“Ever heard of a massage parlor?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“What’s the first thing you think?”

“Prostitution,” she says flatly.

“There we go. It’s about connotation. No tattoo artist calls their shop a parlor. It’s either a shop, or studio, okay?”

“Okay,” Rose says with a sigh.

“Please try and remember.”

“I will, I will. So,” she says, drawing out the word. “What was he like?”

“Who?”

“Pierce!”

“What do you mean?”

She drops her voice to a very low whisper. “Was he big?”

I swallow, and nod. There’s a twinkle in Rose’s eye, as if she’s thinking: Unsurprising.

“Did he shave?”

I shake my head.

“Trimmed?”

“Yeah.”

“What about his balls?”

I blink. “I didn’t notice,” I say slowly, staring hard at her.

“Has he got lots of tattoos?”

“You saw him fight.”

“I mean, under his shorts.”

“No, not really. He had this jellyfish, and the tentacles wrapped around his thigh.”

We both turn to look at the television. The narrator, in a posh and sticky British accent, is talking about the Portuguese Man of War – one of the deadliest jellyfish in the world.

What are the chances?

“You should go,” she says.

“Why? I don’t want to.”

“You don’t think he’s hot?”

“He’s a dick. He’s so full of himself. He’s probably got, like, three STDs. So what if he’s hot?”

“He’s a fighter, but he’s not stupid.”

“How would you know?”

“You can always tell when somebody is a dumb-dumb.”

“What do I want with a rude man-slut, anyway?”

“I know you’re attracted to him. I saw how awkward you were when you met him. Not to mention that whole driving-you-home scene after the club. I’m still pissed off at you, by the way. We never got into Juice. You just left us waiting in the line outside.”

I sigh. “I was awkward because he was being a dick.”

“Yeah, he was, but you were also awkward because you liked him. Which is why you hit the sauce hard.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.”

“Okay, babe.” She says it in this really condescending way, and it pricks my temper.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she says, flicking her head to the side. She watches me out of amused eyes.

“Stop that, Rose.”

“Stop what?”

“Just stop it!”

I go into my bedroom, cheeks feeling warm, and flop down on my bed and stare at the screen of my phone.

Maybe fifteen minutes pass by, before I finally tap out a reply:

Only if you’re not an asshole tomorrow during your appointment.

I put the phone on my bedside table, and turn out the light, but moments later I hear it vibrate.

I thought girls liked assholes.

Chapter Fourteen

“Told you I’d behave.”

She smiles, and actually it’s one of the few times she’s not being hostile to me. I… I like it. She’s beautiful when she smiles. Her whole face just lights up.

It makes my heart race and my cock throb. Even just a quick glance at her bare neck – she’s got her hair tied up – brings me up. I want to bite her there, lick her, taste her. God, my lust for her is carnal, almost savage. I want to bite her until it hurts, and then a little more.

“You did behave,” she says. “To my great surprise.” She gives me an accusing stare, as if to ask, ‘What’s your angle?’. I just play it off as nothing. I got no angle. She knows I want her.

Penny clears her throat. “Tina did a good job with the shading, didn’t she?”

“She did,” I agree.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Tingles.” I pull the Porsche over. “We’re going to Lou’s.”

“Lou’s?” she says. “That sounds like an American pizza restaurant, or something.”

“That’s because it is,” he says. “Deep dish, Chicago style. Thought you’d like something from home.”

There it is again, that smile. God, she looks amazing when she smiles.

I lick my lower lip, and bunch my brows together for a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever thought something like that before.

“Thanks, but it’s not really just a Chicago thing anymore. I had no idea they had something like that over here?”

“American themed restaurants are popular here,” he says. “Mexican, too.”

I get out, and then help her out of the car on her side. It’s so low that she practically has to climb up onto the curb.

As we step into the bar-and-restaurant, a smattering of American accents reach us. I see Penny looking around, perhaps a little surprised that there’s such a large American enclave in the form of a restaurant. The place is heaving, and the television above the bar is playing one of yesterday’s college basketball games.

“This feels pretty authentic,” she says.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Just the decorations, the atmosphere.”

“Well, it’s popular.”

“With Aussies, too?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, flagging down a waitress. “They love this shit over here. They pretend to hate the ‘yanks’, but really they’re enamored with us.”

We get seated in our own booth, pick out a spinach and mushroom mix, and then order drinks. To my surprise, she gets a vodka-martini.

Penny shrugs when she sees my expression. “Dad and I have this thing where we watch a James Bond movie every other weekend together. I don’t really like them, but he does. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to try one.”

“The old ones are the best ones.”

She snorts. “More like the most misogynistic ones.”

“So, what made you want to become a tattoo artist?”

Penelope grins, and peers at me. “What is this? You pretending not to be a dick?”