Guys with neck tattoos are either scary badass or sexy as fuck.

This one is kind of both.

I’m mid trying to figure out if the sexy tattooed guy at the bar is a musician or an ex convict (maybe both?), when a familiar warm hand slides across my thigh.

“Cool it, Austin,” I say through grit teeth as I give him a hard elbow to his ribs.

He coughs out a laugh. “Christ, Eden. I never took you for the type that likes to play rough.”

I savor a sip of beer. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Like how Austin’s pretty boy looks do nothing for my libido, while the tattooed hottie at the bar has my stomach doing summersaults. That guy tilts his head to down the rest of his Bud, causing the scorpion at the base of his neck to stretch long and lean. Damn, that’s hot.

Austin straddles a chair and shuffles up to the table next to me, so close we’re practically touching. He cups his tumbler of scotch like a coffee mug and nudges me with his elbow. “Is it my cologne? Because the girl at the drug store convinced me Axe is the way to go.” His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “We could take a shower.” He leans closer, the sour scent of alcohol permeating off his breath and through his pores. “That would get rid of the cologne smell, if that’s the problem.”

My gag reflex ignites. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculous is the story of my life right now, which is how I ended up at a dive bar in downtown New York City with Austin, the director of ad sales for Rubberneckers, the e-mag I co-own with my friends, Liz and Marnie. Sadly, my attempt to blow off a little job stress steam tonight is rapidly turning into an episode of Survivor. If Austin doesn’t back off quick, “the island” won’t be the only thing he’s booted from—his job security hangs by a loose thread.

“You know my policy on inter-office dating,” I say, standing.

Austin gives me a wolfish grin. “Who said anything about dating?” His eyes land on my chest.

I snatch my empty beer glass off the table and shake my head. “Go home, Austin. You’re drunk.”

After weaving my way through the tables overflowing with baseball enthusiasts cheering on the Mets, I plunk down on the only empty bar stool—right next to the tattooed hot guy. Maybe Austin isn’t the only one who’s had too much to drink, because I could swear a current strong enough to electrocute me runs between us.

Tattoo guy turns his head toward me. Holy shit, are his eyes green.

Emerald, actually.

He stares at me a long beat—I’m sure time almost stands still—until his attention is pulled by a homerun play on the TV screen above the bar. I exhale hard, and smile nervously at the bartender who tops up my beer.

“On the house,” he says, with a wink.

I’m about to thank him when a thick finger aggressively taps my shoulder. Without turning, I calmly advise Austin to leave me the fuck alone—again. His hand moves to my hip. I jerk away, knocking my glass forward. Beer sloshes over the side and coats my fingers. I shake them off. Fucking hell.

Heat rushes to my cheeks and I shove Austin away. “Seriously, dude. I’ve had enough.”

I’ve fielded his pathetic come-ons with forced diplomacy for almost two years, conceding that despite his ridiculous attempts to lure me to his bed, he’s damn good at his job. Best ad salesman in the city, to be frank. I’ve been patient. Kind. But my stress levels are off the charts tonight, and I’m tired of pissing around.

“Take the hint, buddy,” says the tattoo guy, without even looking away from the TV. He adjusts his ball cap and squares his broad shoulders, jaw tense. Well, hello knight in shining armor.

Austin ignores him and wedges between us, knocking his thigh up against my knee. His eyes are glossy and sweat beads across his forehead. Drunk as fuck. Damn it. Guys that can’t control their alcohol really grate on my nerves.

Austin’s lip curls into a snarl. “Why are you being such a skank anyway?”

I recoil at the blatant insult, narrowing my eyebrows. “You want to take that back, smart ass?”

Tattoo guy’s cheek twitches.

Austin sneers. “Oh, I’m just getting started, baby.” He licks his lips, pointing his gaze again on my breasts. “I don’t even know why I bothered with you.” He leans close, breath hot against my eardrum. “You’re not even pretty anymore.”

My hands tighten around the beer glass. I could end this now, just pick up my drink and toss it in his smug face, then walk right out the door. But the weight of a dozen or so eyes land on me, and in my peripheral vision, I catch the bartender inching toward one of the bouncers. Last thing I need tonight is a damn scene.

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” I seethe, under my breath.

Austin throws his head back and laughs. It’s low and malicious, sinking into my bones with a chill that ripples along my spine and makes me shiver. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

Get up and leave, Eden.

“I thought maybe you’d had a boob job,” Austin says loudly, his words slurring. “But I guess that’s just a side effect of putting on so much weight.” I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering, silently begging Austin to quit while he’s ahead. Fat chance. He steamrolls on. “What’s wrong Boss Lady, lawsuit got you all stressed out?”

My entire body tenses.

The comment is a low blow, even if it’s true. With Rubberneckers soon to be on trial for libel, my nerves are shot. Ad sales have dropped, we’ve had to let most of the staff go, and lawyer costs are bleeding us dry. The lawsuit isn’t just draining the company, it’s syphoning from the very foundation of what once made us strong. There’s no oxygen left in the office, just the stifling air of tension, accusation, and fear.

So yeah, maybe I’ve watered it down with Coors Light and a few too many visits to Burger and Barrel. But at least I’m not curled up in the fetal position watching re-runs of Gilmore Girls. That’s more Marnie’s style.

“Get out of here, Austin,” I say, forcing my voice to remain even. I’m precariously close to tears, and fuck if I’ll let this douchebag see me cry. “Before you say anything else you can’t take back.”

Austin slides his empty glass across the counter. “My only regret is wasting time on a cock tease like you.”

Hot anger shoots through me but I don’t even have the chance to pull out my claws. It happens in a blur—tattoo guy leaps off his stool and stands over Austin, chest puffed out, the veins in his neck bulging into thick chords. He’s tall—at least over six feet—and his biceps bulge beneath his gray hoodie. He’s like the fucking Incredible Hulk, a towering hunk of tattooed muscle. His emerald eyes flash, and the next thing I know, he’s grabbing Austin by the scruff of his neck and lifting him up off the floor.

“Apologize to the lady,” tattoo guy says.

The low growl of his voice makes my blood hum.

People all around us stop to watch—whistling, hooting, banging on the tables. Across the room, two bouncers start making their way toward us.

Austin is unfazed, empowered by a shit ton of liquid courage. “Fuck her,” he says. He retracts his neck, bobs his head forward, and spits. A glob of thick saliva lands on my cheek. I wipe it clear with the back of my hand.

“Bad move, tough guy,” says my tattooed knight. He shoves Austin backwards into a table. Beer mugs and champagne flutes hit the floor and shatter. Red wine splays across the white tile like blood splatter.

Austin doesn’t move, but tattoo guy is far from finished with him. He yanks Austin upright by the tie and pummels him with a sharp uppercut. Austin’s face jerks left. Tattoo guy punches him again, a right hook to the jaw, and drops him on the floor.

A cut on Austin’s cheek oozes red. His lips are swollen, one eye is squinted shut. He’s going to be one hell of a hurting unit come morning.

I grip the edge of the barstool so tight my knuckles go white. I’m sure my eyes are bulged right out of my head. I don’t know whether to be shocked or scared.

Tattoo guy kicks Austin in the ribs once.

Twice.

Bile rises to my throat. Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill him.

I jump off the stool and grab tattoo guy by the arm, my fingers unable to penetrate into his thick muscle. He shrugs me loose and levels Austin with another kick. My purse goes flying across the room. The music cuts off, the bar goes eerily silent. Austin curls into himself with a low groan.

The crowd parts to allow the bouncers through and each of them grab one of tattoo guy’s arms. He shrugs free of their grip. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I’m leaving.”

A hulking bouncer points at me, and then jerks him thumb backward. “You too. Out.”

I glance over my shoulder and offer the bartender a half-hearted shrug of apology. He nudges his chin toward the Exit.

Guess I won’t be showing my face around this place again.

I crouch down low to pick up my purse and sneer at Austin. “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, asshole. You’re fired.”