Chapter Seven
“What are you doing tonight?” Gem asked, throwing a lilac rucksack over one shoulder. It was covered in bright, bold pins; from torn-up teddy bears to declarations of a femme revolution. And there was a little Slytherin badge on the corner, too.
Bailey smiled at the sight as she packed up her own boring bag and threw on her coat. “Going to the library, I think. I need to get started on my January assignments.”
“Ugh. Kill me now.” Gem rolled her eyes as she switched off the Christmas tree’s lights for the night. “You couldn’t pay me to go back to school.”
“Sadly, I’m paying them.”
“More fool you, chick.” She threw a cheeky smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door, strutting away in her pink Doc Martens. “Look, it’s the weekend. If you change your mind, I’m meeting some mates for a drink tonight. Text me, yeah?”
“Maybe,” Bailey smiled. She wasn’t exactly in the habit of going out; saving money was a serious business. Or maybe the few years spent waiting in the backroom of a nightclub while her mother bartended had put her off the idea for life.
Whatever. She tried not to examine those kinds of thoughts too closely.
The music was gone and the Christmas lights were dark. Still, the tinsel pinned to the front desk rustled at her cheerfully as she brushed past it, heading towards the studio. The lights in there had been left on. She’d just sort them out, she thought, before leaving for the day…
The studio at Fallen Tattoos was as professional and sterile as the front of the shop was quirky. Jay had explained that Cash took trust seriously: the customers needed to know that their bodies weren’t about to be defaced, or worse, actually harmed. And so, the studio maintained an almost hospital-like aura, ensuring customers felt utterly safe there. It was an interesting approach, one that made her wonder what Cash had seen and experienced while touring the world. And maybe if he’d ever had a negative experience of his own when it came to his countless tattoos. She’d like to ask him about the ink covering his body—or at least, what she’d seen of it.
And maybe now was her chance. Because here he was, sitting at his workstation, leaning over one of the huge, electric chairs that clients lay or sat on while being inked. His hand worked busily, darting back and forth over a page in his sketchbook, the strokes bold and aggressive. She’d assumed that he was upstairs, in the office.
“Hey,” she said. He didn’t seem to hear her, hadn’t even noticed her come in. And she’d certainly had no inkling that he was there; he was utterly silent, focused, as though his art took him far away from this little shop tucked into the grey city streets.
“Cash,” she said, louder this time. The sound jolted him out of his trance, and he looked up at her with unfocused eyes. The usually harsh lines of his face were soft, the way they might be in sleep, and there was no cruel curl to his mouth.
She might have imagined seeing him this way—utterly relaxed, unaware—once. Or twice. Hey; most guys fell asleep after sex, right? And Bailey strove for accuracy in all of her masturbation fantasies.
A girl had to have creative standards.
“Bailey,” he murmured, his eyes finally focusing on her.
She smiled.
And then, of course, he ruined it.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded, his gaze hardening. He glared at her as though she’d been spying, and shut his sketchbook closed with a snap. “You should’ve left already.”
“Um… I was just checking that all the lights were off before I went.”
“Why? I can do that. Before I lock up.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, excuse me for helping. I won’t bother again.”
“Bailey,” he sighed, “there’s no need to be dramatic.”
Dramatic? Bailey’s temper rarely came out to play, but when it did, it tended to run away with her.
She employed her most precise diction as she replied, taking care to make each consonant as sharp as could be—she didn’t want him to miss a single syllable. Her smile sweet and her words slow, Bailey said simply: “Go fuck yourself, Cash Evans.”
As she turned on her heel, she saw his jaw drop from the corner of her eye. But he didn’t say a single thing in response as she stormed off.
Fucking men. Bailey slammed the shop door behind her before trudging through the icy night. Her breath plumed in front of her face as she muttered to herself, jamming her frozen hands into her pockets.
Give them a taste of sweetness and watch them come over all high and mighty. There wasn’t a man on earth who didn’t develop an attitude when he thought he could get away with it—she was convinced.
The knowledge was hard-won, too: gained through watching her mother make a fool of herself for men who turned crueler the harder she pushed. There was one sure-fire way to turn a prince into a frog: show him a little kindness.
Bailey wouldn’t fall into that trap again. Once someone viewed you as an object, every interaction was transactional—and the sad truth was that to most men, a woman could be nothing but an object. Maybe a trophy, maybe a childhood blanket, maybe a piece of rubbish. It made no difference. The bottom line was that she had to play their game. Every interaction was transactional.
At the end of the day, most men were only good for one thing.
She chanted under her breath, in time with the stamp of her feet against the pavement. “Remember that. Remember that. Remember that.”