I don’t hate my mother, I just despise her.

Why, you may wonder? Well, it’s a long list. Today, it’s ‘cause she’s being a raging bitch. Usually, she rages about mundane things like me not doing my chores or forgetting to clean the tattoo gun (which only happened twice!) or me spending all night on an animation software I had spent my hard-earned money on.

Today, she’s raging at the fact that I had gone to see my best friend. What a bitch.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” she rages on.

I shrug. “Nothing because what I do with my time is frankly none of your fucking business.

She explodes, like a submersible at the bottom of the sea. “You live in my house!” she states. “Eat my fucking food, wear the clothes I buy you! I think it is my fucking business.”

I roll my eyes. “What? You want a medal for doing the bare minimum?”

“I want a medal for being a good fucking mom.”

“I don’t think you’d qualify.”

She glares at me and I smirk. “I know you think you’re an adult but you’re not. You’re just a little girl who can legally consent.”

“Funny ‘cause I definitely didn’t consent to this conversation.”

“And I didn’t consent to have a daughter who disappears for hours without so much as an explanation.”

“Hours? Bitch, I was barely gone a quarter and a half. I think your problem is you don’t trust or respect me. If you did, I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.”

She scoffs. “You want respect, earn it and you can start doing your goddamn job!”

“A job I don’t get paid for!”

“If you were good at it, you might!”

I don’t know why but that stings. I don’t particularly love being a tattoo artist’s apprentice but it was an art I enjoyed and even thought myself good at. But to have her say that was just too cruel.

I scoff. “And you wonder why I want to leave so badly.”

She opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by the arrival of my eight-year-old half-sister, Cookie.

“Mommy!” the girl wails. “Princess Spongecake is missing!”

Nilla turns to her, a patient smile as she says, “Sweetie-cakes, did you check under your bed?”

Cookie slaps her forehead. “Of course! She’s probably napping in there. Thanks, mom. Hey, Brownie!” she says as she skips off.

“Hey, Cooks,” I mutter to her retreating back, bracing myself for more of my mother’s wrath.

“Look, Ashley,” she only calls me Ashley when she’s mad. “I don’t give a shit what you plan to do once this summer ends but we have an agreement and I’ll only hold up my end if you hold up yours. Got it?”

I scowl in annoyance. “Fuck you,” I say, pushing roughing past her.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Ashley!” she yells after me.

------------

I sulk quietly in the tattoo room, doodling in my sketchbook a cartoon of me slamming a comically large hammer on my mother while she pleads over and over for me to have mercy — I don’t. It’s morbid and more than a little messed up but it’s how I feel. I’m so engrossed in my sketch that I don’t realise I’m not alone until someone’s loudly clearing their throat.

I look up, gasping at the sight of the boys standing before me, wondering when they got there and how long they’ve been watching me unleash my psychopathic tendencies onto paper.

“Hi,” one of the boys says, lips twitching as he tries to contain his amusement.

“Hi,” I say back, a bit embarrassed.

“You work here?” the other one, asks, looking far less amused.

I nod, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. “Yep. Anything I can do for you guys?”

“He’s,” he throws a nod at the smiling boy, “about to turn twenty-one and wants to get a tattoo to commemorate.”

I smile at the birthday boy. “Happy Legal Drinking Age,” I say.

He chuckles. “Thanks.”

“I got some additional birthday celebrations ideas if you’re interested.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“Starting a fire and burning all your fake IDs ‘cause you won’t be needing them, baby.”

“You know what? That’s actually not a bad idea. Should I say a few words before or after...?”

“Definitely. You should also pour one just because.”

“Oh my God, that is such a great idea.” He turns to his stoic friend. “Why didn’t you think of that, Che?”

Che glares at him then me. “Are you two done flirting?”

I suppress an eye-roll. “It’s called building a rapport, Macho Man.” I turn to the nice boy. “Do you have a specific design in mind or do you wanna look through an album?”

The nice boy nods. “Album, please.”

I grab the album and hand it to him. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable, I’ll be right back.”

I duck out of the room to go get Nilla but a wild thought flits into my brain and I decide against it at the last second. After all, I’ve done a lot of tattoos over the years, never without Nilla’s supervision but always a first time for everything, right?

I make my way back.

“So, are we decided?” I ask the boy whose name I still don’t know but whose face I think is cute.

He shakes his head. “Um, I think I’m gonna need another minute.”

I smile, understanding. “Of course but word of advice, focus on simpler designs for your first time, something to ease you in,” I suggest.

He nods and keeps on perusing the album.

With him engrossed in the album, it leaves me and his rude friend who stands stiffly to the side, despite the seat I had offered. I study him as discreetly as I can. He’s fine, I’ll give him that. Tall, jacked with dark smoldering eyes and a skin as smooth as it is brown. A stark contrast to his light-skinned friend, with his bright eyes, lean muscles and mischievous smile.

“How about you?” I ask to fill the uncomfortable silence.

He turns to me, expressionless. “What about me?”

“Are you thinking of getting one?”

He scoffs. “I got enough to last me a lifetime,” he says.

I snort, folding my arms across my chest. “Prove it,” I call his bluff.

He stares me down, an incredulous look on his face. “What?”

“Show me your tats, I’ll be the judge on whether or not they’re enough.”

He scoffs again. “I don’t even know you.”

“Well, let’s change that, shall we?” I hold out a hand. “Hi, I’m Brownie, nice to meet you.”

Someone snickers behind me and I glower at the boy behind me.

“Your name is Brownie?” he asks in disbelief.

I shrug. “It’s actually Ashley Brown Kelly but everyone calls me Brownie.”

The boy nods, understanding. “Makes sense, name’s Nate. The grouchy one’s Chase but I call him Che to be mean.”

“Nice to meet you, Nate.”

Che noisily clears his throat behind me and I turn to him.

“Oh right, you were about to show me your tats, Che.”

He scoffs but there’s an imperceptible smile on his face. “I ain’t showing you shit, Ashley.”

“It’s Brownie and yes, you are, even if I have to strip you myself.”

He narrows his eyes, his smile a smirk. “I dare you.”

“Ooh, who’s flirting now?” Nate says teasingly.

“Shut up, Nate, are you done?” he asks.

Nate nods. “Yeah, I think I found one.”

I head over to him, pleased with his choice. It’s one of mine and shouldn’t be no trouble at all. Now all I have to do is finish it before Nilla shows her face and tears me a new asshole.

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“Great choice. Let’s get cracking, babies.”

A few minutes after prepping the machine and Nate’s arm, I sit on the chair beside him, ready to make my first unsupervised tat — Nilla is so gonna be pissed, screw her! I had just turn on the machine when I feel Nate flinch. I turn it off, frowning.

“You okay?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, not really. I thought I could tough it out but I should have told you that I’m deathly scared of needles.”

“Oh. Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop!” Chase orders behind me, the heat of his large body nearly seeping into mine.

I throw him a glare, saying, “Nate can speak for himself, Che.”

Chase scoffs, turning to his friend. “Do you wanna stop?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve been looking forward to this for years. I can handle it.”

I send him a gentle smile, saying, “It’s okay if you’re not ready because the truth is it’s gonna hurt — not for a long time but it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Are you ready for that?”

“No but I can handle it.”

I shrug, knowing I won’t be able to change his mind. There’s, however, one more thing I can still do. I turn to Chase who’s somehow standing even closer to me.

“Hey, Macho Man, come hold your friend’s hand, will you? Or is that too girly for you?”

He glares at me for a long second before turning to Nate, asking in a voice so unexpectedly soft voice and tinged with an indecipherable emotion, “Do you want me to hold your hand?”

Nate shrugs, trying to come off indifferent. “Only if you wanna hold mine.”

Chase walks over to him, taking a seat beside him as he clutches his hand. Then he turns to me, an indecipherable look on his face. “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

I smile, unable to help it. “Yeah,” I say, turning on the machine.

I apply the tattoo as meticulously as I can, the image Nate wanted flitting through my head as I do. I try to pay attention to the tat while reassuring a groaning Nate who squeezes Chase’s hand tightly, Chase not even acting as if he feels the pain.

Ever so often, my eyes dart towards Chase to see him staring back at me, face blank. I look away, face hot, trying to focus on my task. I can still feel him staring, his gaze burning a hole in my skin and he doesn’t stop until I’m done. I kinda wish he’d keep looking.

I’m cleaning Nate’s tattoo, smiling reassuredly at him when Nilla storms in, the look on her face priceless. So close.

“What the fuck!” she bellows, staring incredulous at the people with me. “Brownie, explain the meaning of this!”

I shrug. “I was just doing my job, like you ordered me to, remember?”

She glares at me, tapping her feet irritatedly. “You know you’re not supposed to ink someone without my supervision.”

“Did I know that though?”

“Ashley Brown Kelly, this is not funny!”

“I’m sorry,” Chase interjects, “she’s not licensed?”

“Yet,” I add.

“No,” Nilla says at the same time. “But let’s keep that little secret between ourselves, shall we?”

Chade scoffs. “Uh, no, I think we’re gonna need a refund.”

“A what?” Nilla says as if she’s never heard the word.

“He wants his money back,” I explain, enjoying this a little bit.

“Oh. You can have your money back, boo,” she says, surprising even me.

Chase raises a brow, dubious. “Really?”

“Of course. As soon as you find a way to undo the tattoo and the time my daughter spent on it.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then I guess you’re not getting a refund. You’ve already charged them, right, Browns?”

I nod, sending the guys an apologetic grimace. “First thing I did.”

Nilla beams, sending me a proud smile that (I hate to admit it) warms my heart. “That’s my girl.”

Chase snorts. “You really know how to keep people coming back.”

Nilla slaps his shoulder playfully, saying, “Loosen up, tightass! How about I get you two a couple of drinks, on the house? Y’all are old enough to drink, right?”

He shrugs. “Do you care?”

“Not really. Browns, you done?”

“In a minute, mom!”

When eventually I’ve tended to Nate’s tattoo and given him orders on what and what not to do, I release him to Nilla’s evil clutches. She drags him and Chase to the bar operated by her husband and my stepfather, Sam Kelly. I, on the other hand, stay, not allowed to drink and not exactly interested. I’ve drunk enough beers to know it only tastes good when you’re drunk as fuck.

I’m doodling another cartoon, this one starring me and the boys when I hear a husky voice say, “My head isn’t that big.”

I jump, startled for the second time that afternoon. This time, I’m more annoyed than embarrassed when I turn to glare at Chase, a little smirk on his (hate to admit) kissable full lips.

“Ever heard of knocking?” I say, mildly irritated, standing up to go hide my sketchbook in a drawer.

He shrugs, following me. “Knocking is asking for permission. I don’t ask permissions, I take what I want.”

The way he says that sends a chill down my spine and a funny feeling through my stomach. I tamper it down even as my face grows hot.

“That doesn’t give you the right to look through my personal shit.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and reverberating. I hate that I don’t hate it. “Says the girl making doodles of a guy she just met.”

“What can I say? Art is an imitation of life.”

He smirks, moving closer. “I guess that make me a work of art.”

I scoff. “Work of art, my ass.”

He studies me, an indecipherable look on his face. “Do you wanna see it?” she asks.

I frown. “See what?”

“My tats.”

Do I?

I shrug, lackadaisical. “Since you seem desperate for me to see it, I guess I do.”

He chuckles again. “Okay then, take it off,” he orders softly, his voice barely a whisper.

I blink, taken aback by his command. “W-what? Why would I do that?”

“You said even if you have to strip me and I’m daring you to do that. Unless you’re scared you’ll like what you see.”

I scoff but deep inside, I can’t help but admit he’s right. I’m afraid of liking what I see, I mean I already don’t hate the little I see and if I see any more, I might actually die. Dramatic, I know.

“Why aren’t you out there, taking advantage of my mother’s ‘generosity’?” I ask in an attempt to deflect.

He shrugs. “Day drinking doesn’t hold much appeal for me. Plus, your mother talks way too much.”

I grimace. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“I bet,” he mumbles, moving even closer until I’m backed against the wall, his face inches from mine.

“Yeah,” I murmur smokily, licking my suddenly dry lips.

He stares at my lips, dark eyes somehow darker. “Take it off,” he says, his voice firm and hypnotizing.

I’m already pulling the zipper of his jacket before I even realise what I was doing but I don’t stop until the jacket is off, exposing his thick tattooed arms and — as I previously surmised — extremely jacked body. He must be a bodybuilder or something.

“Damn,” I breathe out, unable to hide my awe of him.

He smirks, cocky. “Impressed?”

I scoff, looking up at him. “I’ve seen better,” I say even as I run my hands all over his abs.

“Right,” he scoffs, hoisting me up and placing my legs around him waist, like I weigh nothing.

“You’re not gonna change my mind,” I warn, trying to ignore how hot my body is against his or the growing bulge pressing against my rapidly wet core.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says, his lips desperately close to mine.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” I demand, more out of frustration than sassiness.

He smirks, cocky. “If I feel like it.”

I wish I could slap him then but at this point, he has my hands trapped above my head, causing my breasts to seem even more humongous.

I seethe. “Well, do you?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

Annoyed and wanting to knock him off his high horse, I draw my lips to his, capturing it in a quick smoldering kiss. He withdraws, shocked I had even tried.

I smirk at the look on his face. “Do you feel like it now?” I taunt.

He doesn’t answer me, grabbing the back of my neck as he smashes our lips together, kissing me in a way no other person has ever done. I kiss him back as hard as I can, grinding my pelvis against the huge bulge pressing deliciously into me. He groans in pleasure, reluctantly parting from my lips to bite my neck. I gasp, a flood of delicious pain coursing through me, making me press harder into him. He sucks on the bitten spot, soothing the sting.

I moan ecstatically, clamping my hands around his neck, desperate for more of his pain, his pleasure, his everything.

“Stop hurting my sister!” someone screams and my foggy brain identifies it as my little sister, Cookie.

I shove Chase away from me and he reluctantly lets go but not before squeezing my neck in a way that made me wish we hadn’t been interrupted. I slap his hand away and move towards a fuming Cookie.

“Hey Cooks, he wasn’t hurting me,” I clarify, sending her a reassuring smile.

“You were making hurting sounds,” she states.

I hear a chuckle behind me and turn to glare at an unapologetic Chase. I turn back to Cookie, saying, “It sounded like that but I wasn’t hurting, I swear.”

“Then what were you?” she asks.

Turned on? Yeah, there is no way in hell I’m explaining the concept of arousal to my eight-year-old sister. She’ll learn it in school like everyone else.

I decide to change the subject. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Princess Spongecake wants to play dress up and I need your help getting her into her ball gown.”

“Um, okay, why don’t you go wait for me upstairs? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Okay.” Just before she leaves, she turns to Chase. “I’ve got my eyes on you, big guy. You hurt my sister, I hurt you too.”

Chase smiles, not at all threatened. “Nice to meet you too, Cooks.”

“It’s Cookie and you don’t get to call me that!” she cries.

I sigh. “Cookie, upstairs now.”

“Okay. Bring me something to eat!”

“Sure,” I mutter, dreading and at the same time looking forward to more alone time with Chase. Turns out, so is he.

Cookie’s barely gone when he slams me against the wall, his hand around my neck as he forces a kiss on my lips. I kiss him back, his lips impossibly soft.

A part of me warns me to nip this in the bud right this moment, to stay as far away from him as I can but the part of me that wants to see the deliciously wicked things he has in store for me doesn’t give a fuck.

He pulls away from the kiss, squeezing my neck a little. I should push him away but my dripping core begs to differ.

He grins as if he can sense my neediness, my willingness. I expect him to do more but he does nothing, looking at me like I was a fruit he’s had enough of.

He leans in and I wonder if he’ll ravish me again. He doesn’t, whispering hotly into my ear, “See you around, Ashley.”

And he’s gone.

I barely had time to comprehend his words or his sudden absence when my mother marches into the room, bellowing, “What the fuck, Ashley?!”