Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss)

necessary, hot-as-all-hell shoes. A little saying I liked to live by: Keep your head, heels and standards high.
    Not a thing in the world can make you feel as good as you do wearing fetish-inducing heels and lacy, silky flirtatious underwear—bank balance damaging, but worth every penny. Even if you were having a prick of a day, you'd still be walking around feeling sexy and confident. And those are essential!
    I could, however, be a raging bitch. I told it like it was, and if people didn’t like how I told it, they could shut their pie hole and ride it out, or get the fuck gone.
    I turned the computer on to check on my appointments for the day appreciating the fact it was going to be a fairly slow morning, which meant I had time to work on my sketching. I was drawing up a piece for my ribs: a curling dragon breathing fire downward to the front of my lower abdominal muscles, stopping just at my panty line. It would be intricate and sexy when it was done, making an exciting addition to my other ink.
    I heard the sound of heavy boots coming from the back door of the shop just as Trip rounded the corner wearing his signature look of black jeans with a chain running from his belt loops to his back pocket. A chunky black belt with a large silver buckle teamed with a white wife beater tank under an open black short-sleeved button down shirt that showed off his art and ripped body completed his look.
    “Hey Scar, how's it lookin’, babe?”
    “Hey, Trip, slow goes it this morning. You've got Teeny comin’ in to get her nipple done at ten, and then you’re free till noon.”
    “Why's Teeny comin’ to me? She’s your girl. Shouldn’t you be takin’ care of her?” he asked, looking slightly annoyed.
    I couldn't help the urge to tease him first thing. “Says you've got magic hands, honey. It's either that, or she just wants a hot hunk of a man playin’ with her titties.”
    Trip choked on the coffee he’d been about to swallow and glared at me. “Told ya once, tellin’ ya again, don't piss where ya sleep, babe.”
    I stifled a laugh, loving the fact I could get a rise out of him. I replied softly “Sweetheart, she's just checkin’ you out; she's not going to throw herself on you while you’re shoving a needle in her boob.” I ruffled his feathers. “Besides, I've seen you checkin’ her ass out more than once, so don't be sittin’ there acting the choirboy you ain’t ever been.”
    That was met with a smirk and him walking off with a cocky strut to set up his station for the day’s clients.
    No one could ever accuse Trip of being unsure of himself.
    He was a ladies’ man through and through. The same age as me, he was still sowing his wild oats with anything that had tits and a heartbeat. Women flocked to his flirty, bad boy ways and his good looks. His black hair was cut into a Mohawk which only made him look hotter. That and his eyebrow, lip and tongue piercings—these just the ones you could clearly see—plus his bright-blue eyes and slightly tanned olive skin, an array of colorful tattoos from waist to neck and down both arms, forming beautiful full sleeves made him a sexy specimen of a canvas. The women who crushed on him didn't care if they had him for an hour or a night, as long as they got a piece of his own personal brand of dirty.
    It was known across the wider population of the female species that he was well equipped and never left his lovers with any complaints. Some would go so far as to say he'd reached legend status, but I’m not quite sure if he spread that rumor or not! He'd also never been seen with the same girl twice, but behind his man-whore ways, he was still a sweet funny guy, loyal to a fault and had a fierce love for his family and friends. Cross the man though, and you had more than a problem on your hands.
    “She bringing donuts at least?” he asked with a grumble.
    “When doesn't she?”
    Trip always made a point of being clear not to sleep with someone close to him or his friends; however, I knew Teen had crushed on him for years. I just hoped he'd stay strong and steer clear. Those two together would only end with heartbreak, tantrums and tears, from which party I wasn't even sure.
    “That two o’clock appointment won’t show,” he yelled out from somewhere behind me.
    “When does he ever? I’m not taking bookings for him anymore. He’s a damn tire kicker.”
    I hated liars and bullshit artists. You say you’re gonna do something, just do it; that was one