Page 89 of Painted Scars
She makes dry retching sounds for saying the L word.
Josh steals the fallen plushie and pretends it’s his latest girlfriend.
I tug it from his mouth and chase him off. “I’m sorry, little man. This is for a customer. I’m pretty sure they didn’t order it pre-drooled and pre-humped.”
He glares at me, hops into an empty box, curling up with a huff, a tiny prince sulking on his throne. Dog training is coming along slowly, and I’m determined to show him I’m the queen in this relationship.
Packed orders mount on the floor beside me that I’ve sealed with tape and packing labels. I get up and move them to the corner of the room, where the rest of the ready-to-ship pile sits. It clears away part of the clutter, but we’ll be going all weekend to clear all the orders. Monday, I’ll get everything shipped.
Grumpy Daddy came through on the promise to bankroll my crusade, and it’s given me time to stockpile articles and cash before the Romans inevitably fire back revenge rockets. Six weeks ago, his associate started running ads for our book merch line. The result? An avalanche of orders. Five thousand dollars in the first week, seven the next, adding up to over forty in total. Half of that figure went into purchasing stock, packagingmaterials, and a new printer. Every week we’re growing, and I’m getting closer to my dream.
Instead of feeling a sense of triumph and freedom, I’m worried the Romans will ruin this for us. Nope. Leave those doubts to Grumpy Daddy and his associates. He’s on protection duty, along with Josh. I’m on hard-hitting journalism duty, blended with sore, exhausted eyes, achy shoulder and back muscles, and lots of chocolate and massages from my sexy stalker to manage the stress of three jobs.
On my way back to the four-foot square patch of carpet I call mine, I bend down, wrap my arms around Charlie’s neck and kiss her on the top of the head. “You don’t know how grateful we are for you pitching in.”
“Any time, boo.” Charlie’s voice is soft and sweet, just like her pat on my forearm.
“Love you.” I sway her from side to side and let her go and get back to it.
“We need a goddamn warehouse.” Harper folds the box flaps like she’s sealing sunlight in a tomb forever.
“And an industrial label printer that won’t jam every six seconds.” I pick through the mess and narrowly avoid toppling stickers onto Prince Josh’s box.
None of the clothing would have been possible without the support of Harper’s father working overtime and roping in two friends to help him stitch and get us a fast turnaround time. Sure, it’s a crapload of packages to ship, but we’d rather take our time than cut corners with print on demand. Plus, each package is gift-wrapped with love, sparkle, and metallic tissue paper.
We also had a little help from Grumpy Daddy’s team ordering stock ahead of time to get the ball rolling, which reduced our delivery time from six to three weeks. They started the ads off slowly to look legit, and built us up week by week. Becca and Nicki helped out where they could spare time, butnow we’ve got a new book girlie starting with us next week, which will take the pressure off us. The faster we can expand, the quicker Charlie can get back to her life, Harper can hide in the dark like a vampire, and I can return to Operation Take Down.
“Is your dad on track with the next delivery?” I ask Harper. “It’s our largest to date at 10k of merch.”
“Yeah, Dad’s hired an additional ten new staff.” Her finger runs down the order inventory list, and she checks off items. She’s rocking black nails with moon, stars, and witchy symbols on them.
“Ten? Wow!” I clap.
“This isn’t slowing down, cupcake.” She folds the clothes and drops them in the shipping box.
“No, it isn’t.” Pretty sure I’m smiling from ear to ear at the masked vigilante I have to thank for this.
I love that our company is growing, getting our name out there, earning new fans, and exploding our subscriber counts on all our socials.
On paper, this whole thing started as a vengeance pact. Grumpy Daddy will protect me, and I’ll publish content that garners public pressure to eliminate the Romans’ corruption. A business arrangement rooted in shared justice, mutual survival, and lots of steamy encounters in between.
Every time I think of him, I catch a whiff of his woody cinnamon smell, feel his hand feathering over my cheek, or his voice dropping low when things turn spicy.
With every day that passes that we don’t talk about what we are, and he continues to hide his identity, the line between business and pleasure blurs into a dark spot. Slowly, the masked biker fantasy has lost its novelty, and I fear becoming a pit stop on the highway to vengeance. I’m confused and need to put my thoughts together in a pros and cons list,Gilmore Girls-style.
Pros:
• He’s sweet, solid, and unshakable. The weight of his hand on my back silences the noise in my head.
• His arms feel like the safest place I’ve ever been. This alone is a major pro.
• He notices the little things I like and surprises me with gifts. Book boyfriend material right there.
• He’s a dog person. We’re talking double points here.
• Delivers on the home invasion fantasies and morally gray cravings. Triple threat pro.
• Saved me from a hellspawn neighbor and boss. Hero-level pro.
