“Does somebody need more coffee?” Braden asks, a smirk coloring his mouth as I stumble into a folding chair next to our booth at the convention center.

 

“I need another gallon.” Yes, I’m fucking exhausted, but last night was worth every second, even though I can safely say that woman wore me out.

​

Ori and I spent the entire night together, leaving me with just enough time to race home, toss my shit in a bag, shower, and make it to the airport on time. 

​

I planned to sleep on the plane, but a screaming infant in the next row made that an impossible feat. Of course, the baby was smiling and laughing by the time we landed. I, however, was not in as happy a mood.

To add to the fun, our flight was delayed, so we had even less time to get everything set up for the convention, meaning I’m walking around like a zombie. 

​

Or, in this case, sprawling across an uncomfortable-as-hell folding chair. 

​

“Where were you last night?” my brother asks, waving a cup of joe under my nose. “You never came home.”

​

“Do I have to run my personal life by you now?” I grasp the coffee and take a big swig. Pitch black, much like my humor today. 

​

Braden shrugs and opens his tattoo gear case. “You’re in a good mood, despite listening to a screaming baby for three hours, so I’m guessing you hung out with a certain bookstore owner. Am I close?”

I can continue evading Braden’s questions, but what’s the point? Judging by the smug expression on his face, he already knows the answer. 

​

“Had to make sure Ori didn’t forget me while I was gone.”

​

Braden smiles, saluting me with his coffee cup. “Somehow, I don’t see that happening to either of you.”

The man speaks the truth, at least where I’m concerned. I never planned on Oriana Thorne, especially not now—not when my life had some semblance of routine and normalcy to it. Then she struts into my world and knocks everything, including me, on its head.

​

“You should have brought her along,” Braden adds as he fiddles with the power cords strewn about the booth. 

​

“No way,” Zane pipes up, shooting Braden a dubious glance. “If he did that, he’d have to pass on all the ink bunnies, and you know Vegas is their prime hunting ground.”

​

I snort into my coffee. Ink bunnies—a phrase I coined years ago for the women who hang around conventions, desperate for an after-hours piece of the action. These women are wild, too, and have a no-holds-barred attitude toward a good time. Let’s just say that last year, my personal bunnies, a gorgeous blonde duo, brought along a suitcase filled with toys.

​

Did we use every one of them?

You better fucking believe it.

Like I said, no-holds-barred. 

​

Most of these ink bunnies are normal, down-to-earth women for the other 51 weeks of the year, but in Vegas, the business suits come off and the sex kittens come out.

​

They pack an entire year of debauchery into one week, and the guys and I get to reap the rewards. It’s a beautiful thing. 

​

Plus, what happens in Vegas stays here. Once the convention ends, we go our separate ways.

It’s beautiful, dirty fun.

​

But this year is different. I spent hours making love to Ori last night, coaxing several orgasms from her luscious body until she passed out on top of me. 

​

No ink bunny can hold a candle to Oriana Thorne. Fuck, but that woman’s pussy is magical. She’s a siren, and I’ll drown for her every time.

​

“The women this year are off the hook, and I know there’s no way you’re missing out on a week of fun. Right?” Zane asks, cocking a brow at me as he points to a few early arrivals. 

​

“Eh,” I mutter, taking another swallow of coffee.

​

“Wait a damn minute. You’re playing it straight this year? Holy shit, what have you done with my buddy, Ash?” Zane shakes his head, a look of utter disappointment on his face. 

​

“Relax. I’ll be there.”

​

Will I engage in any sordid behavior? Probably not, even though Ori and I aren’t dating. Okay, we agreed to go on a date, but right now, we’re in that gray friends-with-benefits area. 

​

So, if I feel so inclined, I’m free to do what I want.

​

Hell, Oriana made a cheeky aside before I left this morning, warning me to play safe because she knows I play hard.

​

Which means she’s not laying any claim to me … or she’s got sordid plans of her own this week.

​

Well, fuck.

There’s that damn jealousy again.

​

Maybe I should text her, just to let her know I arrived safely. Also, to remind her I’m thinking of her, which might put the kibosh on any of her planned extracurricular activities.

​

And then I realize I don’t have her phone number. How the hell have I slept with her multiple times and not gotten her digits? 

​

Unacceptable. 

​

Glancing at the time, I realize she’s working and that number I can locate.

I dial One More Page and hope to God Ori answers the phone, mainly because I don’t want to give Mina any more gossip to chew.

​

“Good afternoon, One More Page.” Ori’s honey smooth voice melts into my bones. 

​

“Fuck, I love your voice.” 

​

“Ash?"

​

“Yeah. Were you expecting someone else to call and say that?"

The answer had better be no.

​

“Hmm,” she muses, “what day is it?”

​

“Tuesday. Why?”

​

“Well, depending on the day, I would know who was calling to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

 

“Cut that shit out right now.”

​

Ori laughs and I realize with every moment, I’m falling deeper under her spell. “How are you feeling?”

“Dead to the world, but amazing otherwise.”

​

“That’s what a night with me will do for you,” she replies in a sing-song voice. “Try not to have too much fun out there, Ash.”

​

“Ditto for you, Little One.”

​

She huffs into the phone, but I hear the amusement in her voice. “Fine. I suppose you’re worth the wait.”

​

“Damn straight.” Feeling eyes on me, I glance up and catch Zane’s incredulous stare. “I better go.”

 

“Bodyguard, over and out.”

 

I end the call and shove the phone in my pocket. “What?” I ask, shrugging at Zane.

 

“Holy shit. The great Asher Hammond has fallen.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

“I’m serious. The first thing you do when you arrive here is call your girl? Damn.”

 

“I let her know I’m alive. She’s collecting our mail and watching over Black Lotus while we’re gone.”

 

“You sure that’s all it is, Little One?” Zane asks, barely able to contain his amusement. 

 

I didn’t realize he heard my pet name for Ori. Apparently, he heard every word. 

 

“Leave him alone,” Braden interjects. “Looks like it will just be the two of us playing with the bunnies this year.”

 

“I’ll be there,” I insist, my gaze volleying between them. 

 

“Sure you will,” they reply in stereo. 

 

So glad they’re enjoying this torture. 

 

With a roll of my eyes, I push myself to a standing position. “I’ll be back. I saw a vendor at the entrance that I want to check out.”

 

What I need is to get out of this uncomfortable conversation and the implications they seem intent on making about Ori and me.

 

There is no Ori and me. We’re just friends with the best damn benefits on the planet. 

 

End of story.

 

Does that mean I’ll take advantage of our status to sleep with some gorgeous, nameless women this year? 

After hearing her voice, we all know the answer to that one, but it’s not because I’m not free to do so.

I’m just not feeling it this time. 

​

I stroll to a booth by the entrance of the convention center, run by a husband and wife duo who create tattoo designed book covers for the classics—a brilliant idea that I might have to put into play at Black Lotus.

​

Hell, Ori and I could team up, with me creating the covers and her selling them in One More Page. 

Teamwork and all that jazz. 

​

But that’s not why I’m here now.

​

Ori’s favorite book is Jane Eyre, which she divulged during our first night together. The woman is a diehard romantic, especially with the concept of true love overcoming all. She stands in direct opposition to my fierce beliefs about happily ever after.

​

But this isn’t for me. It’s for her, a token of appreciation for helping my dreams come true. 

This booth has a copy of Jane Eyre, and it’s exquisitely crafted, too. The dark color palette highlights a portrait of Jane in the center, with the gothic spires of Thornfield Manor behind her. 

​

It’s a perfect addition to Ori’s collection of classics.

 

I grab my purchase and receipt before returning to our booth, thrilled I snagged a copy before they sold out. 

 

But that happiness is short-lived because something is different, and I detect it the moment I step back into Black Lotus’s booth.

​

My brother, so happy-go-lucky not ten minutes earlier, now wears a petulant scowl. 

​

“What’s the matter? Did something break?” I ask, glancing around the booth.

​

See, that’s not unusual during a convention. Things get lost, broken, stolen, or any combination of the above, and it always makes the job tougher. 

​

“Nope,” Braden mutters, moving his cases from one table to another with excessive force.

“What am I missing?”

​

Braden pauses, his mouth turned down in a frown. “Are you a glutton for punishment?”

​

“What the hell are you talking about?”

​

He jabs a finger toward a young woman standing not three feet outside our booth. 

“Who the hell is she?” I know I’ve never seen the woman before, no matter what she claims.

​

“Your first client.”

​

I scrub my hands over my face, trying to deduce why this is pissing my brother off. “And?”

​

“It’s a collab piece, right?”

​

“Yeah. I spoke with Scott at Steel and Stain about a month ago. The client approved my design, and Scott will work on the piece with me. He’s a genius with dotwork, and that’s what the client wanted as a border to her main ink. I don’t get why you’re mad. Did you want in on the collab?”

​

Braden walks over, pulling off his baseball cap and tugging a hand through his hair. “Scott is in the hospital with appendicitis.”

​

Fuck. 

​

I shoot another glance at the client, offering her a reassuring smile and a slight wave of my hand. “Okay. I’ll do my part of the design, and she’ll have to see Scott when he’s out of the hospital.”

​

Braden shakes his head, the frustration seeping from his pores. “Scott sent another artist in his stead. One who’s equally brilliant with dotwork.”

​

I nod slowly, trying to deduce what I’m missing in this puzzle. “That’s awesome, then. Who did he send?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Braden grits out.

​

What in the hell is he talking about?

​

“He means me,” a gritty female voice says behind me. 

​

I freeze as an ice-cold thrill shoots through me. 

​

It can’t be. 

​

There’s no fucking way.

​

It’s been three years since I’ve last seen her and we agreed then to do our damnedest to avoid one another. 

​

Sucking in a deep breath, I turn on my heel and face my nemesis. 

​

The woman stands nearly my height in her knee-high stiletto boots, her curves wrapped in tight leather pants and a bustier. Her bright pink hair falls down her back and her bright blue eyes see right through me. 

​

A hint of a smile plays on her full lips as she glides her tongue along her lip piercing, her tattoo bag slung over one shoulder. 

​

No one would know it to look at her, but she’s poison.

​

Don’t get me wrong, she’s also beautiful, but she’s deadly on every level. 

I should know. 

​

“Scott sent you?” I grit out the words, feeling the bile rise in my throat. Seems like that black coffee might make another appearance all over her boots.

​

She nods as a smile breaks across her face. “Kismet, I guess. It’s been a while, Ash. Too long.”

​

“Not long enough,” I grumble, feeling my insides twist at her proximity. 

​

She motions to the bag in my hand. “What did you buy?"

​

We are not engaging in small talk. 

​

I prepare to reply with a caustic retort, but I notice my client is within earshot. Correction: our client. 

I pull the book from the bag and thrust it toward her. “Jane Eyre.”

​

She examines the cover, her long nails tracing the artwork. “Gorgeous. But you’re not a fan of Jane Eyre. So tell me, who is she?” She cocks her head at me, her eyes wide and teasing.

​

“Nope, I’m not doing this.” I stalk into Black Lotus’s booth, trying to regain my balance. 

​

Just when things were looking up.

​

Her boots click against the floor as she trails me to my station. “We’re stuck working together, Ash, so can we make the best of it?”

​

Is she insane? I keep my back to her, willing my breathing to return to normal. 

​

“Look, I know you hate me, but—”

​

“You know nothing about me,” I snarl.

​

“That’s not true. I know everything about you.”

​

Whirling on my heel, I fix her with my glare. “Why are you here? And don’t tell me Scott sent you. You could have said no. You should have said no.”

​

She inches forward, her normally confident movements now timid. “I thought it would be a great opportunity.”

​

“For what?”

​

“For us.”

​

She’s got to be fucking kidding me. My brain thumps in my head, and I swear I’m going to stroke out. Hell, maybe that’s a good idea to get me away from this situation. 

​

Ten years. Ten goddamn years and I’m still not past her. Still not past the lies and betrayal she heaped on my love.

​

Her hand touches my sleeve, and I yank it from her grasp. “Ash, please.”

​

Tugging a hand through my hair, I finally meet her gaze. “What do you want, Lucille?”

​

“Another chance so that maybe you might like me again. Remember any of my good qualities.”

“Do you have any?”

​

“You know I do, although I deserved that comment.” She averts her gaze, fiddling with the arm of the portable tattoo chair. “I should go. I’ll call Scott and let him know this was a bad idea. You want me to speak to the client?”

​

Lucille is offering me a way out, but how can I let this client down when I know her backstory? She flew five hundred miles for me to ink her dead fiancé on her skin. Correction: she flew hundreds of miles for Lucille and me to work together on this piece.

​

I know Lucille’s skill and she’ll do an exemplary job on the tattoo. 

Trouble is, she might decimate my soul in the process. 

Again. 

​

You’re a professional, Ash. You can do this. You survived Lucille once. How hard can it be this time?

“Ash?” Lucille prods, her voice more insistent.

​

“Let’s go speak with the client.” Grabbing my tablet with the approved design, I walk toward the young woman perched nervously on a chair, not bothering to check if Lucille is behind me. 

 

The woman looks up, a tissue balled in one hand, her eyes red-rimmed. “Sorry. I thought this would be easier.”

​

“Are you having second thoughts?” I ask, squatting by her chair. 

​

Am I praying she says yes? Damn right I am.

​

“Not at all. Just want to ensure it’s perfect because he deserves perfect.”

​

So much for that idea.

​

I open the drawing program on my tablet and show my client the design. “I know you already approved it with Scott, but I added a bit more shading. How does that look?”

​

Her eyes widen. “Can you actually make it look just like him?”

​

“Asher Hammond is the best photorealistic artist in the business,” Lucille states, standing on the woman’s left. “I’d trust him with my life.”

​

“Sounds good,” the woman sniffles.

​

“You’re a bit early, but I’ll be set to go in about an hour.” I stare over the client’s head, connecting with Lucille’s bright blue eyes, as any sense of equilibrium threatens to give way. “What about you, Lucille? Are you ready?”

​

“Absolutely.” She pats the woman’s shoulder. “Back in the day, Ash and I were the dream team. Some things never change. Do they, Ash?”

​

Figures Lucille would bring up that nickname, even though I haven’t uttered it in over a decade. We worked together right after I opened Black Lotus and clients loved how our designs complemented each other. Despite the differences in our styles, they blended effortlessly. 

​

Then again, at that time, so did we. 

​

Until I learned the truth—that everything I believed in—was a lie. A carefully concocted story created by one devious woman.

​

A woman I now have to spend the next several hours with, in some sick sequel I never signed up for.

I realize I need to finish this tattoo and it needs to be perfect—not just for our heartbroken client, but for me, too. I need to prove to myself that I’m past the spell Lucille once cast over me. 

That I’ve finally moved on and I’m free of the hold she had on my heart. 

Let’s not forget, I have an exceptional woman waiting at home. A woman who makes me feel things on the same level Lucille did. 

​

A fear clenches my heart in a vise at that unspoken admission.

What if this is some caustic reminder to keep my heart safe and detached? What if the only thing I stand to gain with Ori is more pain? 

​

There are so many variables now, and Lucille’s sudden presence in my life has ripped open the bandages holding my emotional wounds closed. 

​

Do I let them bleed? Do I allow Ori close enough to heal them? Or do I encase my heart in iron, so that no woman comes close to it again?

​

Something tells me, as I catch Lucille’s gaze once more, that there is far more to her story, and somehow, I fear I’m going to get intertwined in her web of half-truths once more. 

 

Trust me, this is nowhere near the end …