Page 7 of Keeping Kaitlyn

Itis an insipidly generic butterfly.

Not like the one I did for Ryan a few weeks ago. He asked for a butterfly because Grace likes them. He asked for it for the same reason Con asked for the strand of pearls I wrapped around his arm or the Claddagh I inked into his chest. Because he wanted to keep a piece of her with him forever. He wants to be able to look at himself in the mirror and see her, even when she’s not there.

This bubblebrain wants a butterfly because itsymbolizes struggle and rebirth.

Trust me when I tell you, I know the type. The chick in my chair hasneverstruggled. Not once in her entire privileged life.

Forcing myself to give her ample chest more than a brief, cursory look, I give her a practiced, lopsided grin. “I’ll give it to you wherever you want, doll,” I tell her, flirting back on autopilot while her friend giggle on the other side of the counter becauseit’s what I’m supposed to do. Why she and her friends are really here.

“Anywhere?” The blonde gives me a seductive smile, her hands falling away from her neckline to move lower, toward the hem of her miniskirt. “In that case?—”

Behind the giggling idiot twins, the door to my shop opens, the bell above it letting out a jingle. Fully expecting to see the rest of her entourage piling through the door, I open my mouth to kick the lot of them out, appointment or not. Because the law of celebrity physics dictates that more bystanders equals more cellphones and I’m not looking to end myhaven’t graced the cover of a tabloid in yearsstreak over some botoxed bimbo with a giant rack and a bunch of her nosy friends.

It's not the rest of Blondie’s entourage.

It’s Tess.

Long, dark hair pulled back in the kind of haphazard ponytail she wears for work at the garage. Lip ring. Worn, grease-stained jeans, topped with her usual thin, ribbed undershirt. The tattoo sleeve I’ve been working on since we were dating on full display. At least Declan’s managed to convince her to start wearing bras on a regular basis—something I never quite seemed to manage.

She’s standing in the middle of my shop, small, callused hands dug into the back pocket of her jeans, while she casually studies one of the poster sized drawings I have hanging on the wall. Casual or not, Tess doesn’t just drop by. Not anymore. If she’s here, she’s here for a reason.

Shit.

“Consult’s over,” I tell the chick in the chair while I unceremoniously snap off my gloves. “I’ll have my assistant text you your appointment date.” I don’t have an assistant. I have a separate cell phone that I use to schedule clients, but if girls like this one knew that, I’d never get any peace.

“Over?” The Blonde blinks up at me like she doesn’t understand. “I just got here.”

“I know what you want and I know where you want it,” I tell her while I walk my gloves to the trash. “That’s all I need for now.”

“But—” She shoots a look at her friend who seems just as shocked as she is. “I came here all the way from LA,” she says like it’s supposed to mean something to me. When that doesn’t work, she pulls out the big guns. “Do you know who I am?”

The question sets off a distant bell. A memory that clenches my gut. Turns it sour.

Do you know who I am?

Before I can open my mouth and tell her I don’t give a fuckwhoshe is, Tess swoops in and saves me.

In her own, Tess way.

“You’re that kiddie star, who turned into a popstar and tries to prove how grown up she is by dressing like a porn star,” she says while boosting herself up to sit on one of my glass display cases. Swiveling around to face the shocked starlet currently having an apocalyptic fit in my tattoo chair, Tess gives her a sweet smile. “Don’t waste your time, bestie—he’s never been into blondes. They remind him of his sister, no matter how skanky they are.”

The blonde looks at me like she expects me to say something. Defend her honor or some shit. When all I do is fold my arms across my chest and give her ayou asked for itshrug, she huffs herself out of the chair, scrambling to her feet while she screeches at Tess.

“How dare you.” Finally on her feet, the blonde wobbles toward Tess on her fifteen-hundred-dollar stilettos while jabbing a red lacquered nail at her face. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Hopping off the display case, Tess meets her halfway, giving her a sweet smile that almost certainly means imminent violence. “I think I’m the chick who’s gonna put your plastic surgeon’s kids through college—” Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulls out a crescent wrench.

Oh shit.

Blondie’s got six inches—ten if you count the heels—on her and about twenty-five pounds but she’s a hell of a lot smarter than she looks because when she sees the wrench, she stops, mid-screech, while her friend on the other side of the counter gasp like Tess just pulled a gun.

“Like I said—” Dropping my arms away from my chest, I move toward the blonde to press a hand into the small of her back, guiding her toward the door when what I really want to do is pick her up and dump her ass on the sidewalk. “Consult is over. I’ll have my assistant text you your appointment time—but fair warning, I’m booked out for the next eight months.”

“Eight months?” Still sputtering, the blonde snatches her designer bag off the counter on her way past it while her minion trails behind us in terrified silence. At least they stopped giggling. “You mean I have tocome back?”

“If you want me to do your tattoo—” Stopping in front of the door, I shove it open and push her through it as gently as I can. “Yes.”

Suddenly brave again without Tess’s wrench in her face, the blonde starlet wheels around to glare at me with a haughty hair flip. “And what if the day your assistant picks doesn’t work for me?”

---