Page 9 of Savage Hate
“Hi, Silas,” I reply softly, as kind as I can be.
He just stalks off without saying another word. My cheeks heat as I look over to where he’s setting up his station for his first appointment. I wait for him to look up, but he never does.
I answer a phone call five minutes to seven, telling the person on the other end of the line that they’re all booked up tonight. Silas’s head jerks up at that, and I wait for him to reprimand me, but he only scowls and hunches over his workstation.
Damon and Jude walk in a minute later, and unlike Silas, they both nod at me. No smiles. No warmth. But at least I get a nod of acknowledgement. They go over to their respective stations and begin to prepare. I didn’t expect a warm welcome from any of them–not after what happened–but none of them even look back at me. Not until the first client walks through the door.
She’s young, in her late teens, most likely. She seems a little nervous as she takes the studio in, and as her eyes adjust to the scene before her, she saunters up to me. I smile and get her checked in—ID confirmed, paperwork filled out, and deposit paid, all in a matter of ten minutes. I’m almost proud of myself as she takes a seat to wait for Damon to greet her. When he does, they walk to his station together. He remains professional, never once acting weird when she rolls her pants down a few times and exposes her bare hip.
The rest of the hour goes similarly—clients walk in, and I handle everything up until the artists walk them back to their chairs. When they’re finished, the guys offer them beer, a snack, whatever they want. I’m starting to realize that it’s an experience getting tattooed by these guys. They’re kind, they’re inviting, but most importantly, they make you feel like you’re the only person in the room for that hour.
When their clients finish, I go over aftercare with all of them, and then I send them on their way with a little care package of antibacterial soap, unscented lotion, and a sticker that saysI got Savaged. It’s strange to think that these tattoos will probably be a part of these people’s lives forever, and I wonder if the guys ever think about that. About the fact that they’ve left their mark on so many people walking around in the world.
I don’t have very long to contemplate it though, because a few seconds later, Silas marches over to me and slaps a bucket of cleaning supplies and rubber gloves on the desk.
I look up at him questioningly. “What’s this?”
He shrugs, and when his eyes meet mine, something wrathful sweeps over his expression, darkening his pupils.
“When you’re not doing paperwork, you’re cleaning the bathroom.”
I look around. It’s not as busy anymore, but people are still regularly coming in for appointments.
“What—I—Lola said there were cleaners that come twice a w—”
“Not anymore,” he cuts me off sternly. Giving me a monstrous smile, he cocks his head. “I’d double-glove if I were you, princess.”
I grind my jaw as he walks away without further explanation. Grabbing the bucket, I walk to the bathroom since there’s a lull of clients at the moment. After snapping the two pairs of gloves on, I look around and begin with the worst part—the toilet. It’s not dirty per se, but I definitely didn’t dress for cleaning toilets, nor did I expect it. I breathe through my mouth as I scrub the bathroom down from top to bottom. I check the front area periodically and help with any new clients that wander in, and in under an hour, I manage to turn an average bathroom into one worthy of a spotless, spa-like experience. While looking around for a final touch, I’d found some old fabric flowers, a vintage vase, and a candle, which really enhanced the vibe as well.
Walking back out, feeling accomplished, I set the cleaning supplies next to Silas’s station. He’s in the middle of tattooing a snake on a woman’s ankle, his brows furrowed in concentration. Watching him work, noticing the way he grips the tattoo gun firmly with a gloved hand, his other set of strong fingers gently dabbing the ink…
I swallow as my stomach flutters. His eyes snap to mine, and his lips press together in a slight grimace as he blinks a few times before looking back down. Turning to walk away, my body stills when his voice cuts through the buzzing of the tattoo guns.
“Did you mop the floor?”
I have to activelytrynot to clench my fists. “Yes,” I hiss, crossing my arms and turning to face him. “I also cleaned the walls, scrubbed the base of the toilet, and swapped out the hand towel for a new one.”
His face remains blank as he hovers over his client. “Great. Can you please grab us some dinner?”
My hands automatically curl at my sides, flexing. “Am I the receptionist, or your personal assistant?” The words leave my mouth before I realize it, but I don’t really care. This wasn’t in Lola’s job description, and it’s now apparent that this job is a way for the guys to get vengeance on whatever grudge they still hold against me from high school.
Silas’s bright blue eyes slice to mine, and he calmly turns his tattoo gun off and sets it down, murmuring something to his client. My eyes flick to Damon and Jude, who just give me furtive glances. They’re not here to help me, or back me up. These guys come as a set, and it’s crystal-clear who’s side they would take in a standoff. Snapping his gloves off, Silas stands up and sets them down calmly—toocalmly.His boots reverberate through the wood floors with every step, and when he gets to where I’m standing, I can smell his aftershave.
God, he is gorgeous.I know it probably makes me sound shallow, but talk about a glow up…
Swallowing hard, I look up into those blue irises, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. His jawline is sharp, his cheeks angular, and his lips? Totally bitable. He has short, dark blonde scruff with a hint of grey in the middle of his chin, which somehow adds to his allure. He crosses his arms, pushing his muscles up as they strain against the fabric of his t-shirt.Like, damn…what has Silas Huxley been eating these past ten years? Pure protein powder? What kinds of workouts does he do? I can’t reconcile the man before me with the gangly boy I taunted for the entirety of my adolescence.
“If you have a problem being here, feel free to leave. I have other people who want this job.” He studies me, waiting for me to walk out. Waiting for me tobreak. Waiting to prove that I can’t handle this.
But the joke’s on them, because this is a piece of cake compared to some parts of my childhood.
I think of the $290 I have to my name—the money that has to sustain me, or else I’ll go hungry. I’d like to think my mom wouldn’t let that happen, but history says otherwise. I’m already a failure, but at least one with a job that’ll allow me to pay for my own place and get back on my feet.
Ineedthis job, even if it means being Silas Huxley’s little bitch.
“Fine,” I concede sweetly. “I’ll get you all some dinner.”
His brows twitch ever so slightly. He must be wondering why I’m still here. But I won’t ever give him the satisfaction of leaving.
