The Broken Puppet (The Elite King's Club 2)

It’s beautiful here. Sandy beaches, big waves, little shops lining the main beach where houses and coastal homes are set up opposite. The entire strip of the shoreline goes on for around ten minutes by car and eventually takes you to another small suburb called Papamoa. New Zealanders are friendly—sometimes a little too friendly—the food is fresh, and the air is like walking into a sauna for the first time. It’s lovely. But I haven’t been able to find a job since we got here. The flat we live in is a small studio apartment—nothing over the top—but it costs a fortune. It turns out this town isn’t exactly cheap to live in. Of course, trust Tatum and me to choose one of the more expensive towns in the whole of New Zealand. She found a job right away, working for cash in hand as a bartender-slash-stripper—I shit you not. I love Tatum, but I can see her slowly losing herself.

Is it happening to me too?

Whenever I try to dig inside, in search of my true feelings, I come up blank. I have none. I’ve thought once or twice about taking Tatum up on her offer and joining her as a stripper, but then I remembered I can’t dance for shit and my ass jiggles a little more than it should.

“Nice drawing,” the guy next to me interrupts my thoughts, pointing down to my piece of paper.

“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning forward and taking my drink.

“How long did it take for you to draw that?”

“Hmmm.” I swallow some of my drink and then look back at him. “About twenty minutes.”

His eyebrows pull together. “Can I take a look?”

I nod. “Yeah, sure.” I hand it to him, watching his expressions change. He has messy but well-styled light-brown hair, a five o’clock shadow, a straight pointy nose, and olive skin. His shoulders are square, much like his jaw, and he’s wearing a dark leather jacket with a plain white shirt underneath, dark jeans, leather bangles on his wrists, and heavy black biker boots. Oh, God, please don’t be a biker.

“These are fucking mint.” He grins, studying my latest drawing. I don’t know what the term “mint” means, but I take it it’s some kind of New Zealand lingo. The drawing is a pink lotus flower that’s half blossomed. There’s a bullet sitting in the middle, the petals of the flower guarding it protectively. The shading isn’t quite finished, but yeah, it’s not bad.

“Thank you,” I reply shyly.

He looks up at me. “I heard you tell your—” He looks toward Tatum on the pole. “—friend you’re looking for a job?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “We’re from America.”

“Backpacking?”

“Something like that,” I answer through a tight smile.

“Jesse.” He puts his heavily tattooed hand out.

I take it, surprised his palm is a little soft considering what he looks like. “Amira.”

“Amira?” He grins. “Sort of sexy.”

“Ha!” I laugh nervously. “Good one.” Is he flirting? I can’t tell.

His grin relaxes to a sly smirk. “Here.” He slides his card across the bar. “I own Inked, the tattoo parlor two shops down.” He points to my drawing. “I got you a job if you want it.”

“What?” I gasp in disbelief. “I haven’t tattooed anyone—ever!”

He shakes his head. “No, but I have, and do, and you draw fucking amazing. I can teach you. Or, you can just draw for me. I only do custom designs. So if you come in and sit down as I go over each client, you can draw what they say. Catch my drift?”

I swallow. “Shit.”

“Scared?” He grins at me again, a dark eyebrow quirked.

“Sort of.”

“Hey!” Tatum comes bouncing with bills stuffed under her bra. Jesus fucking Christ, this girl. She looks to Jesse and smiles, her eyes lighting up like the Fourth of July. She puts her hand out. “I’m Atalia!”

Jesse looks between us. “Similar names, or…?”

“Sisters,” Tatum chirps, gripping onto the bar, jumping up, and planting her ass on top. Jesse walks over to her, picks her up from under her arms, and shakes his head.

“Don’t go sitting your little ass on tabletops in this country, girl.”

I laugh at Tate’s pouted lip.

“Okay,” I say to Jesse, and his eyes come directly back to me. “I mean,” I correct, “I don’t know if I’m what you’re really looking for, but I’m willing to give it a try. Since, you know… I was rather close to going up”—I point toward the stage—“there.”

He grins. “Yeah, come now.” He nudges his head toward the front door, and I look between it and him and then back again.

“You’re not a murderer, are you?”

“Guess you won’t know until you follow me.”

Pausing, my eyes lock onto his before I down my drink and get off the stool.

Turning to Tatum, I smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

She shrugs and then bounces back onto the stage. I follow Jesse out the door, the cool summer air hitting me across the face. He nudges his head toward the sidewalk.