Izzy leaned closer and dropped her volume. “Promise you, bubba, not one of those guys grew a pussy because I was the one holding the needle.”
A strangled sound came from Rocket, and Maverick flat-out laughed. Rip joined in, and soon the three of them were cackling like a bunch of fucking hyenas.
Goddamnit. Not only had she interrupted him, sassed him, and tossed attitude at him, she’d thrown down a challenge. His damned male pride left him no choice.
“Show me to your chair,” he grumbled.
A massive grin of victory broke out across her gorgeous face. “Follow me, bubba,” she said as she spun on one of those pencil-thin heels then sashayed to her station.
And fuck if he didn’t feel a twitch of his dick and a twitch of his lips. Where his cock’s interest came from, he had no idea. Miss Izzy couldn’t be further from his usual type.
He liked ’em blonde, blue-eyed, small, sweet, and docile. Not tall, dark-haired, and mouthy. She’d even shaved the sides of her head, adding to her badass-bitch look.
But as he watched the very long tail of a tight braid swinging back and forth across the top of what was, without a doubt, a stellar ass, he couldn’t deny his animal attraction to her.
Fuck. This was gonna be a shitty few hours.
CHAPTER TWO
WAS THIS DUDE even capable of any facial expressions beyond scowls?
Didn’t seem like it.
Izzy was a damn good tattoo artist, and fuck any man who didn’t want to work with her because of what was—or wasn’t—dangling between her legs. She’d show him. Happened every single time she worked with one of these macho sexist types. They sat their asses in her chair with low expectations, and she blew them away with her skill.
Every. Damn. Time.
This would be no different, of that she was sure. And she’d revel in his eventual praise while a small part of her would remain pissed she’d had to prove herself yet again. Someday it’d be nice to be taken at her word.
“All right, bubba, what are we doing today?” she asked, going for overly friendly to combat his stony expression. It might be a cold face, but it wasn’t hard to look at and came attached to a scorching hot body. Dark hair, not as dark as her own, but pretty dark, navy blue eyes, and fairly scruffy beard that needed a date with some clippers. His whole appearance with dark wash jeans, ear gauges, a leather jacket, and sporty black sunglasses perched on his head was rough, a little scruffy, and a whole lotta sexy.
Just as she was about to turn toward her supplies, she noticed a pattern of white lines rising from the fur on his right cheek.
Scars.
She couldn’t help but wonder the extent of it hidden beneath the hair growth.
This man had a past. A past that had been carved into his face in a shape that resembled a puzzle piece.
“Got a tat on my thigh I want to add to.” No surprise that his flat eyes, and even duller expression, didn’t change as he spoke.
Huh, interesting. Not a new project. She was always intrigued when clients added to previous ink. Usually meant something deeply personal. Remembering an event despite the passage of time. Keeping a memory alive. Often painful memories. What did this guy have churning around in his head that he’d expressed on his body? Whatever it was, she had a feeling those memories were responsible for the solemn personality he wore like a shield.
With a nod, Izzy said, “Okay. Gonna need you to drop your drawers. Want me to pull the curtain and give you a sheet to drape over yourself?”
The buzz of a tattoo machine kicked up over at Rip’s station. She’d have taken the nipple job herself, but the woman’s surgeon was actually the one to recommend Rip, and she’d been hellbent on working with him. Izzy had worked on a few breast cancer survivors in the past and loved seeing the elation on the women’s—and one man’s—faces when she made them feel whole again.
Without answering her question, the biker stood, loosened his belt, then lowered his zipper.
Guess he wasn’t shy.
As he worked the denim over his trim hips, Izzy couldn’t help but allow her gaze to shadow his movements. She was a female after all. Just because she had no desire to give a man any kind of significant role in her life, then or ever, didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the merchandise. Or sample a few of the products. Once in a while, a non-silicone-induced orgasm was a necessity. But that was as far as she ever allowed it. An orgasm or two then sayonara. Izzy survived damn well on her own and planned to keep it that way.
Thick, muscled thighs were revealed to her as the denim fell to the floor. Damn, this man was no stranger to a squat. Would it be weird if she asked him to turn around so she could see how his ass looked in the form-fitting royal blue boxer briefs?