Page 3 of Hustle

That last part’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t have to be.

He looks suspicious. His protectiveness of Evelyn makes me like him, actually.

“Yeah,” he says, finally relenting. “Sure. Let me talk to Evi. Take a seat.”

He nods to some hard plastic chairs at the front of the shop by the door. The chair squeaks in protest as I sit down reluctantly. I’m too goddamn big for these chairs and too goddamn busy to be fucking around waiting on Evelyn to come to her senses.

Taking a breath, I look around in an attempt to calm my anger. The lobby is cozy, with Evelyn‘s art decorating the walls.

And it is art—she’s been talented since we were kids. She could’ve gone to Mass Art or even Rhode Island School of Design and been an architect or a well-regarded painter. Instead, she decided to take up tattooing. A waste of her talents, if you ask me.

At least, I’d always thought so.

But looking around, it’s clear that she’s made a success of herself. Even I grudgingly admit I respect what she’s achieved.

If I recall from when I was in the shop previously, there are three small, clean rooms. Two rooms where the tattoos are done, and another where they do piercings.

Crossing my arms, I drum my fingers against the fabric of my dark suit jacket. One of the doors opens and I look up. Green Hair Kid gestures at me to follow him. I stand up too quickly and the chair nearly comes up with me.

The buzzing of the tattoo gun grows louder as Evelyn leans out and looks in my direction.

“Oh, Jesus, it’s you.” She says drily, gesturing dismissively with the gun while her eyes sweep me up and then down. Something in her gaze is languid, catlike, despite her brittle tone. “I’m busy, Seamus.”

Heat rushes to my face as I take her in. Christ, she’s beautiful.

Her hair is dark chestnut, short except for the front which falls across her heart-shaped face. Her wide eyes are a piercing gray, expertly rimmed in purple liner. The tight black tank top she has on hugs her curves perfectly. For a second I forget how goddamn mad I am at her.

Damn it. She’s always had a distracting effect on me, and interest stirs a lot lower than my heated face.

“Well?” she demands, eyes flashing impatiently. “I’m finishing up Harold’s ass and unlike you, he didn’t cry the whole time he was getting inked.”

She looks over at Green Hair Kid. “We almost ran out of paper towels to soak up all the tears when Seamus here had a piece done.”

They both laugh.

Despite my better judgment, my gaze flicks to the big biker lying on the table. His pale ass hangs out, partially shaved, with a nearly finished portrait of what looks like a Mt. Rushmore of Muppets.

Jesus Christ.

“I should just walk out right now and let the Stacys take this place,” I growl. Frustration boils just below the surface, threatening to run over. Why doesn’t this woman take anything – even a threat to what she’s worked her whole life to build – seriously?

With effort, I continue. “But I promised my father I’d try to take care of the neighborhoods where I could. Maybe if you could stop being cute for a goddamn minute…”

Her face softens for just a second at the mention of my father. Murphy Doyle: people either love him or hate him, and there are plenty on either side. But he stepped in as a father figure for Evelyn when her no-good drunk of a dad ran off when she was only six. For the first time, anyway.

She’s continued to work while we talk and the buzzing of the tattoo gun makes me sick to my stomach.

Despite the jabs, I definitely didn’t cry when Evelyn did my tattoo—an intricate shamrock that she designed for all five Doyle brothers. But I thought for a second I was going to pass out. Never would have lived that down.

“Give me a minute to finish up,” she relents, finally.

“I don’t like to wait,” I snap after her, trying not to notice her absolutely amazing ass as she turns back towards…a less amazing one.

“Too fucking bad, Doyle.”

Green Hair Kid shuts the door, shrugging, and heads back to the front desk, picking up his phone and ignoring me all together.

Typical Evelyn. She’s facing the hardest fight of her life and instead of taking the opportunity to consult with one of the city’s best lawyers, she’s focused on an elaborate ass tattoo. It’s like right after high school. I’m trying to focus on her future – and at that time, I thought, maybe our future. And no matter what I said, how I tried to show her what she could do with her talents, nothing got through.

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