Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss)

as a coffee table. The walls were covered with an array of colorful posters, flip albums and photographs of previous work. Behind the front counter, there were four smaller three-wall cubby-type rooms, all stark white and clinically clean, but each slightly personalized for laying down ink and piercing. Every square inch was decked out with top of the line equipment. I was a firm believer in the old saying a man is only as good as the tools he works with, and we had the best of the best. There were also two more closed off rooms at the rear, one an office and the other a break room/chill out spot. All were evenly spaced, leaving a large walkway down the middle of the shop out the back door to our personal parking lot.
    Now, Needle's Kiss wasn't even close to world famous, but it was mine. I worked hard to make it what it was. It gave me all those warm squishy feelings just looking around and knowing I belonged somewhere in the world.
    The store was my life, my bread and butter, my father's legacy in a way. He too had a passion for body art and encouraged me every day to “step outside the box ” and “do what makes you want to get out of bed every day. There’s no sense in doing something that makes your life mundane ”. I knew he’d be proud of me.
    The few years Needle’s Kiss had been open resulted in a long list of regular, loyal clients that raved about our friendly atmosphere and attention to detail. Not to toot my own horn, but toot motherfucking toot, I’d even won a few awards for my work and boasted the title of the only female artist in town.
    I also had two fantastic artists, Remy and Trip; both were great at what they did and we'd become close friends working together the last few years. Those guys were like the brothers I never had. I never had been one of those girly-girls, always preferring to hang out with the guys. I had only one female friend. I’d rather spend time working on my car, watching a game or downing a cold beer. I swore like a sailor and didn’t give a shred of a shit if people didn’t like it. It’s who I am. I wasn’t without my girl-like vices, but they were minimal.
    What made all this even sweeter was the fact I was just twenty-six. There weren’t a lot of women who could claim to be successful business owners at that age. And that right there was half of my dream. Three years ago, when I was equally excited and nervous as bat shit opening Needle's Kiss, I spent countless hours making sure everything was perfect and perfectly me. By the time I opened those doors to my first paying customers, the nerves had died down, and I was just downright proud of myself, and of the blood, sweat and ink that had gone into it.
    Oh, there was plenty of all three before opening day. But with the help of my best friend and a few paintbrushes, we did most of the work ourselves.
    I worked hard to get my loan paid off in record time, and knowing I owned my very own piece of paradise made my heart swell with pride and accomplishment.
    The other half of my dream, the part that would have made it all complete, given me that awe inspiring sense of contentment; well, that was the part I'd given up on, or at least put off indefinitely.
    Finding ‘The One’.
    It was simple really. I just wanted a man who looked at me like I was his world. But now, I was happy to find a guy who didn’t think the sun shined outta his ass, wasn’t cheating, an asshole or a weird freak who walked around in my underwear and heels while I was out because it made him feel sexy.
    Yes, it happened, and it really wasn’t that funny at the time. That prick stole my favorite Jimmy Choo’s.
    Apparently, I had a stamp on my forehead that said 'fuck with me, screw me over, or flog my shit'.
    I had my own style that didn’t appeal to everybody, and I knew I hadn’t fallen from the ugly tree—my best friend since the young age of five, Teeny, told me all the time that I was a knock out, but she had to talk me up, it was in the BFF rule book. It could be found right between “I shall not screw your man” and “during a bitch smack down, one must take each other’s back, or distract the police long enough not to get caught.”
    I'd even had my share of male attention, so I knew I wasn’t unpleasant to look at. I had just enough self-confidence not to make me conceited. I also knew how to make myself feel good. I have this unhealthy obsession with ludicrously expensive underwear, and equally expensive, but no less