The Entitled (The Entitled Duet 1)

Jay chuckles. “I think they like the ambience, Tess.”

We stop at a large door. Jay raps his knuckles on it. After another buzz, he pushes the door open. My hand clutches Reed’s tighter, and he winks at me. Entering, I stare at what appears to be a tattoo parlor. It’s all dark purple, black, and red and smells like a hospital. Heavy metal music pours in from all sides.

Reed’s mouth is at my ear. “This is one of your birthday presents. I think you need this one a little early.” Taking a little bite of my neck, he makes me squeal. My eyes travel up to the ceiling. Half-dressed girls, mermaids, and Disney princesses with horns adorn it. Interesting!

A tall blond guy comes out of a room. A girl follows, wearing the shortest black dress I have ever seen. Literally her ass is hanging out. Maybe she wore it on purpose because when she bends over to get her wallet to pay, her bare ass is wrapped in Saran Wrap.

“That would be the last place I would get a tattoo.” I sniff.

Reed grins. “Good, because I would never allow anyone but me to touch this anyway.” He caresses my butt.

Turning toward him, I give him the warning eye. He laughs and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me to his chest. Jay walks over to the blond guy who is assessing us.

“How are we going to get tattoos? We’re not even fifteen yet.”

“Money.” Pushing my hair off my shoulder, he caresses my face with his eyes. “It can make me whatever age I need to be. And you’re not getting a tattoo. I am.”

“What? I thought you said it is my birthday present? I was kind of excited thinking I was getting one.” I pout.

He laughs and leans down to suck on my bottom lip.

“Don’t pout. I don’t want this creamy skin marred. This is for you.” He saunters over to Jay and the blond guy, who I’m guessing is the tattoo artist. Our pinkies are linked, so I follow.

“We ready?” Reed asks.

The blond guy turns and looks at us. I blink. Holy shit, this guy is hot.

He’s covered in tattoos, like all the way up his neck covered, but his face is beyond cute. He looks like a young biker Brad Pitt. His eyes travel up and down my body. Biting my lip, I sneak a look at Reed to see if he’s noticed, which is stupid—he notices everything, especially with me. Somewhere in the back of my head, I sense that sting of satisfaction. It’s shitty to want my boyfriend to feel pain, but I do. After last night, a little reality slap is not uncalled for.

“The fuck?” he mumbles, his caveman energy vibrating off of him. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my back to his chest. “Property of Reed!” might as well be tattooed on my forehead. The inker smirks, crossing his arms.

“Reed, please…” I wanted him to feel a tiny bit of pain. But I’m too exhausted for more drama.

“Quiet, Tess.” His eyes are still on Brad Pitt, who must decide he’d rather take our money than get into it with Reed. He backs off and turns to Jay, then plasters on a smile and opens one of the doors in the parlor.

Shocker. The room is large with black walls. A large purple velvet couch formed like a C sits in the back middle of the room, along with a black shiny coffee table. Piles of portfolio books lie on it.

“Is this your art on the walls?” My arms sweep the room, trying my best to lighten the tension. The paintings surround us. I love art. Some are quite impressive. It figures, most of them are naked girls. There are some beasts or monsters. On the far wall, almost like he’s ashamed of them, are three oil paintings. One is Manhattan at night, her bright lights and the moon almost glowing. Another’s of Coney Island. He’s captured the colors of the restaurants and rides so clearly it almost looks like a photograph. And the last is of wildflowers blowing in the wind. Rain clouds are in the background as if to warn the viewer of trouble coming. This is the one that catches my attention.

Brad Pitt grabs a remote from a table and turns down the music, making it much easier to think.

“Did you paint these too?”

He looks over at me while he sits down on a swivel chair. I notice his eyes are a dark brown not blue like Brad Pitt’s. He looks like he belongs in LA not Manhattan.

“Yeah, they’re mine,” he says gruffly, sounding defensive. “I started off as an artist, then discovered I could make much more money putting my art on people.”

“These are amazing.” I motion to the landscapes.