She’s still playing coy, but it’s clear what she’s after.
It happens all the time.
Women see me as a tall brooding tattoo artist. A mysterious bad boy. The box they check before they move onto a real relationship.
It has its perks. I’m not complaining.
For a second, this girl’s offer tempts me. I consider taking her home, peeling her out of her tight outfit, pinning her tiny body to the wall—
But I don’t see her. I see Mack. I see her hazel eyes filling with pleasure. Her red hair falling over her perky tits. Her lips parting with a groan.
His name filling the room.
Yes, Diego. Harder, baby. Harder.
My dick practically deflates.
Nothing kills the mood faster than my ex.
I keep up the charm anyway. “What are you looking for?”
She flashes me that same shy smile. “You could buy me a drink.”
“If you wimp out of your tattoo?”
She nods.
“Sounds like I’m encouraging you to run.”
“You think you’re that irresistible?”
I shoot her a megawatt smile. “You don’t?”
Her cheeks flush.
I swallow my surprise. It’s hard to believe I still have it. I never use it. Not anymore. “A drink. If you make it through the entire thing.”
She looks up at me. “You really think I can?”
“I know you can.”
Her eyes fill with vulnerability. “How do you know?”
“You’re tougher than you look.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m way less tough than I look.”
She laughs, even though it’s a bad joke. Even though it’s true.
Here I am, two years after walking in on my ex groaning another guy’s name, and I still don’t know how to love.
I’m still hopeless when it comes to romance.
But I know how to protect my friends.
And I will protect Skye.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter Six
Skye
Thankfully, my parents work long hours. Dad is a doctor. Mom runs a consulting firm.
For most of the day, the house is mine.
It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
I’ve lived at home since… always. During college, it was sensible. A way to save money. Sure, my parents would have helped with an apartment, but rents in Brentwood are ridiculous. The drive to UCLA is easy. I have tons of room here.
It was an easy choice.
Then, after I graduated, I struggled to find employment. When I did, it was temporary stuff. That’s the film and TV industry. A few weeks as an office PA here. An unpaid internship there. An assistant gig that didn’t pay anywhere near enough for my own place. A few more weeks or months of unemployment.
Rinse. Repeat.
Last year, I thought I made it. I got a job as a development assistant at a new reality TV company. Sure, it’s not what I want to do, exactly. But it’s film and TV adjacent. It’s relevant to my degree in film studies. It’s a job with a trajectory.
It was a slog sure, but it was a step in the right direction.
Then the company folded.
For the last five months, I’ve been looking for a new job with no luck.
Mom and Dad always tell me to follow my dreams. Hold out for a great job that uses my brain and somehow gets me where I want to go. But I don’t know where I want to go anymore.
After three years of working shitty jobs with little or no pay, I no longer look at film with the same luster.
Sure, I love movies. There’s nothing better than sitting on the couch and losing myself in two hours of moving pictures. Especially, when the movies are smart and naturalistic with snappy dialogue and excellent acting.
But I want it to be my couch. In my apartment. On my TV.
I want to live my life. To feel like my life is going somewhere.
And a constant stream of shitty gigs that don’t pay or stimulate my brain—
Gigs that are insanely competitive because everyone wants to be a part of “the industry”—
That’s not fun. Or stimulating. Or fulfilling.
It’s certainly not going anywhere.
Yeah, I’m lucky. My parents offer me a place to crash. I make enough from on and off employment that I take care of myself.
But, goddammit, I want a real job. A career. A future.
All I have is my blog.
Princess Skye’s Plus-Size Fashions.
Princess Skye on social media.
It started as a lark. Because there weren’t enough people reviewing plus-sized clothing. And the women who were running plus-size blogs had more conventional tastes.
Forest says I dress like a goth princess. That’s where I got the princess thing, actually. It’s a good description. There’s something about black corset dresses, combat boots, big eyelashes—
It feels right.
I feel like me when I’m wearing a bold black dress, thick eyeliner, crimson lipstick.
Maybe that’s why I like pole dancing. It’s not just fitness—though it is incredibly demanding—it’s big and loud. A show. I can show up in stiletto combat boots, false eyelashes, and a sparkly black one-piece, and I get compliments, not why are you wearing that looks.