Jessa James - His Dirty Virgin

“Whatever happened to law school?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “I’m infamous enough that a pretty girl on the side of the road knows who I am.”

I shrugged. “You know who I am by my name, just as I know you.”

He slowly shook his head. “You don’t know me. Just what you’ve heard.”

I looked him over from his boots to his very well-worn jeans to his black t-shirt which left nothing to the imagination. “You’re right. So what happened to law school?”

A smirk made its way onto his face at my repeated question. Damn , he was hot. “Nothing. I decided not to go and instead started my own business after I got my degree.”

“Oh? What business?” I guessed his life was turning out much better than mine ever would. I didn’t think I could do what he did, turn my back on my family and make it on my own. Telling my father off at lunch was one thing, but go solo? I had no idea how I’d make it. Maybe my father was right. He’d given me everything, and I didn’t know how to stand on my own two feet.

He stuck his elbow out. “Does my arm say enough?” I couldn’t miss the corded forearms, the bulging biceps. A gym? “Tattoo parlor.”

I nodded my head. “Was it your mother that steered you in that direction?”

He looked shocked at my question until a smile surfaced once again on his face. “You remember my mother?”

“Of course.” I smiled back. “I might be younger than you, but our families are pretty close. Your mom, she’s…definitely a character.”

His mother was the antithesis of what our fathers were like. They were masters of the universe. At least of this town. They were powerful and rich. They were the type of people that no one could say no to, even if their demands seemed unrealistic. People under them just had to make things happen.

“Definitely.” At that, we both shared a laugh. “But yeah, she nurtured my interest in the arts, taught me how to enjoy life and not take it so seriously. Because of that, I started drawing when I needed to de-stress. She’d bring me along when she went out with some friends sometimes. I knew I’d get bored sooner or later, so I’d always bring my sketchpad, and when they saw my art, all of them were asking me if I could tattoo my artwork.”

“Oh, wow…so your business started organically.”

We stood on the side of the road chatting until he suddenly remembered the tire. He grabbed the tire iron and knelt by the flat, got to work.

He seemed like a nice guy and he’d gotten out from under his father’s wrath. I envied him that.

“Yeah, they’d see my art, but there was always a deeper meaning whenever they chose their designs, and that—the stories and meanings behind the tattoos—turned my hobby into a passion. People sharing their experiences through art is such a great way to connect. It’s as if once they see you have a tattoo, their walls instantly come down. Even if they’re doing it as a dare or out of drunkenness, they’re still showing some kind of vulnerability—they’re giving me and everyone else the opportunity to judge, and that’s the thing—I never judge. I embrace.” I was too engrossed listening to him I hadn’t realized he was finished with replacing my tire. “There you go, princess.”

I raised my eyebrow up at him. Princess? I followed his eyes and watched as they lingered for a moment on the pearls on my ears and around my neck and then my pale pink sundress. Oh.

“Stop by sometime.” He reached in his back pocket and took a card out from his wallet. “The shop. I saw the look on your face earlier. You’re curious. Come check it out for yourself.”

“Sure,” I responded, meeting his eyes. I mustered up the courage to smile at him. God . I could stare at him all day. I was curious. Not as much about a tattoo as about him, and exactly what it would feel like to have a certified bad boy kissed me. “I will. I’ll stop by.”

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