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  The Suit

  KATHRYN NOLAN

  Text copyright © 2018 Kathryn Nolan

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For the Hippie Chicks: thank you for cheering this little story into existence.

  Table of Contents

  ROXY

  EDWARD

  ROXY

  ROXY

  EDWARD

  ROXY

  ROXY

  EDWARD

  ROXY

  RIPTIDE

  ROXY

  The man in the bespoke suit looks terribly out of place in your dodgy, poorly lit tattoo parlor.

  “You’ve got the wrong place,” you call over your shoulder as you clean your tattoo gun. It’s well past midnight and well past time for you to kick off your combat boots and crawl into bed. Alone.

  Again.

  “I don’t think I do,” the man says, and you turn at his refined English accent. You narrow your eyes at his appearance: three-piece, striped suit. Tie only slightly disheveled. Hair immaculate. Shoes a shiny crimson.

  “Um…the bank is that way,” you smirk, muttering “corporate asshole” under your breath.

  “Incidentally, I’m not looking for a bank. I’m looking for a willing tattoo artist to place permanent ink on my body that will help me forget the fact that I was just spectacularly dumped. In public. By my girlfriend of three years.”

  You turn fully now, laying down the gun. Notice that he’s lilting, just slightly, against the doorway. Your eyes narrow further, raking over his form. Tall and almost graceful, but his broad shoulders hint at a powerful muscle shifting beneath those fancy threads.

  “Huh,” you say, sauntering towards him. You (almost) miss the way his eyes snag on your hips. “Let me guess. You’re drunk?”

  He blushes just slightly. “Let’s just say I’m not…sober. Four drinks in. Enough to make a decision I’ll regret the rest of my life. Not enough to not want to do it. Did that make sense?”

  His accent is doing things to you. Things you’d rather it not do.

  “I don’t ink drunk dudes,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Even if you’re not…not drunk. You’re still under the influence. This might look like a piece-of-shit establishment but I take it seriously. This is my business.”

  He holds his palms up. “Not looking for a fight, um, ma’am? I’m sorry, are you a ma’am? Or a…a miss?” He’s not joking, but he is adorable, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling. He notices.

  You wonder what else he’s noticing.

  Or judging: your heavily tattooed skin. Hot pink hair. Septum ring and lip ring and nipple rings (not that he can see). In comparison, you look like Trouble. He looks like Wall Street.

  Albeit a slightly blushing, English Wall Street.

  “Neither,” you say. “I’m Roxy.”

  “Roxy?” His eyebrows arch.

  You shrug. “That’s my name. Why, what’s yours? Something dignified like Dilbert?”

  He snorts, eyes crinkling at the sides, and your belly tightens. “Good one. I expected something crasser, but Dilbert is good. And no, it’s Edward.”

  Edward.

  He looks like an Edward. Gentle and polite. Certainly not the kind of man you typically liked bringing home—dirty in all the ways that counted. Hard and muscled and silent—the kind of man that slaps his hand over your mouth and fucks you in front of your mirror.

  Edward looked like the kind of man who would break for tea halfway through.

  He steps toward you, plopping down on one of the leather tattoo chairs as you continue cleaning up. “And you haven’t asked me about my very recent break-up. Recent, as in, three hours before I came in here.”

  “And you haven’t told me what kind of tattoo you thought would obliterate the pain of heartbreak,” you say dryly, since you’ve heard it all before. Had tattooed hearts and names and then inked them over when things went south. Things always went south.

  Edward shrugs, lips quirking up. He catches your eye but you turn away quickly. “I’ll tell you my story, if you recommend a tattoo.”

  “That I’m not giving you now, are we clear on that?” You ask.

  “Yes…ma’am,” he finally says, and there’s a slight rasp to his voice that has the fine hairs of your neck standing up.

  “Okay then,” you say, sitting primly in the chair next to him. You cross your legs and his eyes trail up your torn fishnet stockings. “Hello?” You say, even though you quite like the feel of it—a polite perusal, instead of the gaudy, possessive gaze you’re used to here.

  “Sorry,” he says, and looks genuinely sorry. “What you should know is that I am a corporate asshole.”

  You open your mouth. Shut it.

  “I have excellent hearing, Roxy,” he says, but winks at you and your toes automatically curl. You shift in the chair, shaking away the feeling.

  “So I’m a corporate asshole, grew up in London, moved here five years ago, and in general I do a lot of corporate-asshole-type things.” He’s smiling now, and you are too.

  “Okay, I get it. Don’t judge a book by its cover or whatever,” you sigh, but you love it when he chuckles in appreciation.

  “And during that time, I met a lovely woman named Emily. Who I cared for deeply, even though, at times…and I can admit this to myself now,” he says, sliding a hand through his hair, mussing it just slightly, “that she was a she-devil parading around on this earth as a human woman.”

  “She-devil,” you smirk. “Explain.”

  “Well she just bloody broke up with me at a restaurant and wouldn’t even let me say a bloody fucking word as she ripped my heart out and stomped on it.” A long sigh, and for the first time you see pain, not levity, in his gaze. Without thinking too hard, you turn around and fire up the coffee pot behind you, pulling out two mugs. Edward lifts his eyebrow.

  “Is this one of those new-fangled tattoo machines?”

  “Har har,” you say. “It’s a coffee pot. Because at some point, after you’ve bored me with this story of corporate asshole-ry, you’re going to need to be sober enough to leave me alone.” You nod back, fill it with water, and turn it on. “So please continue,” you say, settling back in. “You were just at the good part.”

  He smirks again, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “You got a real mouth on you, don’t you love?”

  “Um, don’t call me love,” you say swiftly. “Not the type. And continue.”

  “Well,” Edward says, reaching up to loosen his tie. A small patch of his smooth skin is suddenly exposed, right at the base of his throat. “As I was saying, for the past year I knew, deep down, something was off. Communication was terrible. She stopped laughing at my amazing jokes.”

  You laugh in spite of yourself, then wish you could take it back. “And the sex?”

  His eyes meet yours, steady. A cool gray. “Not…like it was. Not like I, I mean…there’s a way I prefer, to be honest.” That blush again.

  “O…kay,” you say, rolling your eyes to cover up the incessant beating of your heart. What kind of sex did he prefer? You hand him a mug of steaming coffee and he gives you a brief look of gratitude.

  “If this sobers me up, can I have that tattoo?”

  “No,” you say. “And continue.” Edward sighs, fingers loosening the knot of his tie. You find yourself salivating, just a little. Even though he’s not your type.

  Not at all.

  Not even a little.

  “So for the past year she’s been more and more cold. Icy. Even as I thought, well…I
don’t know I thought we might be something, you know? I mean three years is a long time. A long time to love and be loved and I thought…” he trails off, staring into his coffee. Your fingers itch with the desire to rip this girl’s throat out.

  “And then what?” You ask, but softer this time.

  “She got…mean,” he says. “Claimed she had plans every night the past few weeks. Wouldn’t talk to me. And then…well,” he lifts his mug in cheers to you, “tonight, at this very loud, very public restaurant, she told me I could go off and fuck myself, because she’d been fucking my mate for six months.”

  You choke on your coffee, but he’s laughing sadly. “Oh Roxy. I know we don’t know each other well—”

  “Or at all,” you say. “And I mean that literally. It’s been, what, fifteen minutes since you walked in here?”

  He laughs again, but less sad. “I like you Roxy.”

  “I think you’re really fucking weird,” you say, but there is mirth in your voice. Mirth you didn’t realize you had.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, my life feels like a fucking cliche. Sleeping with my friend. Who does that? And thus, I had the drinks. And got the brilliant idea for a tattoo. Which now you won’t even give me.”

  You tilt your head, thinking. Edward drinks his coffee quietly, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Unsnapping his cuff links to shove the material past his forearms.

  His sexy forearms.

  “I was cheated on,” you say and immediately wish you could shove the words back inside your mouth.

  “Someone cheated on you?” He asks.

  “Why do you seem so surprised?” You ask, lifting your chin. “Bad stuff happens to good people all the time.”

  “Because you....” A strained silence, his eyes drifting back to your legs again. He swallows roughly. “You look like the kind of woman who could cut a man’s heart out. Willingly. Maybe feed it to him in a creative twist.”

  You hide your smile behind your coffee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well it could be the giant knives you have tattooed on your arms.” You turn to look.

  “Huh,” you say, then shrug. “Well, all I’m saying is it happens. And it fucking sucks. But the flip-side is now you know she was a she-devil and you can move the fuck on.”

  Edward reaches his mug forward, clinks it against yours. “I feel utterly pathetic, Roxy.”

  You almost say something cutting, then change lanes. “I mean, we’ve all been there. Believe me.” Your eyes meet. “I know what rock bottom looks like.”

  “Do you?”

  “Absolutely,” you say firmly. “Only way out of it is up.” Edward slides closer, but you don’t want to look at his refined, handsome face. The aquiline nose. Hint of stubble. Steel-gray eyes. You want to caress his forehead. Shift the hair away.

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking and am filled with despair, but nothing looks up right now. Except permanently changing my body.” Edward looks at your skin. “You did it. Why can’t I do it?”

  You shake your head. “You’ll wake up tomorrow, still sad, but with a tattoo you didn’t want. And they don’t come off. The despair, though, will go away.” You give him a small smile. “Promise.”

  “Plus I was going to get it on my ass,” he says, and you do spit out your coffee this time. All over his shirt.

  “Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry.” You go to stand up but he reaches out, grasping his fingers around your wrist. Holding you for the merest of seconds.

  “Don’t,” he says. And you sit back down. “It’s fine, really. It’ll be my memory of this lovely night we’re having together.”

  You narrow your eyes. “Were you really going to get one on your ass?”

  Edward shrugs, smirking at you. “You’ll never know, Roxy. Although now you’ll never have the sincere pleasure of seeing my ass.”

  “Didn’t want to see it anyway,” you say.

  Liar.

  A silence stretches on, suddenly awkward. “I’m guessing I’m not the usual type that comes in here?”

  “No, you’re not the usual type,” you say. “Or my type, for that matter.” And why in the fuck did you say that? But he’s laughing fully now and it is amazing.

  “I understand, love,” he says, and you are warming to the nick-name. He reaches forward, trapping a strand of your magenta hair between his fingers. “I’ve never dated a woman with hair like this.”

  “Sounds like you’ve dated some boring-ass women,” you say, and he laughs again.

  “What’s this color called?” There is less and less pain in his gaze. Instead: interest. Captivation. And something warmer, like kindness.

  “Rebel Yell,” you say, wholly aware of his finger, lightly stroking your hair. Nothing less, nothing more. And still, it is like a lightning bolt to your senses.

  “Are you a rebel, Roxy?” He asks, and fuck that English lilt is getting to you.

  “Prob-…probably,” you stammer out, shifting backwards and out of his grasp. Your senses clear.

  “Did you live together? You and this she-devil?” You ask.

  He looks away. “No. I wanted to but she always pushed back. Bloody hell, how many warning signs did I fucking miss?” He grips his coffee, knuckles whitening.

  “It’s better though,” you rush to say. “The person who…cheated. We lived together. And then it was a fucking mess. He still has some of my shit, but I was in such a rush to get out of there I just left it.” You pause. “Should have lit that house on fire, now that I’m thinking of it.”

  “You do have the look of an arsonist about you,” Edward says with an appraising glance. “And is that for him?” His hand reaches forward, but doesn’t touch, the skin of your wrist. The tattoo you’d gotten an hour after your piece-of-shit boyfriend told you he’d been cheating on you for the entirety of your relationship.

  “‘Never again’,” you say, tapping the block letters. “A reminder to myself. Never again would I let someone like that into my life. I got it…” you falter, and now you feel yourself blushing and hate it.

  “What, like an hour after you broke up?” Edward says, half-laughing. When you don’t respond, his eyes widen in mock shock. “You filthy hypocrite. You got that tattoo right afterward, didn’t you?” He is shaking his head, laughing, and you are searching for a lie. A half-lie. A quarter-lie.

  But instead you tell the truth like an idiot.

  “The difference being,” you point out, “I am a professional tattoo artist and got my first tattoo when I was seventeen years old. I knew the risks. I knew the right people. And I wasn’t fucking drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk, Roxy. I’m just not…not sober,” he says with a grin. Fuck, you want to kiss that grin right off his stupid, handsome face. “And, in fact, I’m sobering up quickly.”

  “Well…good,” you finally say. “Maybe soon you can leave me alone so I can finally get home before, I don’t know, the sun rises?”

  “Mouthy,” Edward says, sipping his coffee. Eyes on yours over the rim. “So mouthy.”

  EDWARD

  Roxy has trapped you with her captivating gaze.

  And that scowl, although you’d never before been attracted to scowling women. You liked women like Emily—sweet and gentle. Someone you could take to Sunday brunch and then linen shopping. Although Emily (”she-devil”) proved herself to be none of these things, and now you’re sitting on a tattoo chair across from a sexy, scowling, pink-haired vixen who looks like she’d light a linen store on fucking fire. Then drag you into an alley and have her way with you.

  Which you quite like the sound of, if you’re being honest. Sex with Emily had been quiet. Muted. Boring. Except you thought boring was all that was available for a quaint English nerd that worked in corporate banking.

  You’d always wanted wild, dirty, messy fucking. Bared teeth and pulled hair and bruises on your neck. And our heroine looks like the kind of woman who feels the same way.

  Roxy cr
osses her legs again and you almost drop your mug. Her fishnet stockings have rips and tears, small flashes of her tattooed legs, and you have the strangest urge to press your tongue to the gaps in fabric.

  Work open the tears.

  Expose her.

  “Stop staring,” Roxy says, but there’s a slight twinkle in her eye.

  “Sorry,” you shrug. Is she flirting with you? Are you flirting back? “And I’m sorry I’m keeping you from your…boyfriend? Girlfriend? Husband? Dog? Life—”

  “Shut up,” she interrupts you, grabbing your mug. The tips of your fingers just graze each other, and your cock twitches. “I’m getting you one more cup and then you’re out of here.”

  She busies herself with the coffee for a minute. “And it’s no one…in case you were wondering. Which you were. So obviously.”

  You laugh. She’s funny, but it’s like she won’t let herself be.

  “How long have you owned this place? And I believe we’re at a stale-mate with the tattoo, by the way.” Roxy scowls at you again and you wonder what she tastes like. Everywhere.

  “Five years,” she says, handing you your mug back. “I have three other artists that work chairs here too. We’re like a little family. I worked really hard to be able to buy this place from my former boss. Who was a giant douche weasel and treated his artists like shit. Would tattoo teenagers who were underage even.” Roxy shrugs. “I thought I could do a better job. And I am.”

  “When you see something, Roxy darling, you take it,” you say, lifting your mug to her.

  “How many gross endearments are you going to try, Dilbert?” She asks and your cock twitches again.

  “As many as I can, gorgeous,” you respond, and you are definitely flirting now. Which shouldn’t be possible with a breakup barely three hours behind you, but Emily’s image is fading by the minute, replaced by Roxy’s fire.

  “I can see why Emily dumped you now,” she says and you laugh.

  “Mean. Very mean,” I say. “And can I also say, too soon?” Roxy sits down, closer to you now, and you can smell her. Sandalwood, which you wouldn’t have guessed.