Sarah Mayberry - She's Got It Bad

“You still performing tonight?” Jake asked as she crossed to the autoclave to collect her sterilized gun.

“Nine o’clock. You going to be there? I’ll put your name on the door.”

“Don’t know if my blood pressure can take it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Pussy.”

Jake moved to the front of the shop and she tugged off the long-sleeved T-shirt she was wearing over a snug black tank. She always got warm when she worked, and she wasn’t about to stop in the middle of inking someone’s back to shrug off her clothes.

She heard the front bell sound and checked the clock. Her client was on time. She raised an eyebrow; she’d lost the bet she’d made with herself. This client had been so nervous when they discussed his appointment that she’d been sure he’d be a no-show, or as they called them, a B-back—the kind of customer who made some excuse to slip out just before the needle touched his skin, promising he’d “be back” but in reality never to be seen again.

She heard the low rumble of a man’s voice as she bagged her spray bottles to prevent cross-contamination.

“Sure, whatever, go through. She’s in the back,” she heard Jake say.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor as her customer approached. For some reason her stomach tightened and a shiver of something raced up her spine. Excitement? Fear? Premonition?

She had her back to the door when a deep male voice spoke.

“Zoe?”

All the little hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Slowly she turned around to confirm what her ears were telling her.

Liam. Standing there larger than life, bigger and taller than any of her memories of him. Her chest felt as though someone was sitting on it as she took in the messy dark hair brushing the collar of his leather jacket, the deep brown of his eyes, the crooked line of his nose. His jaw was still strong and stubborn-looking, his shoulders still wide. Some things had changed. His chest was deeper and broader than when he’d been seventeen, making his hips seem narrower, and his thighs were more muscled and bulky. The boy had become a man. A big, powerful man.

Of all the tattoo parlors in Melbourne, she couldn’t believe he had walked into hers. What were the odds?

Hard on the heels of shock at seeing him came a searing wash of anger. Twelve years of resentment and bitterness welled up inside her. The way he’d thrown what she offered him in her face. The way he’d left without a word. And what had happened afterward when she was too wild with grief at losing him to care about anything, especially herself.

“Masters,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. She was proud of how cool and unsurprised her voice sounded. “This is a surprise. Long time no see.”

He stared at her and she could see the shock and disbelief in his eyes as he surveyed her from head to toe, taking in her skintight jeans and tank, her breasts spilling over her neckline, the dark kohl on her eyes, the deep red on her lips.

“Jesus, Zoe,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He was surprised by the grown-up her—that much was obvious.

“What does it look like? I work here. If you’re after some ink, I’ve got an appointment right now. You’ll have to come back later.”

His gaze took in her workbench, the scuffed concrete floor, the curling corners on the many sheets of tattoo flash art stuck to the walls.

“Does Tom know about all this?” he asked.

He sounded grim. Disapproving.

“Excuse me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembered from all those years ago.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

She straightened, planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? What would you know, Liam? What the hell would you know about me?”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, then just as quickly came back to her face.

“I bought a painting last night. By Paulo Gregorio.”

She stared at him for a long beat. Then she laughed. He hadn’t just walked in off the street and coincidentally found her. He’d come looking for her.

“I get it. You bought Paulo’s painting and you decided to look me up. What’s wrong, Liam? Did you suddenly realize what you missed out on all those years ago?”

He frowned. “I wanted to find out what had gone wrong.”

Her chin came up and her eyes narrowed. “Wrong?”

“That you needed to do something like that.”

She shook her head, truly staggered by his arrogance.

“Wow. Haven’t you become the morals campaigner. Let me save you the bother of worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She laughed again, a sound totally without humor. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or don’t believe. Who the hell do you think you are, walking into my life and telling me I’m wrong and looking at me as though I just offered you a blow job for a tenner?”

“I was worried about you,” he said.

She swore and stared at the ceiling as she struggled to keep a grip on her temper. Her lips curled into a sneer when she looked at him again.

“Twelve years too late, baby,” she said. “Now, how about you get the hell out of my space?”

He stared at her.

“Go! I don’t want to see you or speak to you,” she said. To her great shame, hot tears burned at the back of her eyes. She held them there by sheer dint of will as they eyeballed each other.

“Fine. But this isn’t over,” he said.

She swore again, telling him exactly what she thought of him and where he could go, with bells on.

He gave her one last, long look before turning on his heel and exiting. She reached for the countertop behind her and grasped the edge to stop her rubbery knees from collapsing. Then a more urgent need gripped her. One hand pressed to her mouth, she just made it to the restroom before she lost her breakfast to the toilet bowl.

How she hated him. How she hated herself for still feeling anything for him after all these years.

She ducked her head over the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Her eyes were guarded as she surveyed herself in the chipped mirror above the sink.

For the first time in a long time, she felt a stab of the phantom pain that had haunted her for so long after the operation. She pressed a hand to her belly.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

“You in here, Zoe? Your tenderfoot’s arrived for his ten-thirty appointment,” Jake called.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said.

She rinsed her mouth again, then pressed her cool, wet hands against her cheeks.

Screw Liam Masters. She didn’t give a damn about him or what he thought of her. She exited the bathroom and put on her brightest, sassiest smile for the scared teenager standing uncertainly in the doorway of her workroom.

“Rodney. Great to see you. Let’s turn you into a piece of walking, talking art, baby,” she said.

LIAM THOUGHT ABOUT ZOE all day at work. He thought about the look in her eyes when she’d first seen him and recognized him. He thought about her attitude, all sharp edges and defenses. He thought about the length of her legs and the fullness of her breasts, every detail of both on display thanks to her painted-on clothes. He thought about the tattoo on her neck, a striking overblown rose in shades of black and gray.

Zoe. His Zoe, all grown up. And nothing like he’d ever imagined her. Certainly not happily married with kids.

He couldn’t reconcile the woman he’d met today with the girl he’d known twelve years ago. It didn’t seem possible that the pure, innocent, generous spirit that had been Zoe could grow up into a woman so hard and edgy.

He couldn’t afford to be this distracted right now. The workshop was operating at full capacity, and as always, there were fires to put out. Delays on the parts they’d ordered for a custom chopper that had a strict delivery date. Problems with the fit of the double-overhead engine one client had requested.