulling open the fridge, I find one can of beer, a tub of butter and some cheese.

Slamming it shut, I decide against food and go straight for the bedroom instead.

The sheets are still a mess and there’s a used condom and its empty wrapper sitting on the bedside table. I have a vague recollection of the night before my flight to America. I’d gone out with Titch after finishing up here for the night and pulled some blonde girl. Ava, Anna, Amy… something like that. All I remember was that she kept me up the rest of the night, meaning that I was able to get some sleep on the plane and almost get myself on US time from the second I landed. Shame I didn’t have the same for the journey home.

My muscles grow heavy as I start pulling my clothes from my body with my need to crash. The second I’m down to my boxers, I fall face-first into my bed. I can faintly smell that chick’s perfume, but no sooner have I had the thought than I pass out.

It’s gone midday by the time I open my eyes, totally confused as to where I am and what day it is, or why it’s so cold.

Reaching over for my phone, I find the bedside table where it usually sits empty. Groaning, I lean over the side of the bed until I find my jeans and dig in my pockets until I find it.

Saturday, right.

I spend a couple of hours cleaning the place up. I’ve been gone almost three weeks, but now I’m back it feels like I never left. I throw the contents of my suitcase into the washing machine and pull up an online shopping app to get myself some food delivered, or more importantly, some alcohol.

I’m randomly adding shit to my basket when a message comes through.

D: You come to your senses now you’ve had some sleep? Here’s her phone number so you can call, apologise, and beg her to come back.

Rolling my eyes at him, I return to what I was doing, not understanding what his obsession with the posh girl is. He knows my background, understands the life I’ve distanced myself from. I’d have thought he’d have known that I wouldn’t have been up for having a Made in Chelsea reject sitting behind the desk downstairs.

He’s probably banging her, a little voice says in my head. I bet she’s terrible in the sack. All the stuck-up ones are. They seem to think their looks and beauty are all they need.

An hour before we open for the day, I head down to get a sense for how things have really been while I’ve been away. I trust D with my life, but it’s good to see what’s been happening with my own eyes.

With a huge mug of coffee I fall down onto the chair in my room and power up my computer. I check my emails and respond to any urgent ones, leaving the rest for later, then I pull up our appointments and have to do a double-take when I find it looks completely different to when I left. Each of us has been colour coded, and it’s so much easier to see what we’re all up to on each day. Why didn’t I know this programme did that? I also find that all the accounts are up to date. Every single purchase that’s been made has been categorised and is ready to go to my accountant.

“What the hell?” I ask myself, liking but equally confused by this kind of organisation. A little bit of doubt starts to creep in. Did I do the wrong thing last night? I know I flew off the handle a little when I first saw her. I was jetlagged, I couldn’t help it. But is D right? Despite appearances is she what we need?

I push the thought away. We can find someone who can effectively do this shit and look the part at the same time. We’ve had someone before, and we’ll find them again.

I open up a new tab and type in the recruitment site I’ve used in the past when trying to find staff to see if the ad needs updating when the front door to the shop opens.

I look to the door, waiting for one of the guys to poke their head around the frame but no one does. The sound of someone shuffling around continues to sound out.

My curiosity gets the better of me and I head out to see what’s going on. When I get to the reception entrance, I find a woman standing with her back to me. Her hair’s pink on the tips, she’s wearing a short leather jacket and a pair of skinny jeans so tight they should be fucking illegal, and a pair of biker boots on her feet. My eyes stay on her arse and the delicious curve of her hips a little too long before I find it in me to speak.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not actually open yet.”

She stiffens at the sound of my voice, and after a beat she speaks. “I’m aware.”

My brows draw together in confusion. Who the hell is this woman?

Then she turns and my chin damn near hits the floor.

“You?”

The smile that curls at her lips has something stirring beneath my skin, and I already know I’m in trouble.